He's the fella that got his arm trapped by a chockstone in a crack and chopped it off to escape...hardcore.
Bonk! I strike the boulder. Thwock! Again. The rage blooms purple in my mind, amid a small mushroom cloud of pulverised grit. I bring the rock down again. Carrunch! I growl with animalistic fury in response to the pain pulsing in my left hand.
Out of curiosity, I poke my thumb with the blade. It punctures the epidermis as if it is dipping into a stick of room-temperature butter, and releases a tell-tale hiss of escaping gas. Though the smell is faint to my desensitised nose, it is abjectly unpleasant, the stench of a carcass.
And here is he is post accident - respect.
To Andy R: maybe he is the mystery pocket 'comfortiser' at Brimham. Does Big Frank know about this yet? :shock: