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JACKILL. HIS DAY.“Take it up the rear? Sure Jack, no probs.” “No, dimwit. Take UP the rear.” So that was my task when me oul mate Whacko Jackill and I took the great unwashed on the run to Karen O’Toole. Sure, there were some critters turned up: barely fit to go shopping for curtains let alone ascend oul Eireann’s highest peak. Nawww. They were perfect. Several categories: Swiss Family Robinson, seemingly endless healthy, clever progeny dispensed from the loins of a lovely and unflappable couple; 2 pretty track rats who I am convinced are pixies, one the other half of a mountainviewer, sadly hors de combat; a tough, sound bloke, missus and weans from Tyrone, he in luminescent trousers determined to get neither wet nor ignored; Rapunzel who contrived to get soaked through the Celtic tresses and everywhere else without batting a fashionable eyelid; statutory meandering man, with the same common ancestor as humans but missing the instinct to stay on the track; and last, some normal people. 15 wards in total, to 2 minders. I shan’t bore viewers with my appraisal of Karen O’Toole. I have come to her late when the rest of you probably scaled her in short pants. But I shall say she is magnificent; vast, merciless and wildly scary. She and these are simply breathtaking hills. Now to the project itself and brainchild of the equally scary Jackill. This was a beautifully and comprehensively executed gig, perfectly planned, gauged for an unknown quantity, with some but not a lot of hard walking, stunning viewpoints and brilliant leading. Jack – the pace was millimetre perfect. In short, if Whacko even murmurs a refight or another gig, get your name down in triplicate immediately. The best preparation it seems is around 3 bottles of wine each the night before.