The joys of camping

Wainwright in nautical mood

In my diary for the week just past it says: 'Possible week in Lakes'. This was the tentative plan, but not how things worked out.

The week began well enough. My friends Ian and Angela kindly invited Wainwright, my dog and I to join them on a canal boat they had hired last Sunday. It was a relaxing experience and there is something very satisfying about mooring on a canal near Skipton and enjoying a splendid picnic lunch, whilst feeding titbits to a fleet of hungry cygnets.

No sooner had we moored the boat at the end of our trip though, than it began to rain. A phone call to Keswick Tourist Information confirmed the weather reports I had read that morning and it was tipping it down in the Lakes.

But since my car was laden with camping gear and food for the week a spirit of adventure took over and I pointed the car towards Grassington and hoped to find a campsite. And sure enough, somewhere on that road, I'm still not sure where exactly, I found a farm that offered camping and pitched my tent just before the rains came in earnest.

Now, camping is what I call a fine-line experience. There's a very fine line between it being brilliant and bloody horrible. The weather plays a large part in this and I suspect that age does too.

I first camped in the Lakes as a 15 year old Army cadet. The cadets would divide into groups of 5 or 6 and, carrying everything on our backs, set off to find a convenient spot to camp for the week. During this time we would have a series of tasks to complete and could gain extra points if we discovered the camps of other cadets. It all seemed so simple.

I was reminded of these halcyon days when a group of teenage girls arrived in the midge infested field I was camping in. In the time it took me to boil a kettle, make a mug of coffee and pretend I was having fun, they had pitched their tents in a circle and were laughing and giggling as they prepared a five course meal.

I imagine they were on some kind of award scheme. Next morning, I was eating my weetabix when two adults appeared to check on the girls - twenty something, male and female. God knows where they sprouted from. I suspect they were teachers who had found cosy accommodation elsewhere where they could indulge in illicit bonking.

I rummaged in my tent for a spoon, or the sugar or something else that was hopelessly lost and when I re-emerged the girls had put away their tents, packed up and were marching purposefully towards a corner of the field, while the teachers headed off in the opposite direction to discuss the forthcoming OFSTED inspection and have more sex. I may have misread their body language, but that's how it appeared to me.

The question is - at what point between the ages of 15 and 50 does camping become so bloody complex? It took me well over an hour to take down my tent and pack away everything. And when I'd done that there was barely room in the car for the dog. There was the tent, the windbreak, the canvas chairs, a sleeping mat, a sleeping bag, sleeping bag inners (silk and fleece), torches, a box of food, a cool-box, a box of pans and plates, clothes and three stoves (a petrol one and two calor gas ones, in case the petrol one didn't work, which it didn't).

The older I've got, the more unwilling I have become to sacrifice what I consider to be basic comforts. The more comfort that is removed, the more like Victor Meldrew I become.

And another thing, why is camping so expensive nowadays? I used to be happy sleeping on a simple foam mat. But suddenly this feels very uncomfortable and this is because I know that I could do better. Part of me craves a self-inflating mat for greater comfort. That'll be another 30 quid, sir. And what sort of mat would you like? Male or female? Yes, that's right. Sleeping mats are now shaped for both male and female comfort! Presumably they have special pockets for you to arrange your precious bits and bobs into?

I never did make it to the Lakes. After two days it stopped raining and the sun shone so I packed up and buggered off home to my warm, cosy, asexual bed.

Live long and prosper.

Wainwright travels continue

Spot the ball - Wainwright and friends

Press Release:

Having undergone corrective knee surgery Wainwright is vertical once more. Such injuries are unfortunately quite common among footballers and, as has been the case with both Ian Ashbee and Jimmy Bullard of Hull City, reconstructive surgery can require specialist attention only available in the United States. But due to pioneering surgery developed in this country, and the application of some very strong glue, Wainwright has been spared the lengthy trip to the USA and the operation was carried out successfully on a bench in Middle Aged Gapper's garage.

Although groggy from the effects of sniffing glue, Wainwright was able to offer these words of reassurance to his many fans:

'It's great to be back on my feet again. Although to be honest, my main concern was for my ball. I've only got the one and I was concerned I was going to lose it. I am very attached to it and to see it separated from the rest of me was very distressing. I will now be taking a short recuperative break in preparation for my forthcoming tour of East Africa'.

Never seen in public without it, Wainwright is famous for having just one ball, a condition he allegedly shares with historical and contemporary public figures including Adolf Hitler, Jonathan Ross and the former Home Secretary, Jackie Smith.

Wainwright is expected to travel to Skipton, North Yorkshire on Sunday where he will spend a quiet day cruising on a canal boat courtesy of some generous friends. He will then travel to the Lake District to complete his recuperation and test his equipment for a rigorous tour of East Africa which commences on 4th September.

Wainwright gets wrecked

I am afraid that I must impart some sad news about my travelling companion, Wainwright.

As you can tell from the above photo's Wainwright thoroughly enjoyed himself in Turkey and proved to be very popular among my fellow travellers. In the end though it all proved a bit much for the wee fellow and he now lies in a critical condition in the garage.

What happened is not yet clear. It appears to be a combination of factors. Firstly, on the final day of the holiday I caught him in the midst of a clinch with the two very attractive ladies you see above. This had an effect on both Wainwright and myself. With me it was a severe case of jealousy, but I'm getting used to being in Wainwright's small but significant shadow and I'll get over it. For Wainwright the effect was more severe and it appears he went weak at the knees - literally.

Later that day the group enjoyed it's final meal together. I'm not sure what got into Wainwright but he got carried away with the party atmosphere and got legless.

Thus it is that Wainwright is a broken gnome in need of surgery. He may be resting in pieces but I am hopeful that a full recovery can be made.

Whilst certain dubious elements of the media were on hand to record Wainwright's tragic condition and gleefully photographed him in severe distress I could not bring myself to record the event and I'm sure you would not wish to revel in seeing the pitiful sight of his tiny legs and feet so far from the rest of his body.

His operation is scheduled for tomorrow, Thursday. A further bulletin on Wainwright's condition will be posted once he comes out of the garage and is given a full examination.

Thank you.

Turkish Delight

The breeze is soft and cooling as I stand on the rocky hill-top. The burly men on each side of me and the other behind me have me in their firm grasp . I am already battered and bruised from days of punishment, any resistance by me will be both puny and futile. 600 metres below the Turkish town of Kas shimmers in the heat of the late morning sun and beyond it the light plays on the myriad blues of the Mediterranean Sea. Not long now.

With a sudden rush the gentle breeze becomes a strong gust and I know my time has come. Run! Run strong! comes the command as the men thrust me down the hill side and then out over the waiting rocks. Oh, bugger!


Paragliding should have been a literal and metaphorical high-point during my 7 days of activities in Turkey with my youngest son. But I'm afraid it wasn't.

The purpose of my travels is not just to discover new places, but also to discover things about myself. One thing I have learned is that the older I get, the more susceptible I am to motion sickness. This became apparent very soon after the tandem parachute left terra firma and we began to swoop and twirl among the sharp rocks looking for lift. It was one big roller-coaster ride and anyone who knows me well will tell you what I do best on roller-coasters - yes, I puke everywhere. People have said I have a weak stomach. That's not true - on a good day I can chunder over huge distances.

It's bad enough getting airsick on a plane, but at least there is usually a sick-bag within reach. What do you do when you are paragliding a 1000 feet above a pleasant Turkish town? For a start I was wearing a full face helmet which added the possibility of drowning in my own vomit to my list of woes. Then of course there is the problem of disposal. Wailing from the loudspeakers on the twin minarets of the central mosque was one of the five daily calls to prayer. I doubt that many of the town's people were praying to be bombarded with cheese curd and diced carrot and given their profound kindness towards me and my companions strafing the town square with my breakfast seemed like poor repayment.

Salvation came in the form of Omash, my pilot. Though to be fair, strapped to my back and permanently down-wind of me he may have had some self-interest in avoiding a mid-air Technicolor yawn. As soon as I alerted him to my condition he steered us a away from the turbulence of the hillside and out towards the calmer air over the sea. We even managed the mid-air removal of my helmet safely.

At first I thought I might be sick. The cold sweat that enveloped my body, despite a ground temperature of about 35 degrees, signalled the inevitable. Then it was a case of hanging on for as long as I could.

The landing was to be on a concrete harbour. The spasms began as we made our final decent. Thanks to Omash's skill, the touchdown was perfect. Then came (to quote Wilfred Owen) an 'ecstasy of fumbling' as Omash, his helpers and I fought to get me clear of my harness. Finally, I was free to spew at will. And I did. Many times.

Despite this unfortunate incident the holiday was a roaring success. One of the best I have had. In fact it created a number of records of achievement, such as:

The most laughs ever on a holiday. It has been years since I have been so incapable with laughter.

The most exhilarating experiences on holiday. Top among these would be the white water rafting and the canyoning. If you are unfamiliar with the concept of canyoning I would describe it as a scramble down a water-filled chasm, whilst dressed in a wet-suit and helmet. At various times progress can only be made by abseiling down the rocks or by jumping into the pools of water below. The highest jump on our particular scramble was about 8 metres.

The most bruises on holiday - see canyoning, above.

The most puke on holiday - see paragliding, above and mountain biking, below ( I was sick again on the journey up the mountain in the mini-bus).

The longest and fastest bike ride down a mountain - 30k (about 18 miles) in about 90 minutes, which included lots of stops to keep the group together.

And finally - my gayest experience ever. This involved a very pleasant Turkish bath with fellow traveller Dan that included much pummelling and pounding by a well built chap wearing nothing but a flimsy towel and a very big moustache. Having recovered with a nice cup of apple tea we then went to the barber for a very close shave that involved having our faces swabbed with a burning stick. I'd like to think it was all very manly but when you're pinned to a table by a big man with a moustache who is clearly enjoying causing you pain it is very hard to see yourself as anything other than being as soft as the soap suds he had earlier rubbed into your body.

Finally, there may be some of my fellow activity junkies reading this. If so then please allow me to say what a pleasure it was to get to know you all. The activities were only part of the experience. Being able to share them with such an excellent group of good-humoured and kind-hearted hearted souls as yourselves, under the benevolent eyes of our guides and driver are what made it something I will never forget and also something I might make a few quid out of when I write about it for a competition in the Sunday Telegraph.

High five team!

Live long and prosper.

Another race, another adventure.

I'm afraid it was a case of the tortoise and the hare at the 10k race at Elloughton this morning.

It wasn't the most spectacular or enjoyable of races. It was very hot, there was a total absence of any comedy nuns or super-heroes and no land marks, only long, boring roads.

Had it been a 4 mile race my youngest son would have done well. Sadly, 10k is 6.2 miles. He set off at a cracking pace and I lumbered along at my usual steady lollop. About a mile and half from the finish I caught up with my son, who was clutching his side and suffering from a stitch. He ran with me for a while but it soon became obvious his race was all but over. I'm not sure what the official times were yet, but there was less than 3 minutes between us, but not in the order I had imagined.

Still, he learned a valuable lesson, not least that 10k is not an easy distance to run. The gauntlet has been thrown down for a re-match at next year's Beverley 10k.

There is fine line between a spirit of adventure and reckless stupidity and I'm not quite sure which side of it I'm on. After the race I took my family for a big breakfast in the local pub (a rare treat for me). It was lovely and all I need now to fully recover from my exertions is to have a nice nap for an hour or so. Instead of doing that youngest son and I are embarking on a 5 journey south as soon as I hit the publish button on here. We are staying at a hotel near Gatwick and then flying to Turkey in the morning.

This is our activities holiday. I've never had to train for a holiday before but this one demands a certain amount of fitness that should put off normal, sensible people of my age. It includes white water rafting, cannyoning, sea kyaking, walking, swimming, sub-aqua, mountain biking and a chance to go paragliding. And that's just the first day, before breakfast. Actually, no, it's not an SAS survival selection week but as I drag my weary body around the house while ticking off my mental check-list, it seems like a big challenge for one week.

Will I survive? You'll find out in 8 days. I hope they've got a very small life-jacket for Wainwright when we go rafting.

Live long and prosper.

Wainwright Challenge

The bird who flies highest, sees farthest.

Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

I have set Wainwright a new challenge - to have his photograph taken with a 'celebrity'. And I have a cunning plan as to how I can achieve this, have some fun and maybe even earn a little cash for my travels whilst doing so.

My plan involves that stalwart of the TV schedules, the game show. But how do you get onto one?

The most lucrative and potentially life changing game show on British TV is Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Since the various scandals over premium line phone-ins to access game shows it is now possible to audition for Millionaire, well in theory at least. Auditions are not very plentiful and so dialling a premium rate number is still the most straightforward method of entry. It has been estimated that about £2,000 in phone calls will secure you a place in the next round. Making the call is like playing the game - you have to select a correct answer from four possibles. Do that and you may then get a call back and be asked a further question - those who provide the nearest correct answer get to go on the show. Then all you have to do is be the fastest finger and get into the hot seat opposite Chris Tarrant. All in all then, not the easiest of quiz shows to get on.

The next target is Deal or No Deal. I have always been put off applying for this show as it gives the impression that you can be on it for weeks on end before actually stepping up to the hot seat. Even if they film 4 episodes a day there must be some overnight stays involved, maybe even a month's worth. How do working people manage it without taking a career break? Getting onto the show is by audition and these appear quite rarely. Again, a rewarding show, but difficult to get on.

How about Golden Balls? This is a great show to appear in if you are a liar, a cheat, have no scruples and are self-centred and greedy. Decent people are at a disadvantage. The crux comes in the show finale when the two remaining contestants have to decide whether to Steal or Share. I'll leave you to figure it out, but logically the only smart move is to Steal. But can you rob the person sat opposite you who claims to need to money to give their poor, sick children their only decent holiday in years? If I went on there I'd probably end up giving the other contestants my own money because I felt sorry for them. Definitely a show for hard hearted swines only.

Which brings me to the perennial favourite, Weakest Link. On the down side the prizes will not change your life. The highest prize won on the show was £5420 and the lowest £750. But on the up side the show gets through 45 contestants a week so the odds of getting on it are better than most.

Auditioning for the show is a fun experience, that combines a couple of rounds of the game itself (sans Anne), a brief interview and a piece to camera. I know because I did just that about 4 years ago. My audition was successful but then I was put into the pool of potential contestants and I never received the call.

But this time it will be different. Yes, I have taken the plunge once more and applied to come face to face with Anne Robinson. I have yet to see a middle aged gapper with a Hull City garden gnome on the show so I rate my chances of success as very good. Then it's just a small matter of persuading Annie to pose for the coveted photo with Wainwright. Easy peasy!

Live long and prosper.

Complaint Letters

I seem to have wasted a large chunk of my day trying to persuade my bank, the HSBC, to allow me to spend my own money. The problem began 4 days ago when I rather inconveniently decided to purchase further Premium Bonds on line. The HSBC took a dim view of this and blocked my transaction. I could understand it if they blocked me once and I can accept that they were acting in my perceived best interests. But despite their assurances that I could proceed I am still awaiting an outcome and have now made four attempts to spend, what is after all, my own money. To date I have spoken to 4 or 5 people on the Indian sub-continent, a chap in Scotland, a young lady in England and a Tim in Wales. Do the HSBC have something against the Irish or are they saving that one for last?

Whilst waiting to see if it will be a case of fourth time lucky I have drafted my letter of complaint informing the bank that after 33 years as a customer this is not how I expect myself, or anyone else for that matter, to be treated and what are they going to do about it?

Having penned my somewhat lengthy missive I feel better and I do think that a good letter of complaint is both an art and a pleasure. I am particularly pleased with my creativity when informing the bank of my latest attempt to buy bloody Premium Bonds. It reads:

By this, my fourth time, I am getting good at buying Premium Bonds and score a personal best for the time taken for the transaction - 4 minutes and 50 seconds.

My efforts at wit and sarcasm are nothing though when compared to the 'The World's best passenger complaint letter.' Follow this link and have a giggle:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/4344890/Virgin-the-worlds-best-passenger-complaint-letter.html

Live long and prosper.

Jet fuel

Tessa hitches a lift

I think my wee dog, Tessa, has finally recovered from her trip to the Lakes. Ever faithful, wherever I walked, she walked. But in doggie years she is about 80 and the effects showed this week. Tess was reluctant to leave her basket and on the short walks we did undertake she lagged behind. But thankfully a little time to rest and the odd extra portion of Caesar and she is fit and raring to go again.

I am wondering if it will be the same for me this week. When I ran the Leeds 10k 2 months ago it took about a week for me to feel comfortable running again. This morning I ran another Jane Tomlinson 10k, this time in York. I don't quite want to stay in my basket all day but I have had a lovely nap this afternoon to help recover.

I was up early for the race - too early to be legal on a Sunday morning I'm sure. After my secret recipe pre-race breakfast - porridge and banana washed town with tea and Lucozade Sport - I got my things together and made the 45 minute trip to York racecourse. If Pop Larkin had been running he would have only had one word to say about the race (altogether now) - Perfick!

The course was brilliant. It took us from the race course to the minster and back and involved a stretch along the river on the homeward leg. There were no big hills, the weather was nice, the temperature comfortable and the thousands that turned out to wave and clap us on were joyous.

There were 5,000 runners, which caused the odd frustrating bottleneck, but overall I got into a steady pace and kept to it. My finish time was 54 minutes and 47 seconds and I finished a creditable 1,644th. That is a minute and half faster than previous PB, so I am a very happy bunny.

As soon as I saw the York race on the internet it appealed to me, but initially it was pronounced full and I eventually made it when others pulled out to create space. I am pleased that I got to run but it may cause a small problem, especially if tired dog syndrome kicks in this week.

My next 10k is only 7 days away and it is the big show down with younger son.

At this point I could build the tension, but I won't. Youngest son running faster than me is a foregone conclusion. If he had retained his usual teenage lethargy and not trained I would have kicked his butt, but he has trained. He even runs with me now and when we get to within a mile of home his youthful afterburners kick in and I am left wallowing in the jet wash. All that remains to be found out is how big the gap between us is going to be. If I can get within 3 minutes of his time then that will be a result, especially as he is 33 years younger than me.

Let's face it, that's how it should be. I'm not competitive Dad, I don't want to cause my son any shame. I want him to know he has worked hard for something and achieved a result. That doesn't mean though that I won't be hiding the porridge and Lucozade from him next Sunday morning.

Live long and prosper.

Wanted by the FBI

In front of me is a contract with the FBI Agency in Leeds. The contract ties me to the agency for 12 months and grants them 20% of anything I earn as a result of Extras work obtained through the agency. I am looking at the contract and wondering how on earth in the space of one month has life moved from the regular routine of the average office-goer to that of someone who is sending in this month's availability for appearances on Emmerdale Farm and the like.

Arriving at the 'city centre studio' in Leeds yesterday afternoon the prospects did not look good. The studio was housed in what had once been a 1960's concrete block of flats. Within a few years these structures became unsuitable for human habitation. Most of them were demolished but clearly some have been given a new life, in this case on the edge of an industrial site not far from the city centre.

Keen to make a good impression I was there in good time. From my brief phone call with Jay, the chap in charge, I had understood that I would be one of several people being interviewed. Waiting in the car I saw others arrive. A girl got out of the car next to mine. She was about the age of my daughter - 19. As she put the final touches to her make-up and brushed her long blonde hair I couldn't help but notice how attractive and well dressed she was. Then more like her arrived and I began to fill with an awful dread that there had been some sort of misunderstanding.

I left Blondie combing her golden locks and made my way to the entrance to the concrete monster. With a sharp buzz the door opened and I stepped inside.

Studio 19 was on the first floor and I was warmly greeted by the aforementioned Jay and shown to a film viewing room. More models. The young man sat opposite me flexing his sizeable biceps looked like a youthful Matt Le Blanc from Friends. The chap sat next to me was nearer my age and exuded confidence as he casually toyed with the show reel he had brought along. He then broke the ice by regaling us with an anecdote about how he had once filmed a scene at a sex club, while dressed in an bondage costume.

More models trooped in and the average age of those in the room settled down to 23. No prizes for guessing who the oldest was.

Far from being unnerved by my situation, a huge inward smile began to break out. This was all so weird and I was so far out of my comfort zone that it took on the thrill of a rollercoaster ride. I knew that whatever happened next it was going to be interesting.

What did happen next was Jay striding in at the appointed time and congratulating us on passing the first test - being there promptly. He then launched into an entertaining, yet I suspect oft repeated spiel about his experience in TV and film and the machinations of his agency. Apparently, the studios had once been owned by Yorkshire TV and the viewing room in which we sat had been built for David Jason and Catherine Zeta-Jones to view the day's filming of The Darling Buds of May - Perfick! Carried by Jay's smooth rhetoric I allowed myself to glide out of reality and into the land of make-believe. It seems like a nice place.

Other than think of a response to being asked why I want to be an Extra I hadn't prepared for the 'interview'. As Jay spoke I had the sudden notion that we would all be required to stand up and say something about ourselves. What could I say that would compete with the bondage bloke? Perhaps a few words about the time I appeared in a TV game show with Tim Brooke Taylor and Graeme Garden? Not the most exciting anecdote as I got knocked out in the second round, although I managed to squeeze a hundred quid out of Tim.

But no. The session ended with Q & As and I managed a couple of sensible ones to make sure Jay remembered me. Then I took my bundle of forms and made my way back to the real world.

I have no idea whether FBI will offer me any work but I do know that I probably have more chance than all those prettier and younger than me as we are not competing against each other. They can squabble over the parts for 'stunning model at hair salon', whilst I am perfect for 'miserable old sod in pub'.

What I do know is one month since I left work I am very happy. For the past 30 years I've done something I haven't always enjoyed because it put a roof over our heads and gave me and mine security. I've always considered that the most rewarding work must be the sort you would do for nothing and yet somebody actually pays you for it. I love writing and acting and if I can earn just one pound doing either of those things it will be worth more than a thousand times that much to me.

Keep an eye out for miserable old sods on Emmerdale - you never know...

Live long and prosper.