On camping.

It must also be said that I'm not really a fan of camping. In fact, I think I'm allergic. When I camp my face always end up swollen in the mornings; I can't sleep, it's cold and damp and soul-destroying. It's something I barely tolerate for large-scale religious gatherings or have to accept for budgetary purposes when organising myself a holiday. The continentals have got it mostly right when it comes to the experience of holidaying in contraptions and contrivances you wouldn't put your rubbish out in - nice little plots with fir trees and toilet blocks you'd rather sleep in than the fly-spattered monstrosity you picked up for twenty quid from Argos that has the liquid-repelling capability of George Best at his peak. (While I'm on the subject, why is it that we would insist on buying most things from specialist shops that know what they're talking about except when it comes to camping and jewellery? That must be where Argos makes their money, because I can't for the life of me figure out how they're a successful company.)

I think it's something that goes with the whole notion of a protestant work ethic; my personal theory is that camping is one of the last vestiges of Victorian austerity that we've not managed to move beyond as yet. The idea that the best way to rest and get away from it all, to holiday, is that you should make yourself as cold, as wet and as dirty as possible. These are the people who made porridge with water and salt; they made women dress in boiler suits to go swimming in Clacton. There's a curtain around the viewing gallery in the House of Lords because Queen Vicky didn't want anyone to see ladies' ankles. As good a reason as any to save up for a motorhome that comes with a garage.

Now that's my kind of camping.