Let's go camping shall we? No thanks!

Isn’t it funny how - as the years go by, a person’s view of life can and does change considerably? At first it’s your children that wreak havoc in your well ordered life, then if you are lucky enough - and reach a certain stage in life when grandchildren change everything, and for once I will not draw you a picture to confirm that premise. Suffice it to say that whereupon at one time I would be highly vexed about being in Blighty at this time of year; nowadays I’m not, because I’m here. After listing a number of activities with various elements of our extended family, it was suggested that we all went camping together for a weekend. Cue panic! What to do? I hate camping, always have, always will. There I’ve said it. And yet my whole family are enthusiastically embracing the concept of a weekend away - under canvas - in some godforsaken corner of England; but how do I dissuade them from this course of action without appearing a solid-gold wimp? If you’ve never been camping, I can tell you now - it hurts, it really hurts. That is, unless you go for one of those fancy ‘Glamping’ breaks, whereupon your tent is not really a tent at all, but a luxurious version of life under canvas with all the mod-cons one might expect in an Algerian knocking shop - or, so I’m told. Yes, I am not designed to sleep in some stupid sleeping-bag on rock hard ground and pretend to enjoy it, because I don’t. I never liked it as a Boy Scout nor as a very short-lived Army Cadet (khaki was never me!) where you didn’t even have a choice in the matter.

When my son was young and impressionable, he persuaded me to go on a Lads & Dads camp when he was in the Scouts. It could best be described as a total unmitigated disaster with knobs on. After singing songs around the campfire for what seemed like an eternity and with my arse numb and covered in nasty looking ant bites, I decided that I would remove myself to the local pub which was also a noted local B&B. This did not go down at all well with the lads, some young feller called Akela - or the other dads come to think of it Anyway, happily I’ve managed to head off a potentially agonising camping trip with the family as I have volunteered to treat my lot to a long weekend at one of those activity park places where we will all sleep in a big wooden chalet on comfortable beds with running water and toilets that work. I fear it is going to cost me a small fortune - I suppose it serves me right.

CAN I HELP YOU?
If it appears that I’m having a bit of a whinge in today’s column, there is one British institution that I do approve of and that is the humble charity shop. Now then, as an expert in this area can I point out to you that, as with a potential purchase of a property anywhere, including Majorca - it’s all about location, location, location. So looking for a quality bargain at a charity shop in Bristol, Birmingham or Bolton is not the same as seeking one out in Cheltenham, Chester, or Chipping Norton. You will get served by a lady who is posher than Her Majesty the Queen and she will look you up and down so as to make sure that you are not ‘riff-raff’ and then proceed to buy a genuine Harris Tweed jacket that has only been worn once, quite possibly by the local lord of the manner - for ten quid. Only in these locations could second-hand clobber be described as “Previously Loved.” Anyway, has anybody else noticed that charity shops have volunteer staff that are, ahem - how do you put this? Slightly odd! The other day I was in such an emporium, when a magnificent lady assistant asked me three times if she could help me. “Just looking” - I murmured, in that time honoured fashion - as if to say - “Get lost will you?” Not to be put-off, she shadowed my every move, either to generate an unlikely sale, or more likely to ensure I couldn’t and didn’t nick anything. As we left the shop, I asked Julie if I looked particularly shifty, or somehow criminal? “I suppose you do a bit” was her considered reply!

HIGHLIGHT OF THE WEEK?
Highlight of the week apart from being stalked in a charity shop? That would be my visit to Edgbaston Birmingham, to watch the second day (Friday) of the 1st Ashes Test Match between England and Australia with a brace of brothers, a brother-in-law, and a spare nephew. As we sat in the Hollies Stand amongst The Barmy Army (a rather eccentric and loud group of England cricket supporters!) we witnessed a great day of Test Match cricket, that alas was all for nought as the Aussies triumphed three days later. NOTE - Can you imagine a new game being introduced to the sporting public that could take 5 whole days to complete and at the end of it could be called a draw? Furthermore, how civilised can a sporting encounter be when the players themselves take time out to have luncheon and tea and if necessary to call a halt to play if it should rain or become dark? I do know however, that for many of you reading this, who have yet to succumb to the charms of cricket this will mean absolutely nothing, but I assure you that for some of us cricket is up there with a fat-boys-breakfast the first cold beer on a long hot day and tantric sex. Pip Pip!