A Tale of Two Tents...

Ok, so I went camping again. I must be some sort of masochist. I really don’t know what has got into me lately. I have started eating salads, exercising, living healthily, and now I enjoy camping. Will somebody please shoot me now! Before long I may turn all new age, and start getting in touch with my feminine side!

So, we loaded the entire contents of our house (and the neighbour’s house, I think) into the car and drove off down the road with a shower of sparks coming from the exhaust as it dragged along the ground. This time we were off to pastures new. Dorset, and Corfe Castle to be precise. We had plans for riding the steam train into Swanage on Saturday, barbeque in the evening, plenty of booze, bit of music and a good laugh.

It didn’t start well, with only four of us showing up out of the many that were invited, but that was their loss. The four of us decided that we could survive without the miserable buggers. Set the tents up and unpack the cars. Then off to find a chippy. Sated with a good portion of cod and chips, we set about demolishing a pile of bottled alcohol while we watched the sunset over the sheep and cows in the next field. Mooing and baaing was going to be least of our problems overnight as a group of Duke of Edinburgh students moved in at 10:30pm and made enough noise to wake the dead all night. And, yes, I do mean all night. In the end they were thrown off the site. But, by God, were we tired!

Never mind. We still managed the steam train into Swanage. Our daughter and granddaughter turned up for the train ride as well. Now the newest member of the Giant68 family is still not a year old so this was a big adventure for her, and she loved it. As she has me wrapped around her little finger I spent a fortune on her, but that’s what a granddad is for.

Barbeque was lit, as was the camping stove and we all set about demolishing a pile of food and the obligatory lake full of alcohol. Fuelled by the aforementioned alcohol we decided it would be a brilliant idea to climb the hill behind the camp and watch the sunset. We lost our team of Sherpa’s along the way and as we climbed through the cloud layer we could see the curvature of the Earth! It certainly felt like it! We all slept like the dead that night!

The sun came up and illuminated the interior of my tent. Why, in God’s name, do tent manufacturers not make the tent out of something that block the light from the Earths star? So I was awake pretty early, as always. One day I will get a lay in, that’s the problem with being a shift worker for the last 25 years, no lay ins.

Good job that I was awake, really, as we had to pack up reasonably early so that we could rush back home for the granddaughters christening. So with the help of a large shoehorn it was all squeezed back into the car and off we went.

Another camping trip over. I am becoming a veteran camper. Should I be proud of this, or should I be hanging my head in shame. When people ask how I spent my weekend should I say “Oh, I went camping” or should I just tell people that spent the entire weekend downloading gay porn?

Guilty Pleasures...

Guilty pleasures. What’s yours? Nothing kinky or perverse (OK, then, just this once), just simple guilty pleasures that you would be ashamed to admit to even though they are really nothing to be ashamed of.
I am sat in the office looking out of the window, as I do, sun is shining down out of a clear blue sky and on the radio is “Me and you and a dog named Boo” by a band called Lobo (I think). And at this particular moment, as I sing along, all is well with the world, I am at peace. President Obama and the BP saga, the “Bloody Sunday” report etc may as well belong to another universe.
I have many of these “pleasures”, all the sort of thing that you wouldn't want to admit in public. I'm far too old to worry about what people think of me now. And they will all transport me to a different place. Sometimes they may transport me, mentally at least, to another place, sometimes to another time. On our way to a pub quiz a few weeks back, one of our friends had a perfume on that took me back years. I couldn’t quite grasp the memory that it evoked, every time I tried to grab it it would flutter just out of reach. Lincoln biscuits and malted milk biscuits take me to my childhood when I would stay with my grandmother in Nottingham
Sometimes these pleasures transport me nowhere, but are just pleasures. Tinned hotdog sausages, Big Macs, the smell of hawthorn blossom. To be honest, I should have probably kept quiet about the tinned hotdog sausages, people will now think that I’m weird.

My name’s Giant68 and I’m odd…

Under canvas...

Well, the next episode in the camping saga is over and went quite well. But there are a few things that concern me, apart from the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed it (oh the shame!). Camping, in principle, seems to be a cheap way of having a holiday. And easy. Just load your tent into the car and off you go.

No. In reality you will load the entire contents of your house into the back of your car, drive for however many miles it is to your destination and then take the entire contents of your house ot of the car and put them in a field. I didn’t realise that my car could carry so much. It must have been designed by the same alien race that built the TARDIS. I am sure that the exhaust must have been dragging along the road leaving a trail of sparks behind.

Then you have to pitch your tent which takes a while. But not as long as those who take the trailer tent. Trailer tents are a completely different kettle of fish altogether. Unhitch, unfold and off you go. A fully fitted tent with all the luxuries of home. But, again, it’s never that easy, is it? Once you have ben allocated a pitch you have to get it aligned properly, then level it. Spirit level out and wedges to put under the wheels and a team of hunky blokes to drag one side up on the wedge. Fine if these hunky blokes are available but if it is you and the wife it can get very frustrating.

No Ted this time, so no purple shorts. Just nine good friends, lots of food for the bbq, lots of beer/wine. Bacon sandwiches for breakfast and plenty of coffee.

Interestingly, though, was discovering that Mrs Giant68 turned the inflatable mattress end for end when I decided I wanted my head uphill instead of down. I would have just moved the pillows to the other end. Female logic for you…

I may, now, go and buy my own tent instead of borrowing one. I may never be able to face the world again! :o)

Carry On Camping II, "This Time It's Personal"

You will know by now, well you will if you read these things I take time to write and post, that I have had an experience camping. If you don’t know this you need to go back to the beginning and see what started all this blogging nonsense for me. You will find out interesting things such as: what colour shorts Ted wears when he goes running, although you won’t be as traumatised by this fact as we were seeing it.

Well, it looks as though I am going to have this experience again. So I decided that I would look around and see what equipment I could purchase to make the weekend a little easier. I spent a morning surfing the net and found that I could buy portable washing lines and a laundry basket, a cooker with grill and double oven, wardrobes, beds of all types and sizes. I could get a power invertor so that I could run my portable microwave and fridge from the car. That is, of course, if I didn’t have the luxury of an electric hook-up on the site... . There are fancy little stands that you can stick in the ground to hold your can of beer, Lord forbid that you should have to put your beer on the cold ground! Armchairs and sun loungers, the list goes on ad nauseam…

The question is: if you have bought all this so that you have all the comforts of home, why not just stay at home? It’s warm, comfortable and hedgehogs don’t bother you in the early hours (well, maybe they do, but to be honest I was very drunk at the time, please don’t tell the RSPCA!)

Looks like the boy is not coming this time. I don’t think that he can handle another night sleeping in his car due to the hedgehogs.

I am going to have to do this, relatively, sober as well as the diabetes still has to kept under control.

Am I a god, or what??

What do you see, in your head, when you think of yourself? This was something I was thinking today while eating an ice cream, people watching. I and Mrs Giant68 were sat in a shopping centre, somewhere in Hampshire, with a Thornton’s ice cream each, just watching people go by. I have spoken about this before, so you shouldn’t be too surprised about our pastimes.

Everyone is different and it takes different strokes to make a world, and boy did we see some different strokes this afternoon. Tall skinny ones, short fat ones, tall fat ones… You know the sort, the intelligencia mixing with the dregs of humanity. The Chavs and the Chav nots.

But what do they see when they look in the mirror? The middle aged bloke with his trousers slightly too short, shirt a bit too tight, the comb-over and the tattoos on show? Does he see an Adonis with the sartorial elegance of an Italian fashion house? Does the Chav single mother with the bacon belt see some sophisticated super model, as she looks at her reflection in the shop window, with a cigarette stuck between her lips?

When I look in the mirror, intellectually, I see a middle aged, overweight, exceedingly tall bloke. Yes, I have broad shoulders and, apparently, a nice backside, but I want to see a tall, broad shouldered, narrow hipped god of a man. Do the people that are out and about sometimes let their “want to see” take over from what they actually see. Does the 60ish year old woman in tight leggings and high-heeled shoes think she looks like a goddess instead of hooker for a niche market? Sometimes I wonder.

I also wonder if I will ever follow that route. Not the leggings and the shoes, obviously, but maybe dressing like a tw*t in some other way. Mini Giant68 reckons I already do! Thanks, son!

The Tall Guy

It’s time to get grumpy again. Let’s face it, I seem to be better at grumpy than I am at deep and philosophical. Yet again I am p*^^ed off with the world, nothing unusual there. So far, over the last couple of months I have lost over 2 stone in weight. This leads to the fact that all my clothes are now too big. OK, so when you are 6’8” and weigh 21 stone the clothes are going to be damn big, but now I am smaller in girth, and without a tight belt my trousers fall to the floor.

So now I have to go and get more trews. Difficult at the best of times. I have walked the floor of the department stores and drawn a blank. This is due to the fact that I need a 35” inside leg trouser. Now, they are available, but only if you are built like Peter Crouch. If I have the waist size equivalent to something that a gardener would grow beans up then I can buy trousers. But if I am a more normal size I may as well forget it. 32” waist, 35” inside leg, certainly Mr Beanpole, 40” waist, 35” inside leg, forget it you fat b*^$^rd.

Now I can’t be the only one that is slightly larger size, can I? There must be a clothes shop somewhere that can help me.

I have been, pretty much the same size for the last 25 years so why is it that whenever we get a new issue of t-shirts at work do I always get issued with a size to small? Everytime I have to hand them back and ask for bigger ones and then wait while they are ordered?

It strikes me that all this is a form of discrimination. If I was a midget, black, a homosexual, female, missing a limb or all of the above I could scream from the rooftops that I was being discriminated against. But I am just tall. I can’t buy trousers. I struggle to buy shoes, shirts and trousers. I bang my head when I walk through doorways. I can wedge myself between the floor and the ceiling on buses so that I don’t fall over. Buying a car is a bloody nightmare. But it seems that the only solution is to have a couple of inches surgically removed. (Heightwise, what were you thinking?)

Maybe I ought to start a support group? Suggestions for the name on a postcard please…

What's your story?

What’s the story? I was having a conversation with a friend the other day. He was lambasting me for my terrible blogging rate again. I try, I really do. But sometimes the blog just doesn’t flow. Anyway, we were talking about people, and how we never really now the people that touch our lives. And what is the story of some of the people that we pass in the street. This came about after a story in the papers about an old woman who turned out to have been a spy during the war.

So when you are sitting in some café having a cup of latte and just watching the Saturday morning shopping crowds wander past do you ever wonder what people do, or have done. Do you make up stories about them? If you read my blogs you will have read about the courier van stopping by a man stood at the side of the road, that sort of thing. Mrs Giant68 and I quite often people watch. It can be quite entertaining. We have awards for the weirdest person of the day, largest boobs (yeah, I know, kinda strange) Tallest, shortest, fattest etc. But sometimes I look at people and wonder what they have experienced.

Older people will have lived through such different times than we ever will. I used to have a friend who was a gunnery officer in the Royal Navy during the Second World War. He used to tell me all sorts of stories over a few pints down the pub. He talked of sippers and gulpers and cockers p’s. There were other old boys I drank with who were serving in the navy escorting Baltic convoys. These people have been through things that anyone of my generation and younger cannot imagine. Their experiences have shaped their lives in directions that ours will never go. The way the world is going, the younger generation will have their lives shaped by which computer games they play, what films they watch and which lager they drink. What sort of stories will they be able to tell people in the future over a pint in the local? Of how they set their trophy dog on some other chav after he spilled their Stella?

So when you are people watching bear in mind that the old guy shambling down the street could have a story that is far more interesting that the one you have just made up about him. When I think of all the people I know, and what I know about them, there must be some really good stories to hear. My great uncle Norman, ex RAF warrant officer who has served all over the world and tells the most amazing stories, Oggy the ex-gunnery officer, Jumbo from the Baltic convoys. Listen to the stories before they are gone, because the story of Norman getting a tank transporter stuck in Woolworths In Salisbury will be lost forever. Laugh, I very nearly p*$$ed myself over that one!