Arbroath

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The weather forecasters had predicted, as usual, a lousy weekend to go camping.  But after a final prayer to THE SUN (OUR GOD), it was again to be proven that God really is a Dundee West Supporter.

Arrival at camp was not without incident.  Some complete half-wit walked out in front of me testing my SUPERIOR DRIVING SKILS (TRACEY) to the max. 

Piled out of the cars, shouted at the squad within 10 secs. then sent them off to terrorise Seaton Sands!

After the stress of nearly wiping out some idiot, I needed a seat.  Found a seat, rolled a cigarette and watched the tent fairies do the work.  Now it might, from one point of view, look like someone’s no’ trying here, but as far as I’ve seen in life so far, that’s what managers do!  Who am I to break with tradition?

Now, I’ve been camping with Colin before and was mighty impressed with the size of the tent.  The speed in which he had it liveable, say, 15mins.  No’ too bad.  However, today I’ve got to say it looked a tad less impressive.  Ronnie was to pull out the DADDY, and it was a case of MY Tents Bigger Than Your Tent.  Colin looked devastated.  But in true camping tradition pulled himself together (not without hiccup though) and got his raised first.  Meanwhile, I found the coffee and wound them right up. 

Need food.  I brought that.  Round the squad up, feed everybody.  FORCE FEED DESIGNER DAINE, then head off into uncharted territories.

The walk to the crystal clear waters of The North Sea should have taken around 20 mins.  However, after asking a local resident it took 1.5 hours.  Think someone was having a laff!  This though, took us through the most affluent parts of Arbroath and it wasn’t too long before someone gave us the right directions. 

The walk along the cliffs went without incident, but that didn’t stop me from ageing another 5 years through it.  Look at the Pics.

The shore was reached and the boys were tired.  Let’s rephrase that.  The boys were moaning.  But on hearing the crash of the waves, an evolutionary flashback returns.  Some manage to get their shoes off and some manage to roll up their trousers.  Ok, only DESIGNER DAINE does that.  The Urchins from the deep call and the Dundee West U 13’s go to join them.  Only a brain of an Urchin would want to dive into one of the harshest places on the planet, The North Sea.

During the “let them be 11-12 year old boys” period I’m busily trying to work out the relationship between THE SUN (OUR GOD) and the moon and what time the tide will go out and return for our Cave expedition tomorrow.  Now I could have gone and bought a local paper for 35p, but that would be cheating.  With the calculations done we headed for camp. 

The directions were disregarded and a new course was plotted.  Once the 30 foot barbed wire fence was negotiated, the guard dogs by passed, we found ourselves at the start of the biggest strabrie field I’ve seen in a long time.  There was no turning back now; we had to eat our way through it.  Back at camp the squad were told to get lost for a while and sauntered off looking more like a bunch o berry nablers than a football team.

Tea was the usual - barbeque anything that came in a multi pack.  FORCE FEED DESIGNER DAINE.

Injury had been kept to only one so far.  Humiliation only to one also.  Unfortunately for Declan, Decy Johnstone - on his first Dundee West trip - he was to suffer both.  The old soggy eyeball (doing something he shouldn’t) and the contents from the rear end of a seagull that had been struggling all day with last nights curry.

The boys by now had attracted the resident rivals.  The local girls!!  Guess the trips from now are going to be a bit more complicated.

The night wore on and the inevitable war games of “get to bed and go to sleep” were upon us.  Ronnie must have thought that meant him as well, and he hit the sack!  Meanwhile, me and Colin chilled outside.

“He must be mad going to bed at this time.”

“Aye, he’s got nae idea the constant garbage he’s going to have to listen to for the next 3 hours.”

Done this enough times, there’s no point fighting it.

2.30 am and all is quiet in the house. 

As dawn breaks the weather looks a bit iffy.  Some of the early risers are up playing swing ball and some aint.  DESIGNER DAINE strolls out in another £1000 trackie.  He’s quickly attacked and FORCE FED A BACON ROLL.  The rest of us eat sensibly. 

By late morning the tents were packed the gear was packed’ish.  THE SUN (OUR GOD) had won the battle and shone on us again.  I should have been Egyptian or something. 

The kids were despatched to the park, followed closely by the local girls, while me Colin and Ronnie did the final coffee of the day. 

Dragged the boys away from the girls and headed to the shore via the newly found route through the berry fields.  Now the day afore we kind o’ telt the lads no’ to tak too many.  Now I thought we would be eating strawberries all night after saying that.  So it looked like we had to explain to the lads what plundering was all about.  “Tak mair than you can eat, an’ dinnae get caught dain it”.  Went aff their heids!

I’d promised the laddies caves an stuff and the site of one of the craziest and stupid things I’ve ever done in my life (apart from fighting a shark) - the cliff climb.  Wasn’t my idea to tell them the story, but my young lad doesn’t know how to keep his gob shut! 

The caves at the Flairs are small but still dramatic.  Only accessible at low tide, dark and eerie.  They span one bay to the next and are impassable at high tide.  Get the tide times wrong and you’re stuck in the wrong bay for 4 hours.  So comes the story of an idiot bunch of 19 year old lads getting it all wrong.  Waiting for 4 hours would be the only rational decision to come to, but no - let’s climb the cliffs.  Lecture ma lads for the next half hour on every reason in the world how no ta dae that.  It was time to go.  The angle of the waves had changed.  It was obvious that the moons opposite pull had turned the tide.  (Ronnie Wood should get that one. You had to be there.)  I had on the previous day worked out the safe time on returning.  We hadn’t strayed more than fifty yards from the cave entrance.  The journey through = 2 mins.   Mucking around time = 10mins.  Global warming adjustments = 2mins.  Total = 14mins and no wet feet.  However, on reaching the safe side Colin sees a big empty wall, decides he’s got to graffiti it, and scratches his name in it.  You know how it goes.  You can take the man out of Whitfield but you can’t take Whitfield out of the man.  So now 14 lads are scrawling PAK, YMB, HUNS a’ ower the wa’, it knocks us back a minute or two.  (OK I’m doin’ it as well.)  The last 30 feet was a wade knee deep - it wouldn’t be fun if we didn’t nearly get trapped!

Once back in the bay the boys decided they weren’t wet enough, so hit the drink again. 

The journey back to base camp had by now become so much easier.  Normally you march the kids for miles and there are a few mumps and moans.  For the first time the kids wanted to take the long route. 

BEWARE!

STRAWBERRIES ARE ADDICTIVE

DO NOT START

Back at the cars, we wait on the transport home.  The lads hang around the locals trying to be cool, and pretending their not bothering (and failing) and we look to the sky.  The SUN (OUR GOD) was looking tired after its weekend battle with the rain demon.  On seeing us get into our transport, 

THE SUN (OUR GOD) RESTED!