Tuck and Roll: Chasing Cheese Down Cooper's Hill

Every year thrill seekers risk concussion and broken bones chasing a wheel of cheese down a steep hill in Gloucester. Will McGuire joins the ranks of other cheesy legends as he takes the plunge from the top of Cooper’s Hill.

An eccentric British tradition that has endured since the 1800’s is the annual Cheese Rolling Race on Cooper’s Hill in Gloucester. This dangerous event involves hurling oneself down 200 yards of steep, muddy bank in the hopes of catching an 8lb wheel of cheese.

I was accompanied on this journey by my fellow Kiwi, Foote. On the outskirts of Brockworth we joined the procession of pilgrims, making their way to the Hill. Warning posters, canvassed along the route by the local council, insisted we not participate. In 1997 thirty people were rushed off by ambulance with bloody gashes to broken bones.

In 2010 the event was officially cancelled. Overwhelming crowd sizes and the number of injuries raised health and safety concerns from police and councils. Determined Brockworth volunteers have since continued to hold races with no official management.

‘Are you mad?’ The receptionist asked us.

At our glamping hut the night before, staff were incredulous when we announced our plans to take the hill, catch the cheese, and become legends.

The groundskeeper, Jeff-with-a-J (he was very specific), wasn’t confident about our chances. ‘Which hospital are you going to?’ He smirked.

But I had a secret strategy. ‘Tuck and roll.'

‘You should compete in the girl’s race!’ He guffawed, slapping his thighs.

Local humour.

The receptionist piped up again. ‘The same guy wins every year anyway. I see him at the pub, showing off his cheese.’ She’s referring to Chris Anderson, a Brockworth local, and the man to beat. He has won every race for the last 13 years and rumour has it that he trains throughout the year. I bet he knows every dip and node down that hill. The man doesn’t even like cheese – he sells it for charity!

No matter how much I had a “one to two gradient” explained to me, I was still shocked on arrival by how steep Cooper’s Hill was. Dense crowds, kept back by fences, flanked the track. The energy from the crowd and my anxiety to get up there overcame any hesitation. 
‘We are competing!’ I wailed to a man in high-viz. I expected special treatment, like a personal escort. But he just shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have to make your way up there like everyone else. And I’d hurry.’ The races were soon to begin.

There was no obvious path to the top. Foote and I had to elbow through a crowd and then begin a 200 yard climb up the side of the bank, through the trees, scrambling on our hands and knees. We clung onto roots and breaking foliage. I clenched my phone in my mouth as soil slipped away from my foot-holds. Not all those who attempted the climb made it up. Some lost their grip and became stranded in the bramble, mewling for help. But there was no time to stop. This was a dog-eat-cheese-world and we were here to be fed.

Both Foote and I were red faced and choking for breath as we reached the top. A fence of wooden stakes, manned by a couple of beer-drinking marshalls, held back the raucous crowd. Many of the competitors were in costumes including a Banana, T-Rex, Ninja, Spiderman and Storm Trooper.  Foote was dressed as a cow and loudly tested the jokes he had thought of on the walk here. ‘Some people have beef with this costume,’ and ‘there were some udder options.’ Everyone groaned. I was dressed as a bumble bee, jokes not included.

When Chris Anderson appeared, busy helping with preparations, the crowd responded with a deafening chant of ‘Chris! Chris! Chris!’ Truly the people’s champion. He wore BMX overalls and had a simple, unassuming face, too modest to even acknowledge their applause.

Looking down, the hill was so steep that the slope seemed to disappear altogether. Waiting below was the medic bay, an ambulance and The Catchers – whose duties this year were handled by the Brockworth rugby team. Their official job was to stop us crashing into the fence at the end. They were really there to tackle any competitor still able to stand.

The first casualty occurred before any race begun. A glass bottle, hurled into the crowd, knocked a man out. The victim was hoisted out to the track and rolled unconscious, down the hill to the medics. ‘Clap ‘em off!’ Yelled the marshall, splashing his Stella Artois.

The 8lb wheel of Double Gloucester cheese was thrown by the enigmatic MC. He wore a white surgical coat with a Mad Hatter top hat and staggered about with the assistance of a stripy coloured walking stick. He chain smoked and guzzled back cans of beer. This really was a cowboy show.

The MC threw the cheese and twenty men launched themselves after it. Chris Anderson’s form on the way down was polished and confident. With nimble feet, he expertly navigated the uneven surface. Determined to keep up, the rest of the riff-raff blundered on with no thought of self preservation. They tripped over hidden pits and snags, landing with bony crunches. The hill claimed its next batch of victims. The crowd roared with delight, their blood thirst only whetted for more.

Chris won the cheese and his success was embraced with more rapturous chants of ‘Chris! Chris! Chris!’ Among the losers were those led straight to the medic bay with gushing wounds. Another fell on his face so hard he knocked himself out. He rolled the rest of the track unconscious and was loaded by paramedics onto a stretcher. As they carted him away the marshall ordered us to ‘Clap ‘em off!’

For the next race there was a crush as people pushed to get through. The makeshift wooden fence began to buckle and threatened to spill us all down the hill. ‘Stop pushing!’ The marshall shouted. Another warned us to ‘Get back!’

In the commotion, Foote made his way through the gate but I was pushed back to one side. There were only three official men’s races and unless I got through for the next round, I would miss out. 

As the cheese was released, Foote quickly fell backwards and slid on his butt, finishing last. As he meandered to the bottom, The Catchers pounced and Foote disappeared under a dog pile. They thought his effort was bullshit.

The remaining men pressed forward to secure a spot, but first we had a kid’s uphill race. The marshalls took the opportunity to crack open fresh beers and yell at the struggling children trying to make their way up.

‘Don’t be a quitter!’

‘Run, Forrest!’

One kid lagged behind, a poor girl clinging to the grass and wheezing desperately. She looked ready to give up. But when a chorus of ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ broke out from those of us waiting at the top, she was spurred on. We wrapped an arm over our neighbour’s shoulder, singing and swaying in unison, until she made it. The crowd of thousands gave her a rousing clap off.

‘Girls next!’ The marshall shouted. Grudgingly, the men let the women at the back squeeze their way through to the gate. Remembering Jeff-with-a-J’s advice, I kept my head down and tried to sneak through with them, but the marshall shoved me back.

I was determined to secure my position in the next and final race. When the marshall lost his footing I grabbed his arm, but slipped myself trying to pull him up. Instead of returning back behind the fence, I quietly slinked in between the T-Rex and Ninja.

They let Chris compete in each race. He needed one more cheese to equal the record. I saw then that denying this irritating do-gooder of his prize was my mission; to take his glory for my own. That would be my legacy!

The marshalls counted through twenty men and we formed a line. With cameras fixed on us and thousands watching in attendance, I felt no fear of the hill – just of disappointing. 

The MC took a deep drag on his smoke and threw the cheese. I started to tuck and roll but the Ninja ploughed over the top of me and I sprawled forward. I rolled onto my backside and slid helplessly. My shorts coiled up my groin, exposing my soft buttocks which shred along the sandpaper surface. I battered against the pocked slope, caught speed and crashed back into the ground. The crowd egged us on, but all I could think of was the searing pain over my body.

I ground to a halt at the bottom, finishing third to last. A Catcher waited for me to stand up and then spear-tackled me onto the neck of the T-Rex, who yelped in pain.

Chris won his cheese and was besieged by reporters and cameramen from the BBC, Sky Sports and ESPN. The crowd roared his name. As he answered questions, I lurked behind him to get on TV.

My bumblebee hat was lost on the descent; just another casualty of Cooper’s Hill. I sadly clapped ‘em off, before security unceremoniously herded me out through the fence.

A young, female photographer, fascinated by my war wounds, waved me aside. She snapped shots of my scratched-up forearms, cut knees and especially my sandpapered bum. I loved the attention and eagerly peeled back my shorts for her to get the best picture.

So I did get a little slice of the cheese glory – and just by showing off my ass!