Hit and Myth

There are many, many stories and tales that have taken on legendary status in the modern age.

I refer of course to the Urban Myth.

These were prolific in my formative years and I was often the first to be taken in, completely and unquestioning of the truth, logic and provenance surrounding them.

The first themes always revolved around squeamish things.

The famous recounting by I recall not whom of the man who fell asleep and a spider crawled into his ear, laid its eggs in his brain and this nesting process gradually drove him to madness. Part and parcel of the decline into senility was that no-one believed his pleas for help to relieve him of the constant sounds of activity in his head.

Thereafter I often slept in a woolly hat pulled down tightly over my ears and always when camping or otherwise sleeping or dozing out in the open.

Other fables were about food and were enough to give a complex about ever consuming anything.

I always ate the whole apple, and by that I mean the skin, core and pips. Imagine my sheer terror at being told that an apple tree could start to sprout in your stomach after ingesting a pip and would burst forth from the lower abdomen with little or no warning.

Home made chips were a particular favourite of mine and I would help in the preparation of peeling and cutting up the potatoes but could not resist sampling a raw slice if there were, for example an odd number or an odd shaped one in the damp, starchy pile in readiness for immersion into the deep fat fryer. Apparently, uncooked potato could harbour all sorts of parasitic worms and grubs and yes, the stomach and intestines were, surprise, surprise the perfect incubator to nurture huge creatures which would, yes, eventually emerge blinking in the daylight from any number of bodily orifices.

Many Urban Myths centred on popular culture. It was potentially bad luck for the whole of the family to hide behind the curtains at the impending arrival at the front door of a Romany Lady selling lace tied bunches of lavender. The implications; A Curse on the household.

We were told that sitting too close to the televison would stunt your growth, what with the harmful emission of ultra high frequency signals.

Other myths just bordered on superstition, ignorance and fear but I was too superstitious, ignorant and fearful to realise it.

An industry developed around the perpetuation of the Urban Myth through science fiction, comics and magazines, films and books. I was again totally convinced by the phenomena of the Bermuda Triangle and had a section of my bedroom bookshelf dedicated to the works on this subject. My family would glaze over or leave the room at any indication of my lecturing them on the latest conspiracy theories, mysteries and speculations prompted by the first tentative news reports that a ship, plane or indeed anything had gone missing even if subsequently revealed as a mistake, an insurance scam or a publicity stunt.

The feeling of foreboding brought about by my perception of hazards, danger, mischief and just plain badness served to turn me into a timid, unadventurous youth and teenager and frankly, I think I missed out on a lot as a consequence.

I did participate in the Scouts where I actively pursued such activities as sailing, camping, bivouaccing, canoeing, rock climbing, abseiling and all manner of outdoor pursuits. I enjoyed them but there was always that negativity of a related Urban Myth in the back of my mind.

Take potholing. It would appear to be a natural progression for me to do this but I was paralysed by the story of someone who died on a potholing expedition and his body had to be encased in concrete because it could not be recovered. This was told to me, I do recall, by two older Scouts who either knew the unfortunate victim, knew of him, or were friends with someone who was best friends with a neighbour of the man's second cousin, or something like that.

Naturally, whenever a potholing trip was mentioned I would hide behind the Urban Myth and indeed avail anyone listening of the same tale. I was in fact perpetuating the myth on my own.

I was therefore a bit apprehensive when my 23 year old daughter began to take part in regular potholing expeditions to the Peak District in Derbyshire. She obviously has an affinity for crawling about in muddy subterranean tunnels, wading waist or shoulder deep in soon to be bottled mineral water and being cold and saturated underground.

In true parental fashion I told her the infamous tale of the entombed caver, half cautionary, half hoping it might direct her towards other activities beyond Middle Earth.

It was just today that my daughter actually confirmed to me the true facts around my supposed Urban Myth. She was in Peak Cavern in Castleton and specifically in a part of the system known as Moss Cavern.

The name suggests a dampish atmosphere but then again in the absence of any nurturing daylight would anything, even moss,lichen or algae be able to flourish?

The name was in fact a commemorative gesture for a 20 year old student , Neil Moss who was unfortunate to get stuck and perish in that hell (pot) hole in the black and white days of 1959.  It was his legend that I had been recounting for all these years.

I have mixed feelings on the subject. For one thing I have been deprived of the perfect excuse not to take part in the mad pursuit and may find it hard to wriggle out of any subsequent invitation or caving netwoek.

On the other hand I feel that I have closure but only out of respect for said Mr Moss. I am unable to comprehend the level of terror and despair that he will have suffered in the hours up to his demise but at least there is now no possibilty that Rescuers will be called out in my name with a bag of ready mix in their rucksack.