The Dullest Blog: Comedy ramblings to inspire the dullest moments of your week

Well, festival season is upon us once more. I must say I love it. I tend to indulge in it all: the crowds, the daytime drinking, that electric excitement as the sun begins to fall, the general hedonistic vibe… As a slight dampener though, I’ve found that this year’s festivals have uncovered some stark truths about my character: I am not a Camper.

What, pray, is the supposed “fun” of camping? It’s like a torture technique. The last time I wilfully slept under a waterproof sheet was when it was a compulsory part of a primary school trip in 1989. It felt something of an adventure as a ten year old, a rite of passage and dare I say it- fun. And I didn’t have to put the fucker up.

Fast forward 20 years to a 30 year old man with two children and a family tent purchased last week from Halfords, as yet unopened, unzipping this heavy bastard only to read a warning: “We strongly advise to practice erecting this tent before embarking on vacation” Do you? Do you really? Let me practice erecting this middle finger before embarking on kicking you until my right foot is lightly bruised and I’m begging for medical attention from my wife.

It eventually took two waif-like 18 year old Gossip fans from Hackney to shame me into silence by putting that bastard up and saving my family from the elements.

I say saving, but I personally don’t believe a glorified cagoule with some poles stuffed in it is truly protecting me from nature’s bitchiness. Every morning- Groundsheet: flooded. Toes: numb. Kid’s inflatable airbed: pissed on. With piss, not rain. When I saw Grace Jones’ trailer on the Saturday I was already toying with becoming a male groupie, despite the obvious risk of rape.

Catch Doc in The Comedy Reserve: Pleasance Dome, until 31 August 21:30 (not 18 or 25)