Nick Cave at the Superbowl

Everyone has an opinion, here's mine...

Image from Climbing,com

The internet—at least mine—has been buzzing this week with Alex Honnold’s ascent of Taipei 101, live on Netflix. Everyone and their climbing dog seems to have an opinion on the climb, or really, the “event.” Opinions that are, unsurprisingly, highly polarised (well, it is the internet).

On my timeline at least, they range from a) “This is boring, but Alex got paid a ton of cash for it, so good on him” to b) “This is the worst thing to ever happen to climbing; Alex is a sellout.” Basically, lovers and haters. (Call me sceptical, but how many of the ensuing comment-box bust-ups are triggered or sustained by actual organic humans?)

I myself posted two images of Alex: one before the climb with the line “Money isn’t everything, but it’s something,” and one after: “Only NOT Fans.” Neither, to my mind, was love or hate—just nonjudgmental observations. The first is a universal truth, maybe even an endorsement: taking home millions of dollars if someone is foolish enough to pay you for something you’d do for free. The second is both a nod to the OnlyFans world we live in, where people will do anything for money, and a reflection of how it seemed most Honnold fans didn’t like the event.

To many, Taipei 101 felt like Nick Cave doing the Super Bowl.

A lot of hate was directed at those fans, but really, people should be more understanding: such a response isn’t an act of hate, but an act of love. Climbing isn’t like football or tennis; it has a deeper meaning and connection. Alex isn’t Lionel Messi fifty degrees removed—he’s only one degree away. If you visit Miami, you’re not going to bump into Messi and have a chat, maybe even a kick-around. But if you go to Yosemite or Red Rocks, you’re bound to bump into Honnold, and might even go climbing with him (though don’t go soloing!).

In all honesty, I have absolutely no thoughts on Taipei 101 itself. Yes, I think Netflix is to film and TV what Nestlé is to confectionery: poison. I’d say Alex is like Michael Caine, who said he acted for free and got paid for all the waiting around—only Alex climbed for free and no doubt deserved to get paid a million or so for putting up with months (years?) of corporate and bureaucratic bullshit to get there. Bravo!

People often question Alex’s nonprofit, claiming it’s all a tax write-off. Although I’m always a bit sceptical of anyone who makes a point of talking about charity, I’d say more climbers should pay attention to what Alex does, not just the climbing. By living in Nevada rather than California, he keeps over 70% of his Taipei 101 winnings, with the other 30% going to his nonprofit. Just over the border, he’d lose 50%—which would be good for his charity but less good for the Honnold household. Rather than criticise Honnold for being business-savvy, people should recognise that this is what allows him to be a full-time climber who also contributes to society—and who, when old and near death, won’t need a GoFundMe to pay for his funeral.

I hate to be blunt, but the classic dirtbag—who spouts communist gobbledygook while sitting at your picnic table, eating your food, drinking your wine, and not paying his site fees—is neither a communist nor a socialist, but a parasite (the Soviets called them тунеядец). Under real communism, that person would be working a 48-hour week in a tank factory. This is one reason I like Alex: he’s not a parasite. Lots of friends are, or have been, parasites—but I think it’s good to know what you are and what you’re not. Seen that way, the money thing isn’t a flaw.

On this point, of making money, I once sat with Pete Whittaker—who, although one of the best crack climbers in the world, was holding down a full-time job cutting down trees and talking about maybe going to Yosemite to try something in two years. I met Pete in a local coffee shop to brainstorm some ideas, and I told him, “Bloody hell, Pete, pull your finger out and treat this like a professional. You need to make money; otherwise, you’re going to piss all that talent away.” (At the time, he didn’t even get money from his main sponsor—just free clothes.) Luckily, Pete upped his game and has become the superstar he deserved to be. (As for Steve McClure—God love him—even though he’s still one of the best climbers in the world, I think he still has to buy his own rock boots! I think it’s a British thing.)

So no, I have no view on Taipei 101 itself, just as I don’t have a view on Strictly Come Dancing, The Voice, or The Traitors. It is what it is.

The one thing I do question—highlighted by the climb—is the issue of the effect of money on our moral compass, which is why I wrote “Only NOT Fans” really.

People in different places, times, and cultures possess different moral compasses, the needle of which is factory-set over the first six years of life, in line with mum and dad (if you’ve one of each) or just your mum. It’s then recalibrated over time by the things you experience and the people you meet, both good and bad—a degree here, a degree there, back and forth, but never wandering too far (hopefully).

With age, I think some work out how to apply magnetic deviation in hope of finding true north—especially when they question where everyone else’s compass is pointing. But without tables or references, all you can do is guess the declination, even at the risk of getting lost—which is no bad thing if you really want to find yourself.

Two people may live side by side, in the same country, the same street, even the same bed, and their compasses might be a degree or two out, or point in different directions, or spin this way and that like a weather vane—appearing certain but really unreliable, pulled by unseen forces: one day this, the other day that.

In this world of ours there are two poles: one is wealth, the other poverty—or survival and death. As with any pole, the closer you get to either, the more unreliable your needle becomes—an uncertainty you could call greed or desperation.

I think the ideal course in life is to stay around the equator: neither rich nor poor, with enough money not to think about it, but not so little (or so much) that it’s all you think about. I’ve known millionaires, and I’ve known people with nothing (I could include myself in the latter category, but real nothing is a state in which you know there is no escape, no opportunity, no way out), and both were equally trapped and unhappy (“Being poor takes up all your time; being rich takes up everyone else’s”).

What I don’t like about Taipei 101 is this idea that anything is OK as long as someone is making money from it—that it makes any travesty, spectacle, desecration, or debasement acceptable, or that anyone who feels it cheapens what they love is just jealous or bitter, when really they probably just hold this thing (and themselves) in higher regard than you do.

You can see this in the controversy over much-loved comedians performing in Saudi Arabia: one half feel it’s fine because people made millions; the other half don’t, as they feel it cheapens comedy, but most of all, it cheapens the comedians they love. They saw this person as representing something rare in this world—someone like Dave Chappelle, in that they valued their integrity more than a paycheck. But they now believe that wasn’t the case. They were tricked (Personally, I’m with Dave Chappelle, but then I’ve also been to Saudi Arabia and found it more open-minded and tolerant than the US or UK.)

For Alex Honnold, I admire him greatly, as we all do, but I’d hate to be him, as would anyone who could inhabit his head for just one moment, especially now, weighed down by love and responsibility, with everything to lose, not just his life. I’m sure Alex struggles with these questions and hates to be judged and hated, but also hates to be loved and put on a pedestal. I expect Alex has more in common with the people who don’t like this than those who do, such is the paradox of these things. Or maybe he doesn’t think about it at all?

But I’m sure he knows that if he were to die in this spectacle—live on TV, or with only a second’s delay before we all found out—few of the people involved, the ones making the real profits, would give his death a second thought. It would just be show business. Meanwhile, those who are most critical would see it as a worthless tragedy, the loss of a person—not just a climber—more unique and special than almost anyone else.