Children's names - not a massive bone of contention it has to be said. Aside from calling your firstborn Adolf Judas or trying to work 'Glitter' in there somewhere, you can't really go wrong.
You would expect that this blog to be aimed at that cretinous element of society who see their kids' names as something of a status symbol, and insist on calling them exotic or frankly ridiculous names even though they live in Widnes. Try it - go to your local high street (if you can stand the smell) and shout 'Oi, Destiny'. I'd be surprised if less than a dozen toddlers turn round.
Anyway, my gripe name-wise is nobody's using old-fashioned names any more. What with all this R'n'B and Yoof Culture all the good names are being passed over. We're in serious danger of running out of Anitas and Denises if we're not careful. "That's hardly a bad thing" I here you splutter, but I think it is. When I was growing up, everybody knew a couple called Denise and Steve. It was like some kind of social law, and stood for all that was stable and true in my formative years. That's all gone out of the window now, as Justins and Anthonys take over.
Peters. Colins. Grahams (and to a lesser extent Graemes). They're all going. Lindas. Lauras. In grave danger. It's all bloody Jacobs and Thomas' now.
The biggest problem we're facing is the Government is always banging on about the environment these days. Apparently, being 'green' and watching your carbon footprint wins votes, so they're not arsed about the fact there are less than 16,000 Darrens left in the UK. I'm bringing this to your attention now before it's too late. When the Prime Minister is called Jake, don't come running to me...
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Friday, 26 September 2008
(Fog)light up my life
It was a bit foggy on the way to work today, so you know what that means. People who can usually be filed under 'normal' or 'right-thinking' suddenly become rebranded as 'cretins'. Every possible light is on, including foglights. Check previous vitriolic posts about that very subject, but prepare for coarse language.
The thing is, the hilly nature of my route to work means you start off in fog and rapidly move out of is as you descend. This doesn't seem to make any difference to the other drivers though, who adopt a 'better safe than sorry' policy of leaving their lights on despite the fact they're now being blinded by the sun.
What really gets me though is when I'm in a line of traffic, reasonably well spaced out (distance-wise, not mushroom-wise) and travelling at a decent speed, so I only bother putting my sidelights on rather than the full gun. There's drivers within a few metres to the front and the back so I'd be very disappointed if they couldn't see me and we had some kind of collision. However, there's always one jackass coming from the other direction, sporting the aformentioned Wembley-on-wheels light configuration, who flashes you as if to say "You've not got enough lights on. You'll end up killing someone, possibly of the middle class. Oh the humanity!". Or summat.
If I had the time, the next time this happened I'd U-turn, pursue the braindead wankjacket, accost them at the next junction, pin them up against a wall and politely ask them the following question:
"If I need to put more lights on, squire, how did you know I was there?"
The thing is, the hilly nature of my route to work means you start off in fog and rapidly move out of is as you descend. This doesn't seem to make any difference to the other drivers though, who adopt a 'better safe than sorry' policy of leaving their lights on despite the fact they're now being blinded by the sun.
What really gets me though is when I'm in a line of traffic, reasonably well spaced out (distance-wise, not mushroom-wise) and travelling at a decent speed, so I only bother putting my sidelights on rather than the full gun. There's drivers within a few metres to the front and the back so I'd be very disappointed if they couldn't see me and we had some kind of collision. However, there's always one jackass coming from the other direction, sporting the aformentioned Wembley-on-wheels light configuration, who flashes you as if to say "You've not got enough lights on. You'll end up killing someone, possibly of the middle class. Oh the humanity!". Or summat.
If I had the time, the next time this happened I'd U-turn, pursue the braindead wankjacket, accost them at the next junction, pin them up against a wall and politely ask them the following question:
"If I need to put more lights on, squire, how did you know I was there?"
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
There's a problem, but I can't put my finger on it
Has anyone heard this story of a Labour MP who is suing some bloke who's dog allegedly bit his finger off when posting pamphlets? I say 'allegedly' because of the utterly bizarre nature of the story, as follows:
- Bloke gets home and finds a severed finger on his doormat
- Lobs it in the fridge and rings the Feds
- Nobody comes forward so after a few months he chucks it away
- 18 MONTHS later, this clown rocks up demanding his finger back and some compo
How the hell has he gone 18 months without complaining about this?! Did he look down at his hand one day, notice the missing digit and start hunting around the house, assuming he'd put it down somewhere without realising? I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that if you had your finger bitten off, you'd know about it pretty sharpish. The blood and missing finger would be a clue for a kick-off.
Having thought about it for a while, I've only managed to come up with 2 reasons why he delayed making contact:
1) He managed to chop his own finger off (or somebody did it on his behalf)- possibly as a drunken prank or ninja-style revenge attack - and it ended up being posted through this bloke's letterbox. Fearing the cops would laugh at him, he went home and cried. 18 months later he noticed the owner of the house had a dog, so hatched a plan to blame the pooch for the incident.
OR
2) He was unable to dial the cops until he worked out how to use his other fingers, which took him 18 months.
Over to you, reader...
- Bloke gets home and finds a severed finger on his doormat
- Lobs it in the fridge and rings the Feds
- Nobody comes forward so after a few months he chucks it away
- 18 MONTHS later, this clown rocks up demanding his finger back and some compo
How the hell has he gone 18 months without complaining about this?! Did he look down at his hand one day, notice the missing digit and start hunting around the house, assuming he'd put it down somewhere without realising? I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that if you had your finger bitten off, you'd know about it pretty sharpish. The blood and missing finger would be a clue for a kick-off.
Having thought about it for a while, I've only managed to come up with 2 reasons why he delayed making contact:
1) He managed to chop his own finger off (or somebody did it on his behalf)- possibly as a drunken prank or ninja-style revenge attack - and it ended up being posted through this bloke's letterbox. Fearing the cops would laugh at him, he went home and cried. 18 months later he noticed the owner of the house had a dog, so hatched a plan to blame the pooch for the incident.
OR
2) He was unable to dial the cops until he worked out how to use his other fingers, which took him 18 months.
Over to you, reader...
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
What not to say at an airport
You know those moments when you say something, but even as the words are still leaving your mouth you realise the mistake you're making, but you carry on anyway? Be it mentioning how legless you got to a person in a wheelchair, or how you're more of a boob man to a hot young lady with aspirins-on-an-ironing-board, you can't help finishing the sentence and making a bad situation exponentially worse.
I did that at the airport the other day.
Long story short, my hand luggage was full of network equipment. We didn't have time to post it to Dublin so I filled my bag with a firewall, plugs and enough cables to sink a moderately-sized fishing vessel. The bag went through the scanner and was unsurprisingly put in a red box for further analysis.
I half expected this so played the waiting game, then two friendly ladies took me to one side and explained that they'd have to swab the bag and its contents to ensure I wasn't Robert Reid. "No problem" says I and they cracked on.
Given the amount of stuff to check it was taking a while, and it got to a stage where nothing was said for a while. Usually this isn't an issue, but when you're in this situation, it somehow feels like not saying something is worse than actually saying something. So I piped up. And I wish I hadn't, because I said:
"I'm only bringing this over as a favour to somebody"
Oh, well done, jackass. They'll love that. Why don't you go the whole hog and shout "It's a motherchuffing BOMB, sister"?
Nothing was said for a few seconds, then she casually mentioned it and I had to quickly (and expertly, it has to be said) backtrack and explain that we should have posted it but we missed the last post so I agreed to take it as a favour for a colleague. It's a good job I'm a staggeringly handsome man or they might have been kicking seven shades of shit out of me behind the wooden partition within seconds.
They didn't, the stuff passed the test and I was on my way in minutes, but God only knows how I got away with that one. Next time I'll swim across.
I did that at the airport the other day.
Long story short, my hand luggage was full of network equipment. We didn't have time to post it to Dublin so I filled my bag with a firewall, plugs and enough cables to sink a moderately-sized fishing vessel. The bag went through the scanner and was unsurprisingly put in a red box for further analysis.
I half expected this so played the waiting game, then two friendly ladies took me to one side and explained that they'd have to swab the bag and its contents to ensure I wasn't Robert Reid. "No problem" says I and they cracked on.
Given the amount of stuff to check it was taking a while, and it got to a stage where nothing was said for a while. Usually this isn't an issue, but when you're in this situation, it somehow feels like not saying something is worse than actually saying something. So I piped up. And I wish I hadn't, because I said:
"I'm only bringing this over as a favour to somebody"
Oh, well done, jackass. They'll love that. Why don't you go the whole hog and shout "It's a motherchuffing BOMB, sister"?
Nothing was said for a few seconds, then she casually mentioned it and I had to quickly (and expertly, it has to be said) backtrack and explain that we should have posted it but we missed the last post so I agreed to take it as a favour for a colleague. It's a good job I'm a staggeringly handsome man or they might have been kicking seven shades of shit out of me behind the wooden partition within seconds.
They didn't, the stuff passed the test and I was on my way in minutes, but God only knows how I got away with that one. Next time I'll swim across.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Slag + Email = Sympathy
I made the mistake of listening to omnipresent dirge-fest Radio 1 the other day. To be fair, I'd missed Moyles and Whiley was off so they were basically playing decent tunes from the last 10 years or so, which almost made the identikit blithering idiot's witterings between the tracks almost bearable.
One feature I do like about this late morning show is "Changing Tracks". For those of you not in the know, this is where someone emails in a story about themselves, usually sad or inspiring and preceding a track which reminds them of this particular time or person. They're often tragic tales but the tunes tend to be nostalgic classics, which seems to heal the pain slightly.
Anyway, the track on this particular day was chosen by some bint. I refuse to be pleasant towards here because her story was absolutely pathetic. It went something like this:
- Went travelling for a year with her boyfriend. Had a "wonderful time" (her words)
- Got home and remembered some bloke she used to work with for whom she had feelings
- Texted him and they agreed to meet up
- Had a "wonderful evening" (note the repetition here) but pulled away when he tried to kiss her because she had a boyfriend
- Spent an extended length of time to-ing and fro-ing about the other dude
- Texts him and gets no response
- Gives up then gets a reply from his sister. He's only gone and had an accident and is laid up in hospital. They agree for her to visit
- He carks is overnight before she's due to see him
- She tells her fella and he does one. She's dead sad and needs this tune to cheer her up
So basically, this bird had such a wonderful time travelling that the minute her feet touched the tarmac at Heathrow she was on the blower organising to meet some other bloke. At no point did she express sorrow about upsetting her boyfriend; the entire thing was geared towards how terrible it was for her. Just a few points:
- She dumped her fella, not the other way round
- She set up the date with the other bloke behind boyf's back
- The other bloke actually died, which is probably worse than not dying (like she did)
- She started all of this
I have absolutely no sympathy at all for her. I'm not saying she deserved it, but those who believe in karma must be nodding knowingly as they read this. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who joshed it (no idea if he knew she was already attached) and her boyfriend who was oblivious to this having spent 12 months travelling with the adulterous tart.
What made matters worse was the presenter felt sorry for her. Jesus wept. I'm seriously tempted to send in a tale about how I've murdered loads of people but my machete blade broke off in my last victim so I can't kill anyone any more. Woe is indeed me.
And the song was shit. What a gyp.
One feature I do like about this late morning show is "Changing Tracks". For those of you not in the know, this is where someone emails in a story about themselves, usually sad or inspiring and preceding a track which reminds them of this particular time or person. They're often tragic tales but the tunes tend to be nostalgic classics, which seems to heal the pain slightly.
Anyway, the track on this particular day was chosen by some bint. I refuse to be pleasant towards here because her story was absolutely pathetic. It went something like this:
- Went travelling for a year with her boyfriend. Had a "wonderful time" (her words)
- Got home and remembered some bloke she used to work with for whom she had feelings
- Texted him and they agreed to meet up
- Had a "wonderful evening" (note the repetition here) but pulled away when he tried to kiss her because she had a boyfriend
- Spent an extended length of time to-ing and fro-ing about the other dude
- Texts him and gets no response
- Gives up then gets a reply from his sister. He's only gone and had an accident and is laid up in hospital. They agree for her to visit
- He carks is overnight before she's due to see him
- She tells her fella and he does one. She's dead sad and needs this tune to cheer her up
So basically, this bird had such a wonderful time travelling that the minute her feet touched the tarmac at Heathrow she was on the blower organising to meet some other bloke. At no point did she express sorrow about upsetting her boyfriend; the entire thing was geared towards how terrible it was for her. Just a few points:
- She dumped her fella, not the other way round
- She set up the date with the other bloke behind boyf's back
- The other bloke actually died, which is probably worse than not dying (like she did)
- She started all of this
I have absolutely no sympathy at all for her. I'm not saying she deserved it, but those who believe in karma must be nodding knowingly as they read this. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who joshed it (no idea if he knew she was already attached) and her boyfriend who was oblivious to this having spent 12 months travelling with the adulterous tart.
What made matters worse was the presenter felt sorry for her. Jesus wept. I'm seriously tempted to send in a tale about how I've murdered loads of people but my machete blade broke off in my last victim so I can't kill anyone any more. Woe is indeed me.
And the song was shit. What a gyp.
Friday, 22 August 2008
Draconians 1, Defecators 0
I recently visited a new shopping mall complex just up the road from BBC Television Centre (don't bother, dump) and as part of the process had to sit through an arse-numbingly dull health and safety induction.
To be fair, it is a necessary step in this process, but it wasn't really aimed at people like me who were nipping onto the site for half an hour to check on progress. It was more aimed at construction types, as references to rat urine-borne diseases and vibration white finger were discussed. All very important and serious for the hard hat brigade I'm sure.
However, to say this induction erred on the side of overkill would be something of an understatement.
For example, you're not allowed to rape people. Straight up (pardon the pun), if you are caught sexually abusing someone then you're booted off the site (no mention of prosecution was made, leading me to believe that it's worth the risk to perverts if they know the feds don't get involved).
You're not allowed to have a cack in the street. You read that right; your are forbidden from "urinating or defecating anywhere but in the facilities provided". I'm not overly sure of the types of people hired to work on these projects but you have to wonder what's gone before to make this warning necessary.
Another point that drew a titter from around the room was "don't smoke near flammable liquids of gases". Thanks for that, squire. I was just about to check on my petrol collection by lighting a match. Idiots.
All in all, 45 minutes of my valuable life were wasted, as 30 minutes after that I was off the site and going home. However, when the urge struck me in White City tube station, I made my way to the toilets rather than dropping my trollies in the middle of the platform. Maybe it wasn't such a waste of time after all...
To be fair, it is a necessary step in this process, but it wasn't really aimed at people like me who were nipping onto the site for half an hour to check on progress. It was more aimed at construction types, as references to rat urine-borne diseases and vibration white finger were discussed. All very important and serious for the hard hat brigade I'm sure.
However, to say this induction erred on the side of overkill would be something of an understatement.
For example, you're not allowed to rape people. Straight up (pardon the pun), if you are caught sexually abusing someone then you're booted off the site (no mention of prosecution was made, leading me to believe that it's worth the risk to perverts if they know the feds don't get involved).
You're not allowed to have a cack in the street. You read that right; your are forbidden from "urinating or defecating anywhere but in the facilities provided". I'm not overly sure of the types of people hired to work on these projects but you have to wonder what's gone before to make this warning necessary.
Another point that drew a titter from around the room was "don't smoke near flammable liquids of gases". Thanks for that, squire. I was just about to check on my petrol collection by lighting a match. Idiots.
All in all, 45 minutes of my valuable life were wasted, as 30 minutes after that I was off the site and going home. However, when the urge struck me in White City tube station, I made my way to the toilets rather than dropping my trollies in the middle of the platform. Maybe it wasn't such a waste of time after all...
Friday, 15 August 2008
Olympic breaks? Give it a rest...
It makes a nice change to moan about something topical. Usually I wax aggressively about stuff I've seen on my way home or on the Internet with only the slimmest of connections to my awesome readership, but today I can talk about something that's actually happening: those Olympics everyone keeps banging on about.
I've got nothing against the Olympics; it's a great sporting event. The time difference means I've not seen a great deal of what's happened but I'm picking up the main bits on the radio and to be honest, the good stuff (running and throwing and that) hasn't started yet so I'm not really that arsed.
However...
Why are the swimmers being rested from races? The GB women's team, who were a good bet for the gold, failed to qualify from the heats cos they'd rested two of their better swimmers who'd already swam that week. That's right - earlier that week a 19-year-old career swimmer who trains every day had to have a bit of a rest from racing. Presumably because she was a bit tired.
I wish I could do that; I've had a difficult day at work so I get rested by my boss until a more important job comes along. In a word, absolutely pathetic. If you ask me (which you won't), if you need to have a rest having swam 2 days ago you're either not training properly or you're shite at it. Good day.
I've got nothing against the Olympics; it's a great sporting event. The time difference means I've not seen a great deal of what's happened but I'm picking up the main bits on the radio and to be honest, the good stuff (running and throwing and that) hasn't started yet so I'm not really that arsed.
However...
Why are the swimmers being rested from races? The GB women's team, who were a good bet for the gold, failed to qualify from the heats cos they'd rested two of their better swimmers who'd already swam that week. That's right - earlier that week a 19-year-old career swimmer who trains every day had to have a bit of a rest from racing. Presumably because she was a bit tired.
I wish I could do that; I've had a difficult day at work so I get rested by my boss until a more important job comes along. In a word, absolutely pathetic. If you ask me (which you won't), if you need to have a rest having swam 2 days ago you're either not training properly or you're shite at it. Good day.
Friday, 8 August 2008
Good video + reasonable product = horse
Has anybody seen the new DFS advert? It's basically set to "Rock star" by Nickelback but pinches their video idea by having several different people miming the words to the song. The only subtle difference is in the original there are Playboy bunnies and famous rock types whereas the advert contains middle-aged blokes and tubby women from Keighley.
I suppose some people (namely the people who put money into this bilge) could argue that the fact I'm talking about it proves that it works as a marketing ploy, but I can genuinely say that I was so transfixed by the utter cackness that whatever product they were hawking completely passed me by. I dunno, settees or summat.
There's a fine line to be drawn between memorable adverts and shite in my opinion. Take the gorilla playing the drums for example. Utter tripe (except for the song - a tune regardless of Collins' involvement) but because it was kept simple I know it was for Dairy Milk. You see - simple but effective. Sadly I've got no interest in chocolate but it's a start. Their next effort was an utterly bizarre scenario of airport vehicles having some kind of a race down a runway. The whole thing was saved by setting it to the awesome "Don't stop me now" by effeminate vest-botherers Queen, but even then you're so frightened by the whole experience that you've probably turned off before the slogan is shown.
In conclusion, the only place Nickelback should be seen and heard is the hit parade, and even then you should exercise caution. I'm off to buy a sofa.
I suppose some people (namely the people who put money into this bilge) could argue that the fact I'm talking about it proves that it works as a marketing ploy, but I can genuinely say that I was so transfixed by the utter cackness that whatever product they were hawking completely passed me by. I dunno, settees or summat.
There's a fine line to be drawn between memorable adverts and shite in my opinion. Take the gorilla playing the drums for example. Utter tripe (except for the song - a tune regardless of Collins' involvement) but because it was kept simple I know it was for Dairy Milk. You see - simple but effective. Sadly I've got no interest in chocolate but it's a start. Their next effort was an utterly bizarre scenario of airport vehicles having some kind of a race down a runway. The whole thing was saved by setting it to the awesome "Don't stop me now" by effeminate vest-botherers Queen, but even then you're so frightened by the whole experience that you've probably turned off before the slogan is shown.
In conclusion, the only place Nickelback should be seen and heard is the hit parade, and even then you should exercise caution. I'm off to buy a sofa.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Good news: Suffering will end...in 1996
In a not completely surprising story, I was a bit hungover this morning. 2 bottles of wine (each) and a few shots of Sambuca while watching James Bond and playing rummy had left me in a delicate state this morning. That said, I managed to drag myself out of bed, take the piss out of the Mrs for feeling worse and head home.
You can imagine I wasn't entirely enamoured, therefore, when a little old couple knocked on the door. Before I'd opened the door (the window was open and the telly on so I couldn't cower) I spotted the small colourful pamphlet in her hand and knew what was about to happen. They were Jehovah's Witnesses.
To be fair the conversation was done in 30 seconds. They were very friendly and pleasant, passed on the pamphlet and told me to get in touch if I had any questions. I closed the door, fed the paper to the cats and went back to what I was doing.
A bit later I thought I'd have a read of this tripe and was amused to read about how the Bible tells us that suffering will soon be over. Terrorism drugs and STD's are rife in today's society but The Good Book has told us we'll all be alright in a bit. All we need to do is hang on.
All very feasible (if you're a brainwashed prick with tunnel vision) but there was one slight problem. It was exactly the same as the pamphlet I was given by another old couple at my mum and dad's house 12 years ago. As far as predictions for imminent endings go, this was pushing it a bit.
I got the same spiel last time; did I want world peace? Did I think it was possible? Blah fecking blah. It doesn't matter how much you profess the Bible as the universal answer to everything - the simple fact is it's a load of old bollocks. There are no dates or times specified in these amazing predictions, so why should anybody buy the concept of world peace being just around the corner. I was never going to be taken in by something as pathetically myopic and self-serving as this, but for those of a weaker mental structure, you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince them if you ask me.
Nobody I know has any real religious views so I doubt I'm going to upset anyone, but if these God Squadders want us to take them seriously, it might be an idea to update their promotional material every once in, oh I don't know, a decade. Amen.
You can imagine I wasn't entirely enamoured, therefore, when a little old couple knocked on the door. Before I'd opened the door (the window was open and the telly on so I couldn't cower) I spotted the small colourful pamphlet in her hand and knew what was about to happen. They were Jehovah's Witnesses.
To be fair the conversation was done in 30 seconds. They were very friendly and pleasant, passed on the pamphlet and told me to get in touch if I had any questions. I closed the door, fed the paper to the cats and went back to what I was doing.
A bit later I thought I'd have a read of this tripe and was amused to read about how the Bible tells us that suffering will soon be over. Terrorism drugs and STD's are rife in today's society but The Good Book has told us we'll all be alright in a bit. All we need to do is hang on.
All very feasible (if you're a brainwashed prick with tunnel vision) but there was one slight problem. It was exactly the same as the pamphlet I was given by another old couple at my mum and dad's house 12 years ago. As far as predictions for imminent endings go, this was pushing it a bit.
I got the same spiel last time; did I want world peace? Did I think it was possible? Blah fecking blah. It doesn't matter how much you profess the Bible as the universal answer to everything - the simple fact is it's a load of old bollocks. There are no dates or times specified in these amazing predictions, so why should anybody buy the concept of world peace being just around the corner. I was never going to be taken in by something as pathetically myopic and self-serving as this, but for those of a weaker mental structure, you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince them if you ask me.
Nobody I know has any real religious views so I doubt I'm going to upset anyone, but if these God Squadders want us to take them seriously, it might be an idea to update their promotional material every once in, oh I don't know, a decade. Amen.
Friday, 1 August 2008
Camp as a....well....campsite
"Holiday, celebrate" wittered Mockney sex-fiend Madonna 20 years ago. And she was right. Going on your holidays is a time to celebrate. It's that time again, and I strong-armed the Mrs into staying in this country again, so we went camping in North Yorkshire.
In a phrase, it was quality. I could've easily killed half a dozen people in cold blood with a rubber mallet but eventually everyone left me alone and we were cool. The tent flew up, the fold-up grill was spectacular and I went to the pub every single day I was there. That's the holiday of kings.
Interestingly, we had a celebrity aside while we were there. Returning to the site from another pub trip we noticed a Rolls Royce hooked up to a tiny caravan. As a labelled the driver 'eccentric' it dawned on us that Top Gear's finest James May was in our vicinity. We had a good old gawp as we went past but that was pretty much the end of it, save for most of the other campers trying to be the most informed about his attendance.
A few minutes later we went to the loo and en route bumped into Oz Clarke. Then the penny dropped; they were filming another series of their wine adventure. This was confirmed when I spoke to the man himself, who was massively anti-Scot and and anti-Welsh in the 60 or so seconds we chatted, but we parted on good terms and left them to it.
They filmed for a little over 24 hours then disappeared, although as the Mrs said "the shine has been taken off slightly". It is clear that filming is a drawn-out process, but this was just silly. The final cut may be different, but I reckon they will use about 10 minutes of the footage they took in their programme. They kept restaging scenes and at one stage I'm sure they faked a puncture. Time will tell but it's clear that all that on-screen chemistry is manufactured for the good of the show.
Anyway, in summary, a good time was had by both. We got a lot of reading done, went wandering and the Mrs even turned to Carlsberg when her wine ran out. If that's not slumming it, I don't know what is...
In a phrase, it was quality. I could've easily killed half a dozen people in cold blood with a rubber mallet but eventually everyone left me alone and we were cool. The tent flew up, the fold-up grill was spectacular and I went to the pub every single day I was there. That's the holiday of kings.
Interestingly, we had a celebrity aside while we were there. Returning to the site from another pub trip we noticed a Rolls Royce hooked up to a tiny caravan. As a labelled the driver 'eccentric' it dawned on us that Top Gear's finest James May was in our vicinity. We had a good old gawp as we went past but that was pretty much the end of it, save for most of the other campers trying to be the most informed about his attendance.
A few minutes later we went to the loo and en route bumped into Oz Clarke. Then the penny dropped; they were filming another series of their wine adventure. This was confirmed when I spoke to the man himself, who was massively anti-Scot and and anti-Welsh in the 60 or so seconds we chatted, but we parted on good terms and left them to it.
They filmed for a little over 24 hours then disappeared, although as the Mrs said "the shine has been taken off slightly". It is clear that filming is a drawn-out process, but this was just silly. The final cut may be different, but I reckon they will use about 10 minutes of the footage they took in their programme. They kept restaging scenes and at one stage I'm sure they faked a puncture. Time will tell but it's clear that all that on-screen chemistry is manufactured for the good of the show.
Anyway, in summary, a good time was had by both. We got a lot of reading done, went wandering and the Mrs even turned to Carlsberg when her wine ran out. If that's not slumming it, I don't know what is...
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