What is it with this camping obsession?
Three generations ago my family didn't have shoes and slept with their goats. So when I go on holiday, I don't particularly want to relive the experience of my ancestors. I only get five weeks holidays a year, and when I go away, I want someone to squeeze my hands and feet, anoint me with fine oils, feed me exotic fruits and fan me with ostrich feathers. I don't want to be overwhelmed by the smell of overflowing turds in a portaloo.
What's the big pleasure of having a river of someone elses piss trailing through your living space or hearing someone humping/having a nervous breakdown/tripping out on mind-bending drugs/having a divorce row in adjoining tents.
Yeah, I've done the festival thing, but I'm too old for all that now, the only festival I bother with now is Oxegen, and that's because I get a bed/shower at night cos my mate Des lives in one of the adjoining villages.
I don't want to wake up with a woodlouse in my ear, a spider in my gusset or a field mouse cuddled up to my todger to keep warm.
And I don't want an owl to take residence in my nostrils, thinking it a perfect tree hole to nestle up in.
I'm not a snob, ok, well not much of one. And much as I respect him, I'm not Ray Mears, so unless society deteriorates to a point where we are living in a post apocalyptic world of anarchy I'm quite happy to use shops / restaurants for my dietary requirements.
If I'm on holiday, I don't want to eat baked beans cooked on a primus stove and get excited by the spirit of being self sufficient by gathering (potentially poisonous) mushrooms to cook in a stew. When I'm on holiday I want to eat a large piece of ox. A lobster the size of a mini metro and gnaw on the tusks of a walrus between meals.