How I practised putting my tent up for Glasto 2011.
Anyway, I
decided I couldn’t leave having the practice run any longer, so one night after
work I summoned up the courage to give it a go. Now for ease we’d got one of
these new-fangled pop- up tents, which in theory, should be able to be erected
with simply a deft flick of the wrist. I was a bit sceptical about this. Surely
this was the camping version of the old
“whip-the-tablecloth-off-whilst-leaving- the-bone china-in-place” trick. It
would all end in tears. Always ready for a good laugh, the whole family
gathered around while I studied the instruction booklet intently. It did seem
fairly simple and because it was only a two-man tent, I decided not to mess
around with putting it up outside. The front room would do. It was a flat
circular affair when packed-like a big nylon pancake. I undid the packaging,
and to my utter surprise, it seemed to leap out of my fingers of its own
volition and jump into the middle of the floor, all set up. “And you all
doubted me”, I said, somewhat triumphantly. “I knew exactly what I was doing”.
Amy looked at me, over her cup of tea. “Ah, you’ve just got to get it all back
in place now. That should be easy as well.” Sarcasm is not a very likeable
trait in one so young.
We all looked at the tent in its glory and the unanswered question was how on earth was I going to be able to return it to the basic 2 dimensional pancake shape without something breaking? There was a pause whilst I said I needed to study the instruction booklet-a fancy name for a slip of paper with instructions that made no sense at all. Everybody knew that it would be a miracle if I managed to get it back the way it was supposed to be. There was a longer pause whilst I very kindly offered to make everyone a brew. This was not done with any altruistic intentions really; it was simply a way of buying myself a bit more time in the hope that either a) everyone would get bored and wander off or b) they’d all nag my father-in -law, who, being much more practical than I am, to put it away in my absence. Unfortunately, neither of these two things happened. I walked back into the front room with everyone’s drink to find them all perched on the edge of the sofa, craning their necks over the top and side of the tent so they could still watch the TV and acting as if was the most usual thing in the world. The only things that was said were, “Do you know what to do now?” followed up by, “You’re going to have to do this all by yourself at Glastonbury, so we’re not going to help.” (This sounds a bit unreasonable in print, but I think that it was said with the best of intentions at the time).
The difficulty I had was that as the whole thing shot up by seemingly by magic and without any assistance on my part in seconds, all logic and reason about simply reversing the process was irrelevant. The instruction booklet seemed written in a way to personally baffle me-as if it was written specifically with someone as cack-handed as myself in mind. It had a sneering tone, with liberal use of the word “simply” and line-drawn illustrations that made as much sense if I looked at them upside down and in a mirror than the right way up. I wouldn’t have been wholly surprised if it had started with, “Dear Rick Leach, Thank you for buying your tent from us. Here are the instructions showing you how to put your tent back together. These have been written in a way a 5 year old could do it. With one hand tied behind their back. However, you don’t stand a chance you thick bastard. Why don’t you just throw it away and hire a camper van? Yours sincerely etc”.
It worried me a bit when the booklet talked about “bend pole A over pole B” with guidance of “crossing hands over” and “take care not to force the poles”. I could see it ending up with many tears and shards of fibreglass scattered around the room. Everyone one else was, in reality, looking forward to a right old laugh and being able to recount hilarious tales, many years hence, of the time I had to be taken to hospital with a self-inflicted injury involving yards of cheap nylon and tent poles. I looked out of the corner of my eye. Amy’s fingers were hovering suspiciously over the 9 button on the phone and everyone seemed to have lost complete interest in the latest goings on in Coronation Street. There was no way round it. I was going to have to grab the metaphorical nettle and the literal tent and just have a go. According to the booklet, it all could be (and had to be) done in one manoeuvre. There was no room for pussyfooting around. “Right,” I said, “Stand well back, here I go.” There was a dramatic pause and everyone held their breath (or stifled their giggles; not exactly sure which) as I grabbed both sides of the tent, twisted my arms and wrists in a style destined to cause something to dislocate in my lower back, and somehow managed to return the tent to the flat semi-circular shape in one fell swoop. I really don’t know how I managed to do it; it was more by accident than design. Without waiting for the collective round of applause that was surely warranted, I whipped it back into the cover and triumphantly zipped it up. I bowed to everyone and was ready to give my speech. I could sense a slight air of disappointment that it all had gone so well. “Bet you wouldn’t be able to do it again,” said Amy. Although I was tempted to rise to the challenge, I thought that once was enough.
Next time I’d be doing this would be in a field in Somerset, surrounded by people for whom putting up a tent is the most natural thing in the world.
We all looked at the tent in its glory and the unanswered question was how on earth was I going to be able to return it to the basic 2 dimensional pancake shape without something breaking? There was a pause whilst I said I needed to study the instruction booklet-a fancy name for a slip of paper with instructions that made no sense at all. Everybody knew that it would be a miracle if I managed to get it back the way it was supposed to be. There was a longer pause whilst I very kindly offered to make everyone a brew. This was not done with any altruistic intentions really; it was simply a way of buying myself a bit more time in the hope that either a) everyone would get bored and wander off or b) they’d all nag my father-in -law, who, being much more practical than I am, to put it away in my absence. Unfortunately, neither of these two things happened. I walked back into the front room with everyone’s drink to find them all perched on the edge of the sofa, craning their necks over the top and side of the tent so they could still watch the TV and acting as if was the most usual thing in the world. The only things that was said were, “Do you know what to do now?” followed up by, “You’re going to have to do this all by yourself at Glastonbury, so we’re not going to help.” (This sounds a bit unreasonable in print, but I think that it was said with the best of intentions at the time).
The difficulty I had was that as the whole thing shot up by seemingly by magic and without any assistance on my part in seconds, all logic and reason about simply reversing the process was irrelevant. The instruction booklet seemed written in a way to personally baffle me-as if it was written specifically with someone as cack-handed as myself in mind. It had a sneering tone, with liberal use of the word “simply” and line-drawn illustrations that made as much sense if I looked at them upside down and in a mirror than the right way up. I wouldn’t have been wholly surprised if it had started with, “Dear Rick Leach, Thank you for buying your tent from us. Here are the instructions showing you how to put your tent back together. These have been written in a way a 5 year old could do it. With one hand tied behind their back. However, you don’t stand a chance you thick bastard. Why don’t you just throw it away and hire a camper van? Yours sincerely etc”.
It worried me a bit when the booklet talked about “bend pole A over pole B” with guidance of “crossing hands over” and “take care not to force the poles”. I could see it ending up with many tears and shards of fibreglass scattered around the room. Everyone one else was, in reality, looking forward to a right old laugh and being able to recount hilarious tales, many years hence, of the time I had to be taken to hospital with a self-inflicted injury involving yards of cheap nylon and tent poles. I looked out of the corner of my eye. Amy’s fingers were hovering suspiciously over the 9 button on the phone and everyone seemed to have lost complete interest in the latest goings on in Coronation Street. There was no way round it. I was going to have to grab the metaphorical nettle and the literal tent and just have a go. According to the booklet, it all could be (and had to be) done in one manoeuvre. There was no room for pussyfooting around. “Right,” I said, “Stand well back, here I go.” There was a dramatic pause and everyone held their breath (or stifled their giggles; not exactly sure which) as I grabbed both sides of the tent, twisted my arms and wrists in a style destined to cause something to dislocate in my lower back, and somehow managed to return the tent to the flat semi-circular shape in one fell swoop. I really don’t know how I managed to do it; it was more by accident than design. Without waiting for the collective round of applause that was surely warranted, I whipped it back into the cover and triumphantly zipped it up. I bowed to everyone and was ready to give my speech. I could sense a slight air of disappointment that it all had gone so well. “Bet you wouldn’t be able to do it again,” said Amy. Although I was tempted to rise to the challenge, I thought that once was enough.
Next time I’d be doing this would be in a field in Somerset, surrounded by people for whom putting up a tent is the most natural thing in the world.
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