Nuts in August

I'm currently reading Emma Kennedy's book on family camping holidays. It's made me 'LOL' a few times, even though I'm sure that quite a lot of its been embellished for comedic purposes, nevertheless it's a good read.

All of which reminded me of the only time I've been camping (I was never in the cubs or scouts. Male-bonding has always left me slightly cold. Besides, all you seemed to do was play Britsh fucking Bulldogs). It was 1984 and my sister had just got married so mater and pater were a bit skint from forking out for a showy wedding, so a 'proper' holiday was out of the question. My other sister had announced the previous year, right at the end of a fortnight in Cornwall that she "never wanted to go on a family holiday ever again". So, as in 1984 she was 17, it was deemed that she could be trusted to stay at home on her own for a week. It was decided that we would borrow my aunt's tent and go and slum it in the Lake District, just my parents and me. In the spirit of inter-family unity, my just-married sister's new in-laws decided they would bring their tent and come with us.

Here's a run down of what went wrong that week:

• First night there and the campsite offers grass-skiing, which involves hurtling down fellsides on ski boots fitted with tank tracks. Dad's too tight to pay for me to have a go so I have a go at running down the hill very fast, lost my footing and bounced down more than I ran, ripping my Brutus jeans and getting grass stains on my black and white, Big Country-style plaid shirt. Caused much hilarity with my sister's in-laws.



• Got accosted by a gang of teenage girls while going to the camp shop to get my dad's Express and a bottle of milk. They could obviously smell a boy who'd never been kissed before at twenty paces. Put me off girls for at least a year.



• Went to visit an uncle who worked at Sellafield and lived within sight of it. His stepson made me touch the Irish sea because "it's radioactive and you ain't got no bollocks if you don't touch it". He then took me to his bedroom where, in a display of twattishness that would shame those two American Judas Priest fans, he played me Deep Purple's Child in Time over and over again at shrieking volume. A song that still leaves me traumatised*.



• Stopped for a leak in a mountain stream then thought it would be a good idea to drink the clear water with my scooped hands. The same hands that had just been holding my penis that hadn't had a proper bathing for a few days. And, in my youthful stupidity drank water downstream from where I'd just pissed. Caused much hilarity with my sister's in-laws.



• Had a tin of lager which caused me to collapse into my deckchair resulting in me touching the sides of my tent. Dad went mad, got a smack round the bonce (it was allowed in those days). Touching the sides of a tent is the worst thing you can do when camping. Ever. Caused much hilarity with my sister's in-laws.



• Woke in the middle of the night. As it's a camp site it was pitch black, thought I'd gone blind as I could see absolutely nothing and screamed. Caused much hilarity with my in-laws.



• Had to listen to two 'neighbours' arguing due to one of them being able to hear everything the others were saying, and singing because the bastards had taken a guitar with them. Just like Nuts in May. Yes, really.



• Decided it would be a good idea to go the pub at a place called Kirkstone Pass, one of the highest pubs in England. It's accessed by a notoriously steep road. Sister's father-in-law decided he would drive, he's not the world's greatest driver. I had my eyes shut most of the way, when I opened them, his false teeth, which he wasn't overly keen on wearing, were grinning up at me from the map pocket in the car door. The pub itself is like The Slaughtered Lamb off of An American Werewolf in London. Stuffed crows on every window ledge. Needless to say, the trip down was just as scary as on the way up. Made worse by my sister's father-in-law's insistence that we listen to his Jim Reeves tape. Gentleman Jim.



• We had to take the tent down and pack up in the pouring rain.

I've never been camping again.

*Especially as it's since been used on the rather excellent Oscar-winning feature documentary One Day in September, a film about the Israeli hostage crisis at the Munich Olympics. The music accompanies footage of actual police photos taken of the carnage inside one of the helicopters that was blown up. I find it a scary but great track all at the same time.