Camping Explained for People Who Just Don't Get It

It occurred to me, after our trip to Pickering last weekend, that many of our friends and family simply don't understand camping. They look at you incredulously as you tell them that you chose to sleep out of doors with only two thin layers of nylon fabric between you and the elements (not counting sleeping bag and/or underwear - just so you know). For me it's partly the adventure of having to get by without some of what you would ordinarily consider regular parts of your everyday life: television, en suite, running water. It is also deeply relaxing to sit outside your tent in the warm evening air watching bats dart after aerial insects; and listening to the gentle murmur of conversations from neighbours. There is however one rule that ought to be etched into the DNA of every camper: canvas does not have the same sound deadening properties as brick or stone. This is important if you snore; if you and your partner are amorous; or if you suffer from flatulence: going indoors out of politeness to release a gaseous emission is pointless.

As in much of life, gender stereotypes have their place amongst the members of the Camping and Caravanning Club and in order to understand the camping psyche it is perhaps instructive to look at how men respond to the call of the great outdoors. I was amused to see how the uber-masculine four wheel drive fraternity extend their Stoneage chest beating to their camping:
"I have the biggest and best unit on this site (a caravan is known as a unit)"
"Yes, but I trump your caravan with my Mitsubishi Shogun that could tow two of your caravans"
"Damn you, but wait, my Outback barbecue trumps your Camping Gaz griddle"
"Curses, yet I see that you only have terrestrial TV in your unit: observe my satellite dish...."
And the sun sets on this scene that, bar the details, has remained unchanged since man dragged his first partner by the hair into his cave.

On the subject of camping adaptation's, I found it necessary to make a couple of small adjustments after I discovered that I had forgotten to pack cereal dishes. Throughout the history of mankind man and beast have lived in cooperative partnership; you will see in this photograph that the partnership in my case extended to sharing eating utensils: yes that is the dog's dish; and yes I did wash it thoroughly first.

Pickering is Not a Participle of the Verb To Picker

Had you asked me last week whether I liked Pickering, I would probably have replied that I didn't know: never having pickered. That was last week; and at the end of last week Mrs C and I spent three nights in our country residence (pictured) just outside the North Yorkshire town of Pickering.

Despite trying to dispense with its sleepy market town image - according to some websites - Pickering's entire charm is exactly that: sleepy Yorkshire market town. It has one supermarket and many real shops: a fishmonger with its own smokery at the back, a greengrocer, butcher and baker all selling local produce; it also seems to have a quaint barter-type economy between local traders: I witnessed the petshop owner exchange a pint of maggots for three bags of Lamb's Lettuce with the greengrocer (who was a fisherman, just in case you were wondering).

The fish lady (and I was tempted to say fish-wife) was a typically blunt (to the point of being ascerbic) Yorkshire woman. Whilst I was choosing from the fabulous range of home smoked fish she said to me,
"Are yer just looking or are yer going to buy summat lad, only I want to get this fridge cleaned out".
I bought summat; and it was lovely.

There's something restorative about clean country air; as Mrs C, the dog and I sat sipping a glass of wine outside our temporary home in the twilight surrounded by candles, I wouldn't rather have been anywhere else.





P.S. Sorry I didn't let my loyal readers know we were going away, only I didn't want our local burglar William (Billy to his friends) calling round and have him feel the wrath of my two burly sons.

Why Won't My Dyson Vacuum Cleaner Die?

What's your view of the consumer society? For example: the idea that when you want something you buy it; or if you haven't got the latest thing you go out and get it. I know I can't do it. If something works perfectly well I simply can't change it just because there's a better one. So, to my confession: I hate my Dyson Vacuum cleaner; but it will not break; it stubbornly refuses to die; just continues right on going in its rugged, no-loss-of-suction way. I've tried neglecting it: refusing to clean or change its filters; allowing bits of it to drop off; leaving holes in the pipes. But every time you switch it on it jumps up like a spaniel dog eager to do your bidding. But I really do hate it: I hate it being so heavy and cumbersome; I hate it being so clumsy and useless on the stairs (and we do have a lot of stairs).

If someone were to come along with a nice new Miele Vac (just as an example you understand), perhaps a new model that needs an honest and thorough review by a blogger; I could, I suppose, put the old one in a cupboard without guilt. So if you are passing by my blog and consider yourself to produce a rival cleaner to Dyson, or even if you are James Dyson (look I even included your picture) and think you could convince me to love your latest model, get in touch. Please.

A Phoenix Rises from the Ashes of a Communist Regime

Have you ever had one of those surreal experiences when you wonder whether what you are witnessing is real or is some sort of elaborate joke played by a scheming comic genius? I had one last Saturday evening when Greenfield Band hosted their 20th Anniversary concert with the Klosermansfelder band, who Greenfield band have a cultural link.

Klosermansfelder is a small copper mining town in, what was, communist East Germany and as if to make them feel at home, Uppermill Civic Hall had a beer keller feel to it from the off, with the tables arranged longitudinally towards the stage, and from an early point in the evening, many, many foaming steins visible along them - well alright then, pints of mild and bitter. Greenfield Band performed the first set of the evening with a selection of traditional brass band marches and a couple of songs from the musicals. They then came to their last number and suddenly the spector of Basil Fawlty loomed large on my horizon - and I hope I don't have to be too explicit about my recollection of that particular episode of Fawlty Towers - as they announced their last piece The Battle of Britain March. A number of us snorted into our beer but, as if we hadn't got the - unintended - joke, an older woman stage whispered to her, presumably deaf, neighbour "Didn't we beat them at that?...". The turn came for the German band to perform and what an excellent performance they gave, whipping the crowd into a true beer kellar, larger swilling, cheese-fest of tradional German umpah music.

Then came the middle bit.

Do you remember James Last; the way he sanitised pop music into something fit for playing only in elevators; how he managed to make beige a lifestyle choice rather than a colour and the way in which he hypnotised my parents generation and sold millions of albums of pop hits, sanitized until they took on a pleasantly harmless feel. He could have made the Sex Pistols sound like Val Doonican. The band's middle section must have been planned as a Last homage: a medeley of 1970s hits centred on the classic Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, by Middle of the Road - it could only have been improved by them segueing into the Birdy Song.

But the thing was, we loved it: dancing, drinking and singing; swaying, rocking and swooning; and, as if to emphasise the fromagesque quality of the event, the band had a look of Tutonic seriousness - grim even throughout their whole set. It was great.

Finally the time for the last number came. It was announced as a rendition of the Klosermanfelder town song: a song that summed up the culture and heritage of the town; a song that brought a tear to the eye of every Klostermanfelderian as they sung it in bars and taverns across the town; a song that translated as: Good Luck Down the Mine, The Foreman's Coming. Later I felt guilty at my reaction to the title of that song which, after all is a poignant reminder of the years of oppressive poverty and sheer hard labour - as if mining wasn't hard enough anyway - imposed by the by the Communist East German regime.

Now here comes the real Royston Vasey moment. Today, looking for a suitable picture for this post I searched for Klosermanfelder in Google hoping for a picture of the town square or even a copper mine shot. But all that was returned by the biggest search engine of them all was one hit; and that was the article in the Oldham Evening Chronicle promoting the concert. I searched further and further: not a German sausage: not a single picture, article or blog post. Ever. It's like the place never existed...

Anyway, not wanting to leave you without some sort of image or interactive involvement with the occasion I have selected, as you will see above, a fine picture of Greenfield Band; and here is an irresistible rendition of that Middle of the Road classic: Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep: and I defy you not to walk into work singing it tomorrow.

Size Doesn't Matter: Until Now

I have never been particularly competetive: never one of those boys who had to get their fastest, throw farthest, or get 'highest up the wall'. Perhaps that explains why I have never quite understood the desire to grow giant vegetables. It is usually men, who guard their gourds by night, or feed their leeks with secret mixtures. You wouldn't imagine that a horticultural show could be quite such a testosterone laced affair; but when one's wares are laid bare on the white cloth of a display table, the atmosphere crackles with tension and masculine swaggering, as flat capped adversaries let their onions do the talking.

This year Mrs C sprinkled a packet of mixed wild flower seeds over a flower bed at the rear of Croft Hall. One of the resultant surprise contents of the packet was a Great Mullein or Arron's Rod, as it is colloquially known. All summer we have watched as a tiny seedling errupted in spectacular vertical fashion into a giant spike of yellow flowers. This afternoon I wanted to know how big was my rod; applying my Stanley steel tape to its side I measured 2.8 metres - surely I have the biggest rod in Saddleworth, maybe even the world.

Don't listen to them; size matters; and mine is the biggest.

Elvis: The Man and the Marketing

I don’t know where you stand on Elvis, but he’s everywhere at the moment; it seems that there is a significant Elvis anniversary: 30 years since he died; but since when was thirty a significant anniversary?
I have never really quite understood Elvis; I mean, for one thing, there’s no such thing as Elvis singular. There’s young Elvis, GI Elvis, LA Elvis and sad fat Elvis but not one clear Elvis identity. I can take or leave the music: he sang well - as a rock and roll singer - and could bash out a ballad well enough but I don't understand what made him so big – in the global, rather than physical, sense. The answer, I learnt from an excellent Radio 4 programme yesterday afternoon, was Colonel Tom Parker: now there’s a man you would want on your marketing team. Parker was solely responsible for converting Elvis from a man to a brand; taking advantage of the scarcity principle by preventing him ever touring outside the US and making his movies instant hits among the worldwide population who would never get to see him perform. Parker quickly spotted the potential marketing value in TV when everyone else poured scorn on it as a five minute wonder.
Sadly though, as far as I can see, there is little left of the man that was; all that seems to remain – aside from endless debates about the music – is the brand: a sort of quasi-comic phenomenon that is a mixture of karaoke and Blackpool. You only need to Google (UK) Elvis to get a flavour of it: the genuine fan sites are far outnumbered by Elvis impersonators; I even spotted a knitting pattern for an Elvis wig. During another Radio 4 Elvis programme this week there was reportage about the Elvis brand, including consideration of whether the Elvis impersonator market ought to be franchised. I almost had to pull up the car to think about this: compare the image of Elvis to that of the other massive American franchise: the golden arches of McDonalds, and you will see how weirdly possible it could be. Already the range of possible Elvis impersonator alternatives has far outstripped the imagination of even Col. Tom: for example Chinese Elvis, Black Elvis, Shmelvis (the Jewish Elvis), Elvish (the Tolkien themed Elvis), Gospel Elvis, Balloon Elvis and the lesbian Elvis impersonator Elvis Herselvis. It seems the cult is far bigger than the man.

Perhaps, in a few years time, when I am looking for a potential investment for my pension lump sum, I could do worse that an Elvis franchise myself: Oldham Elvis with his range of specially adapted hit songs like: '(Mind Me) Clogs Yer Clumsy Bugger' and 'Yer Nowt But a Whippet', the list is endless.
Oh, by the way, I made up one of the themed Elvis impersonators; can you guess which one?

The Everything But Shop

The Everything But Shop was the unkind - in my view - title given to Woolworths, the high street store that sold, and still sells, everything...but what you want. I recalled this after bagging a bargain this weekend: electric cool box, half price, reduced from £60 to £29.99. Ha! I said to myself, Woolworths' detractors can scoff all they like, but I for one will defend dear old Woolies to the hilt. Imagine then my chagrin when I discovered today that only two days later they had knocked a futher fiver off the price. Not one to turn down a fiver when there's one going, I paraded back into the Oldham store with a boxed 25litre electric cool box and recipt under one arm; picked up another under the other and marched smartly up to the till demandeing fair play of the three or so bored assistants waiting for home time (this was at 17.25h...they shut at 17.30h).

I explained that I simply wanted to return the cool box I had bought on Saturday and then purchase the second one at the lower price of £22 (actually that's a seven pounds difference isn't it...even better).
"You can't do that" replied the first assistant,
"Why not? You have a no quibble returns policy don't you." I boldly asserted,
"It's not right, bringing something back just to get more money off" she replied, obviously oblivious to the meaning of quibble.
"What if I hadn't delivered two cool boxes here, but returned one, got my refund and then walked over there and picked up the other, what would you have done then?" I persisted,
"I don't know, but it's not right" she said digging in her heels. With the scent of blood in my nostrils I rose to the fight and parried,
" Who do I have to see then to discuss your company policy on no quibble returns", I was getting a liking for 'quibble' and tried to effect a Mr Bean voice as I said it.
"Brenda", she replied
"Brenda?" I asked,
"Brenda, upstairs" she added helpfully. Her colleague reached for the telephone,
"I'll ring Brenda' she said. I folded my arms and stubbornly stood my ground, ready to do battle with Brenda from upstairs.
As we were stood, one of the other assistants idly eyed my receipt and then nonchalantly reached over and pressed down the telephone button, cutting off the Brenda call. I felt a chill run up my spine at the way she matched my gaze eye-to- eye as she did so.
"You were only charged £22 for this on Saturday" she said, her quiet calm voice clearly audible over her suddenly silent colleagues. I blustered that I was sure I had been charged £29.99, but in my heart I knew the battle was lost. I gazed folornly at the receipt thrust under my nose and picked up my cool box.
"Right then" I said, turning to leave, head bowed. Then I had a spark of inspiration:
"How do you know I'm not the mystery shopper testing your knowledge of company policy on returns and no quibble guarantees" I said, and walked smartly away, that got them.

So, normally when I write about a store or product it is by way of a cheeky invitation to offer me an incentive to return; on this occasion it's simply to humbly say: I was wrong - and I don't like it.

Stuff Advertising

I know I am not the first blogger to have told their significant others that their lives are about to embark on a new financial journey thanks to the second income generated by allowing advertisers to pimp their products on their blogs. As much as I am a fan of clever advertising, I have decided that after a three month trial of Adsense - that has earned me not one single cent - I will discard it and give the space to some needy cause. I already have a few ideas about who might benefit from a bit of free publicity among the handful of readers who regularly pass my way; but, just for the moment, I have, you may have noticed, replaced Adsense with my Blog of the Day award from the kind team over at Fuel My Blog.

I was dissapointed by the type of advertising that Adsense felt suited my keywording, especially when, in a bid to spice things up a bit, I started to use mishchievous combinations of keywords. All that got me was some very dissapointed visitors who had entered quite specifically erotic search terms in Google and landed on my blog. I didn't even get anything interesting as the result of my Extreme Depilation post: now that was dissapointing.

So, my sojourn in the heady word of publicity is over and just for the weekend I shall bask in the warmth of the spotlight thanks to Fuel My Blog.

Oh, and just for fun, I've added another spurious keyword to see which lusty Google searchers arrive here only to have their hopes of passion dashed - sorry if that is you, but try visiting Nurse Myra at the Gimcrack Hospital: that might be more in your line.

My Dinner Party

Sorry about the short break in service this week, it was due to a short break in my computer which has now been mended by Albert the computer man.

I was tagged ages ago by Walks Far Woman at Kissing the Dogwood with a meme when I thought I was just about fed up with memes; but I actually really enjoyed musing on this one. Firstly I had to choose three dinner guests - not easy but great fun, after running through a list of possible celebs and academics I found myself, last Friday, alone with whisky singing along to Bruce Springsteen in his live acoustic gig from Dublin. I scrapped my original list and decided that what was needed was a matey night in with a few nice people and a good sing; so here goes:

Firstly I wanted someone who could be witty, clever, tell a story and be rooted in the language of northern Britain. I also wanted someone who could be my new best friend and teach me everything they knew about creative writing, so I chose the poet Simon Armitage. I just love the way that he has the poets alchemical trick of creating something magically meaningful and witty out of words we all use; and feelings and thoughts we all have.

Next I wanted a singer who would know loads of songs, has the voice of an angel, again is from up north, could arrive on the bus from Barnsley with her guitar and bewitch us with beautiful interpretations of traditional ballads, bringing tears to our eyes before leading a great throat busting sing-along. I chose Kate Rusby - the Barnsley Nightingale.

Thirdly I wanted someone who I had admired for ever, who could add a bit of unpredicability to the evening, might be irrascible and/or drunk but, as the shadows grew long and we all had that tired, full, friendly feeling: sat in the near dark with only candles for light, could sing mellow songs full of warmth, about life, love and loss. I chose John Martyn.

The eating bit was easy. I have a feeling that this would be a fairly easy going gathering where the companionship and conversation was more important than the food; so I decided that we would play it by ear, have a few beers and then nip out to the traditional English chippy round the corner for fish, chips and mushy peas; or the home made cheese and onion pie is good.

The final part of the meme is to choose a time when I would love to have lived. I had real difficulty with this - and I'm sure there is a psychological reason - but despite the naval novels of the eighteenth century, sagas of sixties swingers, war time tales of daring do, I cannot think of a time I would prefer other than now. I am very much a believer in now: dealing with life as it comes along: "deal with life as it is, not how you want it to be" I'm fond of saying - of course that doesn't mean you ought not to have dreams and plan ahead, but I just feel so grounded now, here, this second, minute, hour.

Oh, and before I forget, I'd better tag someone and pass this meme on: I choose Nurse Myra - I imagine a dinner party at Gimcrack Hospital might well be interesting and I nominate a fictional character Harry McFly - I would like to see who he might entertain of an evening.

The Myth of the North

During one of our lunchtime perambulations around Salford Quays recently, we took a detour into The Lowry art gallery to visit The Myth of the North. This exhibition has been described as a tongue in cheek view of stereotypical Northern life; only it isn't, it could only look tongue in cheek to anyone who believed that Coronation Street was a quaint representation of the native population of our region. Wondering around the gallery it was instructive to listen to the comments of the other viewers; they were broadly in two camps: the 'would you look at that, it's just like me mam' front room' camp; and the 'what do you think of the quality of this installation as a piece of art as opposed to somewhere for the common man to look at nostalgia' camp. Can you guess which camp I was in? It was interesting to juxtapose the Salford that L S Lowry presents in his fabulous paintings with the Salford where a waterside penthouse apartment costs around half a million pounds; I wonder what Lowry would have thought of that.

Whether you are a city slicker who thinks that Northerners are quaint, rugged types, only good for keeping whippets and populating gritty dramas or soap operas; or whether you are actually a quaint, rugged Northerner, the exhibition is worth a visit. I for one was astounded by the range of Lowry's work that extends far beyond his matchstalk men and matchstalk cats and dogs; and actually, the installations are very good and do bring a smile to the face: you can imagine my delight at a mini-cinema complete with George Formby movie. I was particularly moved by the painting shown above that, in typically blunt Northern style, is titled The Cripples and is a stark social commentary on disability from Lowry's time.

Of course many of you will be familiar with modern Salford's clean lined architecture that will soon be the Northern base for the BBC and is already the home for many prestigious events such as last week's Salford Triathlon. Among the many spectators at the triathlon was Lisa with her trusty camera who took this picture. You can see more of Lisa's triathlon pictures, and others, here at Flickr.