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What a resilient nation we British are. Last Saturday was one of the wettest nights of the summer and I was at… a barbecue.
We sat under a large gazebo with the water pouring in at most angles, huddled in the middle like some Titanic survivors. But the show, as they say, went on.
The only problem came when Bob, the chef, opened up his very fancy barbecue and the rain caused steam to rise from the coals.
Well, it was not the only problem, as every now and then we had to get the rain off the sagging roof and it splashed inside.
As it was at our neighbours, at about 10pm I nipped home, got my big coat, gloves and woolly hat.... and returned to the huddle.
I’m back on the slimming this week after a four-week break and I have to admit to being surprised.
I thought I’d have what Pauline, our leader, calls a TLG – tiny little gain – but I’ve lost two-and-a-half pounds and I am only a pound above my lowest for a long time.
I am not allowed to tell you how my good lady wife got on, but in the words of BBC reporter Brian Hanrahan, I counted them all out and I counted them all back in again.
I am not a great television watcher, but I did look up the other night when there was an advert for Butlins. Now I am sure everyone reading this knows what Butlins is, or was. It took me back to my first trip to a holiday camp, Butlins at Pwllheli.
We went there two weeks after England won the World Cup in 1966 and it was a bit of an eye-opener for us lads from the sticks.
The place was full of Scouse lads and lasses, it was the height of Merseybeat and they knew how to have a good time.
The chalets were pretty basic but it didn’t matter as you never seemed to end up in your chalet anyway, mainly because you couldn’t find your own place after a night in the Pig and Whistle.
All the young people were put in one part of the camp and every morning at about 8am this train, well it was a little tractor with some carriages behind, would come down our road with the driver ringing his bell and blowing his horn, and waking all the late night revellers up.
One night, a load of lads got benches and chairs and blocked the road. We were all up next morning to see the train, driven by a bloke called Uncle Boko, come around the corner.
He saw the barricade and drove straight through it, leaving some very broken furniture in its path.
It was the sort of week where young lads grew up very quickly into young men.
In this section
- Scrutiny on the County... 'New' plans sound oddly familiar
- Foster under fire in Battle of the Atlantic
- Coming up smelling of Roses? Labour propaganda secrets revealed
- Foster fails to Stop the War... of words
- A tale of two cities - Worcesters in crisis
- Red faces at Guildhall late show
- Council notices city's fly posting problem
- No cold turkey from politics this Christmas
- 'Tis the season to be jolly... even for our politicians
- 1968 and all that...
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