This week I have scaled El Capitan
three times, free solo.
See the fat man using a ring pull
as a climbing aid. That was me.
I rose high into a forest canopy
and spotted a rare and exquisite bird
that David Attenborough has yet to trouble
without ever leaving my settee.
There is nowhere I cannot go.
From Everest’s peak to the rotting hulk
of the Titanic, in a home-made sub.
Nowhere is alien. I live vicariously.
My closest friends are Bear Grylls and Dan Snow.
I can wow the X Factor with a poignant song.
I’ve abseiled into an active volcano.
I know exactly where Hitler went wrong.
Select a button and I’m on the Amazon
hunting for deadly fish in a dugout canoe.
I can grow azaleas on chalky soil.
There’s is nothing I cannot do.
My eyes plunder the world for its bounty
as my finger probes for a new show
like a climber seeking a tiny hold
as his anxious girlfriend watches below.
One slip and its all over.
All this without ever leaving my sofa
except to forage for Red Sripe
ice cream, or a new bag of Doritos.
One day I might get sucked into
a deadly quicksand of orange crumbs.
I am the king of the lard butts
a couch potato, a horizonal superhero.
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