Godfrey and me: camping in Cumbria

[somtamslap]

After clambering through the monotony of commutes and coffee breaks and slow-cooked casseroles for the better part of two years, I surmised, several weeks ago, that I needed a break from all of this hideousness.

The city, I shan't lie, was rather beginning to irk me - with its traffic lights and its leisure centres and its throngs of people, so many people: the suited and booted set marching with self-importance in the direction of a high-brow sandwich shop for a roasted bell pepper, quinoa and falafel wrap; the unemployable, loafing from place to inconsequential place, perpetually trailed by the faint aroma of urine and fresh fecal matter; and, of course, our hero, Mr Slap, making a hasty beeline to where ever he has to go, somehow quelling the compelling urge to smack every last kunt that crosses his path.

Indeed a weekend in the country was required, perchance to piece together my rapidly fragmenting soul.

I devised a cunning plan. I called it 'get the fuck away from London'. I liked its simplicity. This was a plan I'd be able to work with.

Deciding to add an element of adventure to my hiatus, I swung by Millets in Croydon. For those of you that don't know, Millets is an outdoor sporting goods and camping equipment chain, whose outlets can be found in most big towns and cities throughout the U.K. I've walked passed my local branch in Croydon many, many times - it's invariably empty. Today was no different. I couldn't even find a fucking member of staff. And when I eventually did I was met with total indifference.

"Do you have any cheap tents?" I queried.

"Upstairs." came the curt reply.

And that literally concluded the discourse.

I ended up parting with the princely sum of 39.99 for a very basic two-man tent, a second-rate sleeping bag and a couple of maps - one of West Yorkshire, and the other of Cumbria.

Over a couple of beers that night, I pored over the contours of both regions and decided that the Lakes marginally trumped the Dales. The Dales looked a bit desolate, a little bleak - it looked like the sort of place where you'd get buggered by big-eared rustic types before being fed to their pigs. Mind you, the Lakes didn't exactly smack of Tesco Express and Starbucks - it too, was barren.

I grew a little uneasy at the prospect of sleeping out in the woods on my own. With the event of strangulation at the indulgence of a seven-fingered hick now a very real threat in my mind, I reasoned it wise to seek out a travelling companion.

I called the handful of friends that I have, all of whom were unavailable, spouting some nonsense or another about work or family commitments.

With this I begrudgingly fell back on a contingency plan. I would have to go to the pub. I would have to find Godfrey...

It was a Friday night and Whetherspoons was packed with wall to wall pissheads. It didn't take me long, however, to locate the degenerate boozehound. He was standing, or rather swaying, alone beside the pub's central pillar. In his right hand was a pint of what looked like a dark Kentish ale, in his left a glass of scotch. His eyes were bloodshot and his attire, as is customary for the hobo-esque Godfrey, comprised a mishmash of finery which looked like it had been lifted from a Bosnian rubbish bin.

I procured a pair of Tsing tao (an exceptionally flavourful Chinese beer) from the bar and pushed my way through the marauding crowd to where the fucker was now asleep against the pillar.

"Godfrey! Wake up! Look lively you terrible twat!"

He stirred, accepted the bottle of lager which I held out to him, and with nary a word drained its entire contents in several gargantuan gulps.

"I'm going on a trip, Godders. Up North. Wanna come with?"

"Yesh", he slurred in response.

And with that brisk repartee, I now had a travel buddy.

The following morning, en route to the train station, I called into the derelict hovel which Godfrey had the scrotal fortitude to call home. I banged on the door for over five minutes before being struck with the realisation that it wasn't of course locked. Inside I was greeted with an aroma not dissimilar to raw sewage, and the sight of Godfrey out cold on the floor, still fully clothed. I woke him up. It required several extremely hard kicks to the small of his back. When he eventually came to he immediately demanded booze.

"Beer", he moaned.

I went on to inform Godfrey that the beer was on the train.

Ensconced on the Virgin Express bound for Cumbria, Godfrey, who had already put paid to three cans of Carlsberg before we'd passed Milton Keynes, began chatting in sanguine sentences about the trip. He loved camping, he told me. Loved the fresh air and the abandon and the brazenness of it all. He was asleep by Coventry - snoring obnoxiously and dribbling down his shirt.

A pair of bicycles awaited out pleasure in Penrith, Cumbria. We packed our camping equipment into the panniers and rode away from the station. We didn't get far. Godfrey was snared in a powerful gravitational beam which pulled us towards a dilapidated drinking emporium. He ordered up a pair of Guinness.



With little time for frivolity we once again boarded our bicycles and began a precipitous slog over several fells to the first camp of the tour. We traversed Kirkstone Pass which comprised a 1,500 ft ascent into the clouds. This displeased Godfrey a great deal. I could hear his spiteful curses and cries of woe some 10 minutes before he'd actually crested the summit...





Fortunately a pub, the third highest pub in England no less, can be found at the top. Godfrey burst through the door and frantically stuttered his order. Two large scotches...







With Godfrey's rapidly depleting alcohol levels now replenished, we free-wheeled down the pass with designs to find a suitable place to pitch the tent.







Some 10 arduous miles later we happened upon a likely spot. Godfrey, who had, due to an intuition only possessed by rampant alcoholics, managed to locate an office license in the middle of fucking nowhere, bundled into the tent with his stash and before long had settled into a robust slumber, coupled with the loudest snoring I have ever heard. It sounded like there was a fucking thunderstorm taking place in the tent.

I dug out my bivvy bag and decided to sleep under the stars...


Still, Godfrey's rambunctious wheezing stung my ear drums.



Further still...




Yet further...




Godfrey, it should be known, was beginning to vex me now, so I left the useless twat to seven-fingered Sid and his big-eared brothers.

I believe Godfrey still roams the fells to this day... or so the legend has it...

[klong toey]

At last the sequel to Withnail and I.

[Bettyboo]

Of all the thing's I've missed about TD, Godfrey and Malcolm's Mum are right there at the top like Pork Pies and Branston Pickle.

Edit to add: Mr Slaps is developing his writing skills very nicely; less of the crass and cliched (though that was always amusing) and more of the Graham Greene about the writing nowadays. Excellent.

[somtamslap]

At last the sequel to Withnail and I.

Penrith is indeed Withnail country. It is obligatory whenever visiting the area to behave like a terrible kunt.

Of all the thing's I've missed about TD, Godfrey

Godfrey's absence has coincided with yours, Betsy. Odd that. What the fuck have you pair been up to?!

[withnallstoke]

Great stuff slap.

More photos of fat fuckers parading porcinely through the Penrith tea rooms are needed.

Hope you denied being from London.

[ltnt]

^Cumbria? Is that a cheese?

[somtamslap]

Hope you denied being from London.

They didn't care where I was from. Especially the randy bull in top field. Anyone was fair game for a roasting.

^Cumbria? Is that a cheese?

It's a sausage, dear boy. Although I daresay they produce cheese up there.

[ltnt]

It's a sausage, dear boy. Although I daresay they produce cheese up there.

Cheesy sausage then? Withers is bound to show up sooner or later for some of that?

[somtamslap]

More photos of fat fuckers parading porcinely through the Penrith tea rooms are needed.

[ltnt]

^Why is one leg calf smaller than the other Slap?

As well why are you in dismount?

[VocalNeal]

Hmm.
Because it is further way?

[grasshopper]

A Dashiell Hammett or an O. Henry in gestation? Couldn't think of a Brit equivalent off the top of mine bonce.

[ltnt]

Because it is further way?

Not in this case...almost parallel in object...I think Slaps shrunk his lemon...

Note its "Only," a 13% grade! Now that's funny...pushed his bike all the way no doubt...knackered for sure.

[somtamslap]

pushed his bike all the way no doubt...knackered for sure

The rental shop gave us a pair of fucking mountain bikes. Walking up 13-25 per cent gradients was to be expected.

[kingwilly]

I don't think they were let into the tea rooms. A bit like vampires and churches.

[ltnt]

Next time rent one of thee Slap...no grades to steep!

[somtamslap]

I don't think they were let into the tea rooms.

All we did was threaten to install a fucking jukebox to liven up all the stiffs - and boom, barred for life.

Next time rent one of thee Slap

Yes, I'm inclined to do just that.

[ltnt]

Yes, I'm inclined to do just that.

Long as you're walking up those hills...Do you get a chance for any hill training runs during the work week? Pretty much flat land round London eh?

Get to the gym for some bike, (spin classes), training runs...that'll kill ya for sure...

[Chittychangchang]

Entertaining as always, heading up that way myself next month.

Can you confirm if Godfrey is still in the area as i'll have to make alternative arrangements..

[Kurgen]

Oi Slopper, in that pic with your tent and bikes, wtf is one a girls mountain bike???

Are you stuffing cheesy sausage up your mate????

[somtamslap]

Can you confirm if Godfrey is still in the area

I'm not too certain. He may have strayed into the Dales. Could you let me know if you see him.

wtf is one a girls mountain bike???

They are both shitty half-busted mountain bikes, which are, funnily enough, not suited *at all* to mountains.

[patsycat]

You dont look as fat as i had imagined.

But am looking forward to what you ate for breccie.

[somtamslap]

You dont look as fat as i had imagined.

I'm decked out in tight fitting spandex, Pats. I can barely fucking breathe in those shots.

[taxexile]

You dont look as fat as i had imagined.

pats has got the horn.

[Kurgen]

You dont look as fat as i had imagined.

pats has got the horn.

and poor eyesight