How camping works

Following on from our previous instalment, I thought it might be helpful for those who aren't experienced campers - or, indeed, folk festival attendees - to sit at the feet of the master and glean some scraps of wisdom. Mrs QO and I have refined the process over many years and although I cannot pass on certain of the higher arcana in this public forum, it may help the novitiate to have a few discreet pointers.

Packing the car
QO: "Is your bag ready to go? Because it has to go in the middle of the back seat and that's where I'm up to."
Mrs QO: "Nearly, dear. Now, what do you want in your sandwiches?"
QO: "What? Oh... er... ham and mustard, please."
Mrs QO: "We've got some cheese, you know."
QO: "Yes, I know. But you know I always have ham and mustard."
Mrs QO: "If we have ham, yes."
QO: "Erm... yes, so about your bag... because if I can't pack your bag, I can't pack the bedding."
Mrs QO: "Why ever not? The bedding's all ready."
QO: "Yeah, but... the bedding always goes on your bag. You know what? I'll finish the sandwiches if you finish packing your bag."
Mrs QO: "Oh, you can take it if you like. I'll put the other stuff in a carrier bag."
QO: "You're taking two bags? Oh, for... how the hell can I pack the car properly if you take two bags? You never take two bags, we haven't allowed for two bags... I might have to move the washing-up bowl... but that would mean the inner tent going in the boot... and then... oh, God, we'll never get there..."
Mrs QO: "Oh, look... we've run out of mustard. Ooops."

Pitching the tent
QO: "OK, we'll drive round the campsite three or four times just to make sure of getting the right pitch."
Mrs QO: "That's fine, dear. Let me out here, would you? Oh, and pop the tailgate..."
QO: "Let's see. I have my compass here... OK, so that's north. The Met Office say prevailing wind for the weekend will be nor-nor-west, and obviously we want the back of the tent towards the wind."
Mrs QO hums a snatch of Aida to herself as she empties the tent poles onto the ground.
QO: "But of course before making a final decision, we need to check the slope of the ground. Fortunately I have my spirit level with me..."
Mrs QO assembles the frame poles and opens out the canvas.
QO: "And then there's the question of shade... let's see where the trees are, and I'd better check on the BlackBerry to see when sunrise is..."
Mrs QO, with a deft flick, drops the canvas onto the frame.
QO: "I wonder whether we might usefully dowse for any artesian springs that might lead to excessive dampness under the tent?"
Mrs QO, now humming a tune from Gilbert & Sullivan, taps the final pegs into place and rigs the guylines.
QO: "And I'll just Google the local mole population density..."
Mrs QO unfolds her camping chair, sits down, and opens the first of many beers.
QO: "Damn. I meant to look up where the ley lines are round here. Oh well, we'll just have to manage."
Mrs QO: "Want a sandwich, lovey? I think you packed them under the sundial. Ooh, isn't it nice here?"

---

That's enough classified material for one post, I feel. Moving swiftly on... you may recall I once wrote a post about a new kind of Barbie doll. I can now exclusively reveal yet another variant - surely one that will do superlatively well in the current zeitgeist. (That's French for 'these days', by the way.)

Among our extended camp family - by which I mean the group of friends camping together rather than anything smutty, thank you so much - was a miniature person of indeterminate age (though Mrs QO assures me the young lady in question is nearly four), among whose dearest possessions is a Barbie doll with very long hair.

Super-Disreputable Friend and I could not help noticing that it didn't seem possible to put the doll in question down without its legs splaying. Now, I grant you this is distinctly puerile, and we did get serious Extreme Aunt looks from the womenfolk, but we decided that new Slapper Barbie would be a market winner. See what you think.

Ton up

It seems that this is my 100th post. Well, don't that beat all... I only started this so as to learn something about blogging so I could help Mrs QO put up a site all about her craft-work, sell shedloads of stuff and make a ton of money. That was the cunning plan; what's happened is that there have been 99 outbursts of mental incontinence here, and Mrs QO's blog has still to see the light of day. Ah well. Such is life, and that's more or less how our plans have worked out for the best part of a decade. Go with the flow, we say, and pour another drink.

Despite the enervating heat, we have managed (between drinks) to get somewhat ready for the first camping trip of the year. This is always a bit of a trial, requiring as it does hauling many tons of equipment from their overwinter storage space and then 'fettling' them into some sort of order. It is at this point that I recall failing to do the planned 'end of camping season' fettling session last autumn, so last year's mud, flat batteries and empty paraffin lamps have to be dealt with. Or maybe not, we're not fussy campers. Fortunately we will be camping on a folk festival site, so food, water, showers etc are all laid on, and there's a fully-stocked town within easy reach. It's not as if we're going to be in Antarctica. There will be good music, good friends, and plenty of time in the meditation suite.

The weather will make its own mind up - at this time of year it could do anything. We are prepared for anything, of course, with drinks to suit all climatic conditions. Thirst-slaking beers for blazing sun, wine for the turn of the day as the sun dips over the treeline, whisky for the slight chill that comes on as Orion wheels overhead, and brandy for when it snows. Or even if it doesn't. Other emergency equipment always to hand includes at least two flavours of Pot Noodle, a guitar and a super-disreputable friend camping next door. (You know who you are.) All contingencies are therefore covered.

I leave you - since we're on the subject of cetaceans - with this wonderful image of a southern right whale trying to hitch a ride on a yacht, to the startlement of all concerned. No whales or humans harmed, though the yacht will need a bit of work, it seems.

No sense of values

It has come to my attention that some deluded individual has started a Facebook tribute page to the deceased mammal featured in the last Observation.

What is the world coming to?

Doing a job properly

Two sub-contractors for Hampshire County Council are painting white lines on the A338. There are worse jobs on a nice day - out of doors, plenty of motorists to annoy, nobody to tell you not to light up. But all of a sudden, a problem.

"'Ere, Bert - wossat in the road?"

Bert leans forward and removes his sunglasses.

"Bugger me, Aristide, issa dead summat."
"Well, I can see that, Bert... looks like it might have been a badger."
"Bloody badgers, no road-sense. Worse than cats. Blimey, he's really copped it, 'asn't he?"
"Must have been there for a week by the look of it."

Bert thoughtfully rolls a cigarette.

"Well now, young Aristide, this is a bit of a problem. Can't paint over 'im, now can we?"
"Well, no, but I'll just get me shovel and..."

Bert gives his young colleague a pained look.

"Ho no you won't get your shovel. 'Aven't you learned anything on the job yet? Lines is us, no problem there. We work for a company who works for a company who works for Hampshire County Council, right?"
"Yes, I know all that. But why can't I just..."

Bert raises a magisterial forefinger.

"And Hampshire County Council - and its contractors or subcontractors - is under no circumstances responsible for removing roadkill. That would be New Forest District Council. Different bunch altogether. You've probably seen their boys around... bunch of cheeky buggers they are an'all."

Aristide looks puzzled.

"But... Bert, it'd take two seconds to scoop the bloody thing off the road and heave it into the hedgerow. He's past caring and who's to know?"

Bert shakes his head in mild despair and puts a gnarled hand on Aristide's shoulder.

"Look, lad... I know you weren't brought up with the old idea of demarcation, but this is exactly the same thing. It ain't our job, it's some other bugger's job. Can't go round doing some other bugger's job, where would that end up? We'd be helping stuck motorists, giving directions to people, picking up litter... gawd 'elp us and save 'us, it would be chaos! Besides, and this is what it's all about these days, we 'aven't been trained in the removal of roadkill. Can't do anything what without being trained, surely you know that?"

Aristide scratches his head.

"Can't see much training needed for scooping a couple of pounds of dead badger four feet off the road. I mean, I've been trained on the shovel. Three weeks that took, and a certificate."

Bert looks at him in some surprise.

"Three weeks? Bloody 'ell, they rush you young 'uns through it these days, don't they? But quite apart from that, we 'aven't got a licence. Got to 'ave a licence, obviously. So no, I'm your gaffer on this shift, and we ain't touching it. We'd be sacked on the spot - well, after a couple of weeks' counselling, anyway. We'll just to do the best we can, get back to the depot, fill in the RR27(A)(Mammal)(A-road) and fax it through to those lazy sods at New Forest."

Aristide sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"OK, you're the boss. Still seems daft to me, though."







With a deep sigh and a hat-tip to the BBC.

A bargain missed

Over many years of nubial contentment, Mrs QO & I have come to an amicable agreement about shopping for clothes. Mrs QO's clothes, that is, since I hate shopping for myself. Once every two or three years I am forced to go out and purchase a shirt or pair of jeans, after which I will spend a couple of days in a darkened room with a cool pint of beer to recover. But it seems that my presence during Mrs QO's retail forays is occasionally welcome, if only to hold the various items that she intends to try on while she fingers the hem of a fifth or sixth garment. I am from time to time invited to voice an opinion on an outfit, though since I once accidentally channeled Gok Wan and shouted "Oh my God, that makes your bangers look amazing, darling!" she tends more often to trust her own judgement.

At any rate, the agreement mentioned above is, briefly, that I will accompany my dear helpmeet on a retail mission on the understanding that for every shop entered, I will consume one pint of beer. Seems reasonable, I'm sure you'll agree. So it was that on this sunny, breezy Sunday, we ventured forth into the city centre to acquire a summer suit.

I was, as usual in emporia dedicated to the shrouding of the female form, standing around like a spare part, when my eye fell on this:

Well, I really don't know where you'd find a better offer than that. Getting known-brand women at a reasonable price - certainly on my budget - has been something of a challenge for years. I've never been able to go so far upmarket as House of Fraser women, but equally anyone with any social conscience has scruples about Primark women these days. Littlewoods women were more suited to the over-50s (and in any case the shop's gone now), Debenhams women were always a bit of a trial to return if they didn't fit, and Waterstone's women are all so earnest and bookish. And we won't even mention Poundland women. Even I have my standards.

So you can imagine my excitement, I'm sure. John Lewis women at roughly the same price as the sadly-departed Woolworths! It was indeed with Woolies in mind that I decided to indulge myself with a little 'Pick & Mix', so while Mrs QO was trying on a ludicrously skimpy top I wandered over to the sales counter and commenced negotiations. I said I was thinking of the ash-blonde lady with the exquisitely-sculptured cheekbones on the Hosiery desk, the bootylicious dusky one on Kitchen Appliances and the studious redhaired goddess of Gardening.

Things were going swimmingly, and only three security guards had arrived, but Mrs QO found me at that point and took me sharply by the ear. I issued several sharp squeaks of protest, but notwithstanding she dragged me to the Lincolnshire Poacher and injected me with several pints of beer. And so passed a golden opportunity.

Ah well. Perhaps there'll be another sale in the autumn.

Good times Friday

It's hot, it's been a looooong week, and Mrs QO suggested we meet up at the Canalhouse after work. So don't you be expecting anything profound.

Tell you what, let's just enjoy a clip from one of the most moving films of all time, featuring John Belushi in a toga. I think I need say little more. Oh, but for the blues fans out there, see if you can ID the bass player in the band.



He certainly can be strongly persuasive.

That was a hint, by the way. Post your answers in the comments, and you may win a parsnip.

I was going to leave it there, but - nay, damn it, let's have a gratuitous picture of the heroine of Animal House. I give you the luminous Karen Allen.

Simply messing about in boats

Back from a week of some of this in the Norfolk Broads:















...and I have the bumps, bruises and muscular strains to prove it. Oh, and the liver's taken a bit of a hammering too - yes, even by my (ab)normal standards - but the challenge of being well outside my comfort zone will have done me good, it says here in the life-coach manual. I don't know how many of you have done some sailing, but 20 feet of solid timber boom whipping round at head height is something that isn't part of my everyday life. Another interesting little pastime on Broads yachts - designed to go under bridges - is dropping and raising the mast. The brochures always say this is "simple and safe", but frankly they're lying through their teeth. The theory for dropping the mast says you undo the 'gate' that locks it upright, push gently against the mast with one person on the ropes and pulleys at the bow (or pointy) end of the boat, and another person will be at the stern (non-pointy) end ready to "guide" the mast into the crutches - basically a pair of wooden scissors in which the mast sits when down. The reality is that you undo the gate, and the mast then refuses to go anywhere. You apply unscientific violence and much abuse, and eventually the mast comes down far too fast and one runs the risk of being hammered through the deck of the yacht like a human nail. Bad form, I'm led to believe.

It is at this point that one wipes one's forehead, lights a cigarette, and lolls limply for a few moments thinking about life's sweetness and how you never told so-and-so that you loved them.

Having got the yacht under the bridge, one must - as night follows day - get the mast back up again. By a strange quirk of physics, the mast now weighs some 50% more, and even with the help of the pulleys it feels like one is attempting to raise the whole of Norfolk to the vertical. A later diagnosis from a technical adept suggested - and you'll have to pardon the jargon here - that "well, you 'adn't slackened off the topper-lifts so you 'ad the weight of the boom and gaff an' all." Well, one lives and learns, if lucky. Eventually the several thousand tons of timber is more or less pointing uppards, and one brave soul is told by the skipper to "jump down into the tabernacle and close the gate". What this means is that one gets down into a little hole, right by the currently unsecured counter-weighted end of the mast, and locks it into position. The question that goes through one's mind - should one be of any imagination whatsoever - is what happens at that point if one's crewmate should let go of the rope temporarily holding the mast upright before the gate is locked? I put this question to my more experienced colleagues one evening and was referred to the principle of the mediaeval trebuchet. If lucky, you'd come to ground in the water (so to speak) rather than on terra all-too-firma or somebody's else's boat.

All of this excitement is before one even raises a scrap of sail, which is when things get really interesting. But it's all good fun, and I can recommend it to anyone who's life has got too comfy of late.

Do, however, make sure your affairs are in order before you go. I'm just saying.