Are you a man or a mouse? That’s how the saying goes, is it not?
Well, while the cat’s away, the mice will play. So for those strange, odd, hard to come by, weekends when your other half decides to go an, apparently, relaxing weekend away with her girl pals, I’m definitely quite happy to be called the latter. Friday night was spent watching movies from the comfort of the living room couch, with a bag of Jalepeno Doritos and a couple of cans of coke. Saturday was spent in the pub with two of the other ‘mice’ and Chaz followed by a night of Xbox, and Sunday, lying in bed, vaguely hungover, watching more movies with a couple of mugs of tea and a healthy dose of toast and cheese.
How often do I get an opportunity like that? I’m never lazy like that. Surely, an opportunity not to be missed. How often do I get to laze around in such a fashion?, I asked myself defensively as I lay watching the high octane thrills of Robert De Niro and Jean Reno in 'Ronin'.
Ka was over in Ayr, supposedly for a relaxing weekend away. Eight females in a caravan, with wine, a Chinese takeaway and X Factor. Good luck to them (and they needed it by the sounds of things!). Iain, Martin or myself should have perhaps considered phoning up and warning the campsite at Craig Tara what they were in for. Maybe put the local police on standby and increased Ayr’s own personal current threat level to ‘Severe’.
While they were away enjoying themselves, Iain, Martin, Chaz and myself met up in the local Shenanigans for more than a few Saturday afternoon pints, followed by pizza, chips and more beer, back in the Dunn household, where the Xbox was switched on.
Before leaving the town we made a quick trip to Sainsburys and three of us chipped in and bought a second controller for the console, paying a tenner for the mere pleasure of taking part in a game of FIFA. Still, I can’t complain, it was cheaper than staying out all night and Martin turned out to be a fantastic host, immediately firing two pizzas into the oven upon our arrival home, swiftly followed by a mass of oven chips.
By the time 1am came round though I had managed to gain a horrendous headache and the drink was no longer going down. It could have been the prolonged exposure to alcohol, which my body seems no longer used to, or it could have been the constant staring at the subbuteo sized players running around the large screen tv, without my glasses on. Which is basically what FIFA is, a modernised, souped-up, 2D version of Subbuteo (how long till it’s 3D though?).
The headache could also have been the constant losing matches I was playing through, out matched and out classed by the games console aficionados I was socialising with on the night. Chaz, Martin and Iain’s conversations would often veer away into some kind of games language, using words and titles that are not even in my vocabulary. Discussing various button combinations, new game titles or the latest realistic depiction of a Ford Escort Cosworth’s dashboard.
I’ve never understood all that raving about games graphics. No matter how realistic a game’s graphics are supposed to be, I have never considered them so realistic that I have found them ‘as if your sitting right there, in the driver’s seat’. I’ve always hesitantly lied in agreement with other players, mentally shrugging and playing on, unable to shake the fact that I am not actually sitting at the wheel of a Porsche 911 but in a living room, on a couch, with a games console controller in both hands, two wee sticks and four coloured buttons to control the movement of my supposed vehicle.
I’ve never been a gamer though. The only reason I’ve got a PS3 is because Kenny gave me his before he went off, travelling to Oz. Maybe he’s trying to convert me.
I had a PS2 before that and that was only because it was off the back of a lorry. A woman in my Mum’s work sold it to me. The whole time I’ve had it I think I only owned a grand total of five games for it.
When the the fantastic FIFA graphics became a green blur with annoying dots and the headache became unbearable, even more so than the FIFA commentators, I had to call time at around half one and head home, collapsing into a wifeless bed at around 2am on Saturday morning. I didn’t even finish my first Amaretto. Chaz and I, had thought it a good idea to chip in for a bottle of the almond flavoured liqueur before heading back to Martin’s abode and after only half a glass of the sweet, almondy goodness, Chaz has whisked it away to the McKell household. I probably owe him that though considering the Morgan’s Spiced bottles he has previously left unattended at my flat and come back a few weeks later to discover it gone, the bottle long recycled by way of the brown wheelie bin downstairs.
It certainly moves faster than that Barcelona team I was trying to control on Saturday night anyway. Kenny would be ashamed.
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Camping. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Camping. Tampilkan semua postingan
Senin, 24 Oktober 2011
Jumat, 19 Agustus 2011
Camping and karaoke in Fort William
My calf muscles have never been sturdier. It is now three days since my return home from a camping trip away and my legs are still sore.
On Sunday Colin, Chaz and myself took a drive up to Fort William, Stevie Wonder, along with some dodgy eighties music, blaring from Chaz’s Volkswagen Golf speakers as we made our way up the A82. Throughout the journey the car made it’s way through rain, sun and hail, over the winding roads, through Crainlarich and towering mists of Glen Coe as we discussed the many important topics of the day including work, film, music, radio stations, Steve Martin and how I, in fact, never seen ‘Father of the Bride 2’ as Chaz has so adamantly claimed in the past. Chaz had it in his head that I had apparently called something off, at a younger age, in order to see this cinematic classic with Colin upon it’s first release which I have always ferociously denied and to which Colin, as it turns out, had no knowledge.
Anyway, we arrived in Fort William at around 5pm in the evening and set up camp in the Glen Nevis Camping Park.
We had two three man tents to house us, and our accessories, which included sleeping bags, food, beer, a cooker and a gas canister which was only approximately a quarter full, which was probably just as well after Chaz gave us a horror story about a family named Gillespie who apparently blew up on their way to a camping holiday a few years back. We had brought the two tents, as my own, apparently three man, tent would have been too small for the three of us and there was no way the three of us were cramming ourselves under the one canvas.
We picked a rather pleasant, semi covered grass area under some large trees keeping in mind the large, grey clouds that were constantly threatening from above, surrounding the giant mountain towering over us from across the road.
Our own personal Mount Doom stood there watching us. It’s peak submerged in cloud. With the mountain looming over us we wasted no time in getting the tents up whilst our neighbours milled around.
There was an oddly aged family group in a large tent at the top of our hill whose group included the loudest snorer I’ve ever heard. At night his snoring roared through the area around our tent, even though we were three tents away.
There was the fifty odd year old guy that turned up in an estate with two thai mail order brides. He stood back and shouted orders as his two female companions erected their family sized tent, arguing back and shouting at one another.
There was another small family behind us, who mostly wore kilts, which consisted of a man in his late fifties with a woman of around the mid thirties and a small three year old girl. We thought it was the mum and daughter out with the Granpa until we realised their tent was exceptionally small and they had a rather flirtatious manner whilst playing tennis.
Then there was the couple in the very small tent under the trees immediately behind us. A tent we neglected to notice until we had erected our own shelters. This couple barely left their tent for the whole time we were there. It wasn’t until we’d set up camp and were sitting having our first beers that we realised their tent actually existed. We presumed they were out at first as we started our first beers, chatting away and it wasn’t until the two shapes within began shuffling around, mumbling and making the odd noise
we began to suspect that we may have interrupted a quiet, romantic, rather cramped looking getaway.
After a disappointing meal in the disappointing pub/restaurant attached to the campsite, involving a burger which I thought I enjoyed at first but which then lay in my stomach for the rest of the evening, Chaz, colin and myself ventured into Fort William. We walked the 2.5 miles into town in search of some Sunday night entertainment. As it happens, it wasn’t too hard to find. After a couple of pints of cider in the hole that was The Crofter, Chaz sussed out from the helpful barmaid where the other drinking holes were located. Once we’d finished our pints and refrained from buying any of the vending machine gifts in the toilets, which included an inflatable sheep among other rather worrying items, we lifted our jackets and headed out on to the High street again.
After a short walk we entered the depths of an underground bar across the street, a dark, stone walled, karoke playing horror show in which we opted to stand in the shadows, up against a wall. Chaz, now bored with the beer, bought some spirits which I immediately considered a bad move considering we were climbing Britain’s biggest hill the next morning.
After escaping that bar we then moved on to the Volunteer Arms. A rather fitting name I thought as it turned out to be another karaoke playing night for which Chaz was our willing volunteer. As bar brawls broke out around us, among the rougher looking locals and the bar’s one security guard shuffled around it, Colin and myself mulled over which song Chaz was to sing. Following further lovely renditions from another few locals singing their hearts out up on the makeshift stage, Chaz’s name was called. Following the calling Chaz made his way up to the mike as a good portion of the drinkers in the bar looked round at him, and us, as if they’d just realised we were there, and immediately began eyeing the tourists with suspicious disapproval. Chaz didn’t let the locals put him off though, either that or he didn’t notice, as he belted out a rather joyous rendition of the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’. He managed to get a few girls dancing but mostly just caused a lot of cagey looks from the gathered Fort Williamers. After he’d finished Colin and myself looked at one another and hurriedly finished our drinks, and as we left, we felt the locals following us to the door with their eyeballs.
With barely any sleep and a ridiculously bad hangover, unfairly bestowed upon me from the fairly normal amount of alcohol consumed the night before, I clambered out of the tent and shuffled myself to the campsite’s toilet block.
We slowly cleaned ourselves up, pulled our jackets on, fastened our backpack clips and shoved our bottled water and sandwiches, bought at the garage the night before, into our bags. Just as we were breathing in the cool air, looking up at the mountain before us, flexing our shoulders, stretching our legs, I puked.
I believe the exact words I uttered were:
“Oah, guys, I think I’m going to - ….”
The woman with the little girl behind our tent looked on in disgust as I collapsed down on to the grass, Chaz and Colin struggling to suppress their laughter. It was the campsite restaurant burger’s fault. That coupled with Chaz’s vodka buying.
We covered the barf with the Fort William map the receptionist had given me at the desk the night before and set off, for breakfast, to the burger van.
On Sunday Colin, Chaz and myself took a drive up to Fort William, Stevie Wonder, along with some dodgy eighties music, blaring from Chaz’s Volkswagen Golf speakers as we made our way up the A82. Throughout the journey the car made it’s way through rain, sun and hail, over the winding roads, through Crainlarich and towering mists of Glen Coe as we discussed the many important topics of the day including work, film, music, radio stations, Steve Martin and how I, in fact, never seen ‘Father of the Bride 2’ as Chaz has so adamantly claimed in the past. Chaz had it in his head that I had apparently called something off, at a younger age, in order to see this cinematic classic with Colin upon it’s first release which I have always ferociously denied and to which Colin, as it turns out, had no knowledge.
Anyway, we arrived in Fort William at around 5pm in the evening and set up camp in the Glen Nevis Camping Park.
We had two three man tents to house us, and our accessories, which included sleeping bags, food, beer, a cooker and a gas canister which was only approximately a quarter full, which was probably just as well after Chaz gave us a horror story about a family named Gillespie who apparently blew up on their way to a camping holiday a few years back. We had brought the two tents, as my own, apparently three man, tent would have been too small for the three of us and there was no way the three of us were cramming ourselves under the one canvas.
We picked a rather pleasant, semi covered grass area under some large trees keeping in mind the large, grey clouds that were constantly threatening from above, surrounding the giant mountain towering over us from across the road.
Our own personal Mount Doom stood there watching us. It’s peak submerged in cloud. With the mountain looming over us we wasted no time in getting the tents up whilst our neighbours milled around.
There was the fifty odd year old guy that turned up in an estate with two thai mail order brides. He stood back and shouted orders as his two female companions erected their family sized tent, arguing back and shouting at one another.
There was another small family behind us, who mostly wore kilts, which consisted of a man in his late fifties with a woman of around the mid thirties and a small three year old girl. We thought it was the mum and daughter out with the Granpa until we realised their tent was exceptionally small and they had a rather flirtatious manner whilst playing tennis.
Then there was the couple in the very small tent under the trees immediately behind us. A tent we neglected to notice until we had erected our own shelters. This couple barely left their tent for the whole time we were there. It wasn’t until we’d set up camp and were sitting having our first beers that we realised their tent actually existed. We presumed they were out at first as we started our first beers, chatting away and it wasn’t until the two shapes within began shuffling around, mumbling and making the odd noise
we began to suspect that we may have interrupted a quiet, romantic, rather cramped looking getaway.
After a disappointing meal in the disappointing pub/restaurant attached to the campsite, involving a burger which I thought I enjoyed at first but which then lay in my stomach for the rest of the evening, Chaz, colin and myself ventured into Fort William. We walked the 2.5 miles into town in search of some Sunday night entertainment. As it happens, it wasn’t too hard to find. After a couple of pints of cider in the hole that was The Crofter, Chaz sussed out from the helpful barmaid where the other drinking holes were located. Once we’d finished our pints and refrained from buying any of the vending machine gifts in the toilets, which included an inflatable sheep among other rather worrying items, we lifted our jackets and headed out on to the High street again.
After a short walk we entered the depths of an underground bar across the street, a dark, stone walled, karoke playing horror show in which we opted to stand in the shadows, up against a wall. Chaz, now bored with the beer, bought some spirits which I immediately considered a bad move considering we were climbing Britain’s biggest hill the next morning.
After escaping that bar we then moved on to the Volunteer Arms. A rather fitting name I thought as it turned out to be another karaoke playing night for which Chaz was our willing volunteer. As bar brawls broke out around us, among the rougher looking locals and the bar’s one security guard shuffled around it, Colin and myself mulled over which song Chaz was to sing. Following further lovely renditions from another few locals singing their hearts out up on the makeshift stage, Chaz’s name was called. Following the calling Chaz made his way up to the mike as a good portion of the drinkers in the bar looked round at him, and us, as if they’d just realised we were there, and immediately began eyeing the tourists with suspicious disapproval. Chaz didn’t let the locals put him off though, either that or he didn’t notice, as he belted out a rather joyous rendition of the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’. He managed to get a few girls dancing but mostly just caused a lot of cagey looks from the gathered Fort Williamers. After he’d finished Colin and myself looked at one another and hurriedly finished our drinks, and as we left, we felt the locals following us to the door with their eyeballs.
With barely any sleep and a ridiculously bad hangover, unfairly bestowed upon me from the fairly normal amount of alcohol consumed the night before, I clambered out of the tent and shuffled myself to the campsite’s toilet block.
We slowly cleaned ourselves up, pulled our jackets on, fastened our backpack clips and shoved our bottled water and sandwiches, bought at the garage the night before, into our bags. Just as we were breathing in the cool air, looking up at the mountain before us, flexing our shoulders, stretching our legs, I puked.
I believe the exact words I uttered were:
“Oah, guys, I think I’m going to - ….”
The woman with the little girl behind our tent looked on in disgust as I collapsed down on to the grass, Chaz and Colin struggling to suppress their laughter. It was the campsite restaurant burger’s fault. That coupled with Chaz’s vodka buying.
We covered the barf with the Fort William map the receptionist had given me at the desk the night before and set off, for breakfast, to the burger van.
Senin, 25 Mei 2009
Calzean, caravans and sausages
We were sleeping in the tent again, over the weekend, as we stayed the night at Calzean castle, just outside Maybole on the South coast of Ayrshire. We went along and met up with Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda who were already set up in the Calzean camping and caravan park in their caravan. Sally and Jake, the two collies, were also there of course and were not slow in leading us through the forests to the castle, after we had successfully set up camp. Well, Sally did get a little slow on the way back, but she is approaching seventy. It had been many years since visiting Calzean and my memories were more than a little hazy. We had a good walk round the grounds up to the magnificent house, turning as we reached the main building's front entrance and descending down in to the walled gardens. From there we headed out to the Swan Pond and then, after a short break on the opposite end, headed back, only making another very brief stop at a small sweet shop in the grounds so that Tom could buy some liquorice. As we approached our camp once more the rain started to drizzle down from the clouded sky above and we took shelter in the caravan where we demolished a bag of Red Sky crisps or posh crisps, as I called them. I then took a slurp of my tea and realised it was Earl Grey. Again, very posh. All this while our little tent sat shivering, patiently outside, waiting on it's occupants.
Caravaning is not proper camping anyway is it? A solid roof above your head, with cushions and sofas to lounge on? Drinking earl grey, dining at a proper dinner table? That ain't proper camping is it? You're supposed to get smelly and grubby camping, drinking cold tea from a flask and sitting precariously on a rubbish foldy stool which either buckles under your weight or sinks into the muddy puddles under your wellies. Why do we put ourselves through the misery of camping then? There must be something primal there. When the rain starts up caravans are a god send. Especially when the rain is no deterrent to a good barbeque.
Tom fired up the German barbeque in the caravan's awning - a large, metal, gas powered cooker that produced a mean steak and sausage. This was the second BBQ of the day as Tom had cooked up some rolls and sausage on our arrival at the campsite earlier. We then talked long into the evening to the sounds of U2's Rattle and Hum and Bowie's Live at the BBC 2003 concert over a good few bottles of Peroni and a few bottles of wine.
The third BBQ of the weekend then came when we arrived at Colin and Heather's place, in the Gorbals, on the Sunday evening after having got home from Ayrshire, showered and refreshed. Colin and Heather now stay in one of these heavily regenerated parts of the Gorbals were the flats look something like the exteriors of major scientific research laboratories with glass panels, large windows and elegant shapes. Upon Ka and myself finally finding the right door, Colin wasted no time in lighting the coals and before we knew it, we were eating more sausages again. I think we ate more sausages that weekend than we have done for the past two months. Afterwards we sat and done some catching up talking weddings, past school fashion statements and Morecambe and Wise. Colin, it turns out, being a bit of a fan and almost giving us a short rendition of their famous dance. Twice that night I mistook the bathroom for the boiler cupboard, the bathroom, which was of pretty good quality, apart from the Van Gogh rip off on the wall, being of excellent quality.
Selasa, 15 Juli 2008
Tremendous T
T in the Park 2008 was fantastically, bristeringly brilliant. Seen loads of bands and enjoyed much music.We left early on Friday morning to avoid any traffic queues and got to Balado Airfield in plently of time for the campsite gates to open. After straining much muscle in transporting our provisions and camping equipment we set up camp in the Indigo zone and whiled away the day with a few beers getting to know the folk camping around us who consisted of a few pleasant nutters from Balloch (funny that - nutters from Balloch;-), a bunch of late teen girls who liked to talk about men's private parts, a bunch of late teen guys who liked throwing themselves over tents, a bunch of guys who liked their lager at 8 in the morning and a couple of forty-fifty year old dudes who had dyed hair and thought they were hip. All mostly nice folk though which always makes things a bit more bearable. The Arena then opened at fiveish and Friday's music kicked off with the Wombats, followed by Kids in Glass Houses, Stereophonics, the Chemical Brothers and The Verve. The sun managed to fight the clouds off a few times throughout Friday and Saturday not emerging fully till Sunday. The highlight on Friday was most probably The Chemical Brothers 'Hey Boy' and the Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony' after which we trekked back to our tent.
After a mostly sleepless night Saturday's line up for us was a bit of Eddy Grant, The Rocket Summer, The Feeling, Biffy Clyro, We Are Scientists, The Pigeon Detectives, The Fratellis, Rage Against the Machine and then The Kaiser Chiefs.
Biffy Clyro and The Pigeon Detectives were both great highlights for me, the Kaisers were also good but not as good as when I'd previously seen them in the Carling Academy. They extended two songs by about five minutes each forcing the crowds to chant the same line over and over. Gets a bit tiresome after a while...The Pigeon Detectives earlier were great. Loud, energised, fun, brash and cool and the lead singer Matt Bowman had a great time with the audience.
On Sunday, we seen The Ting Tings, British Sea Power, Vampire Weekend, Amy Winehouse, The Zutons, a few songs from REM and then the Prodigy. REM and The Prodigy's time's clashed as did more than a few of the other bands so we had to make a decision! REM sounded great but were on at the same time as The Prodigy and as I had never seen them live we dived over to the NME/Radio 1 tent for them just before they started and was not disappointed by their performance.
Two totally different kinds of music on the two different stages to finish off the festival which is probably the best but most difficult decision to make when you like both!! I'll watch REM on the TV though. Amy Winehouse was also good and to my ears much improved from when I heard her live at Glastonbury. Good to see her on the stage again. The Zutons were as always brilliant as well. God damn it - everything was brilliant! Can't complain...apart from the toilet situation. The portaloos in the campsite were just atrocious and the ones in the Arena, come 5pm, not much better! Boggin' but I suppose you have to expect that with a festival of that magnitude. It was Ka's first camping experience so I don't think she was too enthralled with the prospect of going holidaying in a tent again. I'm trying to reassure her festival camping is in no way the same. Tickets go on sale today for T in the Park 2009. Looking forward to it!....oh wait I'll be on honeymoon...I'll MAKE IT the honeymoon! Yeah, great idea, hold on I'll just go and suggest it to Ka...
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