There's An Englishman And A Scotsman Sitting In A Tent

"I need to upgrade my camp lifestyle." says Mr King, the Scotsman. It's 3.35 in the afternoon. We’re here on a spontaneous trip down to Dorset and I'm sitting with Mr King in the foyer of the Artemis 400 - in other words the living compartment of my tent. After many years of 'stooped' camping, I've recently gone 'stand-up' and Mr King is envious. The rain belts down on the canvas. We're trapped. Delightfully so.

I suggest to Mr King we have a sandwich. It's neither breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, dinner or supper time but all that goes out the PVC window when you're camping. Eat what you want, when you want... in a tent.

"Yes. A sandwich. What you got?" enquires Mr King.

"Mackerel pâté" I reply nervously.

"Mackerel pâté?"

"I know. Bit strange. I don't even think I like it. Just thought it fitted the camping vibe."

"I'd say crab paste would have been more apt. Mackerel pâté’s more like something one would have at a funeral."

"A funeral? No, it's more upbeat than that. I'd say a 60th birthday party or perhaps a Bar Mitzvah."

"Do the Jewish eat mackerel?"

"Yes, it's shellfish they're not keen on."

"So no crab paste then."

"Exactly. Mackerel pâté is truly multi-cultural. If we all got flooded in by this torrential rain my sandwiches would help everyone on the campsite stay alive - no matter what their religion."

"What if they were vegetarian?"

"I've got some Laughing Cow triangles somewhere."

"What if they were vegan?"

"I've got some honey."

"No good - it's an animal product."

"But bees are insects?"

"Still an animal."

“Damn.”

Our vegan dilemma and fears of an apocalyptic campsite flood ease as the rain abruptly subsides. And after a brief moment of silence the sounds start up. Sheep pontificating in adjacent fields, young rascals screaming whilst having their hair pulled by older siblings, parents discussing what to barbecue later whilst opening car doors and boots.

However, myself and Mr King are happy to remain seated in the foyer of the Artemis 400, our only sound the slightly unsure munching of mackerel pâté sandwiches.

Death To The Highlighter Pen

Today I'm at the Port Eliot literary and music festival in Cornwall and the people here (those not performing anyway) are all enjoying a Friday off. Why are festivals three days long and not two? Because two days just isn’t enough. Same with a weekend. Does anyone, anywhere, ever say at 8 o'clock on a Sunday evening, "You know what Janice, I've had enough of the weekend now. I'm ready to start working again. Let's have an early night. Do you fancy crumpets for breakfast?"

Our breakfast here was traditional in content but rarely is one's bacon and egg followed instantly by a pint of ale whilst lying on a hay bale watching a band you've never heard of, all against the backdrop of a beautiful estuary. When the band were done I asked my girlfriend to procure the programme from her shiny little handbag. "What shall we go and see next petal - a talk on father-in-law etiquette, a Smurfs’ tribute band or a naked Scrabble match?"

I used to be totally anal about all this. I would scour and desecrate the programme - mapping out a schedule with a set of highlighter pens. Orange highlighter pen for unmissable; yellow highlighter for 'possible go-see' and blue highlighter for 'won’t go but I’ll tell people I did’. Remembering this dark and depressing past, I hurried the programme back to my girlfriend, rolled off the hay bale and sauntered off to get another pint in.

These Fridays have taught me to drift more rather than plan too much. It's okay to miss stuff. Having more free time makes one more relaxed when spending it. So yes, I may miss a legendary set by The Super Furry Antelopes but I might just 'happen' upon someone gurgling with squids or a confused red squirrel running up and down a speaker stand.

How To Make A Stranger Laugh

Today I had an idea. Not quite as revolutionary an idea as making Swansea Britain's first Adidas-free city or enforcing weekly paella in every school but it was an idea all the same. The idea was to write to my friend Jason. An actual letter. Pen and paper. Envelope and stamp. All I needed was a location to write it in.

Living room? Library? Parisian style café? Pub beer garden? Only one contender. Out came the walking boots, combat shorts and factor 15 sun cream preceding a three-mile hike to The Stag At Offchurch. 

What is it with this recent phenomenon of naming pubs The Something At Somewhere? Is it an attempt to somehow give a pub more kudos by over emphasising where it's located? Will other establishments soon follow suit – 'The Launderette At Aberystwyth' or 'The Dentist At Lyme Regis'?

On my way to The Stag At Offchurch, a woman passed me walking four spectacularly different dogs. I complimented the woman on her 'nice array'. She laughed out loud. 

I could have just said 'Hi' but with a little extra effort I've upped her endorphins and given her something amusing to share when she gets back home to the husband. "Keith, I was walking earlier near Offchurch and this jolly man passed by, looking at the dogs. He turned to me and said 'nice array'. Oh Keith how I laughed. I mean it's what you say about flowers isn't it Keith. Not dogs." 

Food Versus Poo

I have sworn in the past not to use my liberated Friday for cleaning purposes, yet here I find myself at 2.45pm with my head firmly implanted in my oven, scraping out four years of festering matter. The bits that got away. Escaped juices from lamb joints and grilled lemon sole; the fleeing crumbs from toast, garlic bread and Bird's Eye Potato Waffles; violent explosions of olive oil carrying shards of rosemary and particles of cumin; skin dust; drippings from melted cheese; goose fat; collapsed apple strudel.

It all reminds me of a thought I had the other day. If you piled up all the food you have eaten over the course of your entire life how large would that pile be? As a forty-one-year old would it fill the living room of a 2 bedroom house in Aldershot? Would it cover the football pitch of Birmingham City? Fill the entire men's section at Debenhams?

Moreover, so much food passes through us in life but how much of it is actually pooed out? What is the food eaten to food pooed out ratio? And does it all depend on what kind of food has been eaten? Maybe we are enlightened with this information when we die. Presented to us visually on a flip chart by some kind of fact-crazed Grim Reaper. One can only hope.

Fish Finger Sandwiches - A Lesson Learnt

A trip down to The Eden Project. Instead of spending £5.99 on a polythene-based sandwich at Hooton Wurzel Services we decide to make our own for the journey.

I have a brain wave. "Let's make fish finger sandwiches!"
"Yum, but hold on a mo - they'll be all cold by the time we eat them." Joanna protests.
"No Joanna. They'll be fine. I'll wrap them in tin foil straight out of the grill. Tommy K and a modicum of margarine."
"Okay." Joanna agrees.

One and a half hours into our journey, just past the junction for Padwell Comblazing, I announce, "Time for sandwiches!"
"Not yet surely?" Joanna protests.
"Oh, okay." I concede.

Forty five minutes later as we leave the M5 for the A416065 I announce, this time with a much higher degree of alpha-male authority, "TIME FOR SANDWICHES!"
"Okay." Joanna concedes.

Out come the sandwiches.

We begin eating them but all is not well. They have retained a degree of warmth, thanks to the tin foil, but something fundamental is wrong. The fish fingers have lost all their crispness and it's the crispness that makes a fish finger. Joanna was right to have initially been concerned. The tin foil could do nothing to salvage the crispness.

I've probably gone eight or nine years without a fish finger sandwich. Such a shame to ruin my first experience for so long with a limp and soggy effort. The tin-foiled fish finger sandwich just doesn't work. Be warned.