Some in the congregation may well recall a few bright comments from “Jocking Jock” in this thread. Well Jock has been in touch and we have agreed to turn my blog over to him, just for today. I’ll start off with his short autobiography:
“Born outdoors and dragged up in a barn, the great outdoors has been Jock’s life. You could say he was a bit of a “Stig of the Dump” character. While scrawling some childish shit on cave walls (later ‘discovered’ and presumed to be thousands of years old) he yearned to head out to the concrete wonders of Dundee and forge himself a career as some sweet talking know-fuck-all journalist preaching about the joys of walking in sheep shit, being bitten by midges and ticks and God only knows what other fucking shite ramblers love, out there on steep snow clad mountains in all weathers.
Now retired at the age of 40 after a successful career as Editor in Chief at ‘Womans Weekly’ (3 weeks) followed by pornographic magazine ‘Escort’ (40 years) and finally the infamous outdoors publication ‘Trail Magazine’ (3 days), Jock now spends his days in the seedy bars of Dundee & Glen Coe, drinking heavily and harassing young women.”
“I’ve always felt like there was something missing in my life, mate. I never had a Mum or Dad to look up to. My mum was a dirty outdoors type and I aint seen the cow for decades. I recall her saying when I was only a wee bairn that Dad was a bit of a bore but I didn't think she meant he was a literal boar. That was before they became extinct in my beloved Scotland of course. Anyway, all said and done I do like the odd pint. So get me another to make it even”
Anyway: Here’s Jocking Jock’s unedited post. (I have been assured that he’s joshing!)
SOMETHING FOR THE WEEKEND
There are some things in life that really piss me off. Politicians, bankers, Jeremy Kyle, Britain’s Got Talent, Hendrik and wives. Hand’s up, I won’t deny it I have had a few of the latter (some consider it a hobby you know) but you may or may not have noticed one thing in common with all these pet hates that make me want to smash my head against a concrete wall for hours on end.
Quite simply they’re all full of shit.
And talking of shit I’d like to add another one of life’s displeasures to that list. People who talk the talk but don’t actually fuck*** walk the walk. Literally. I’m not talking about the Bee Gees screaming like girls and doing some ‘Jive talking’ along a pavement. Fuck that no. I’m on about people in the outdoors community who won’t fuck*** shut up about lightweight gear.
Yeah, that’s right! I think they’re full of shit too.
I’m a glutton for punishment, it pains me to say, but when I come across blogs like Hendrik’s “Hiking in
the fuck*** woods Finland now and again as long as it’s not too far from home “ it really makes the varicose veins on my neck throb like I’ve Viagra stuck in my throat. Why? You need me to state the obvious? Come on! All the fuck*** weasel does is talk about saving bastard grams I shit for breakfast off a fuck*** penny stove or some other wank bit of equipment most ordinary Victor Meldrews won’t give a flying fuck about. They’re useless. “Save a gram here, save a gram there”. “Hey, look at this crisp packet that can be used as a rucksack”. Who gives a shit? I don’t! I eat out of them not pack my bastard outdoor gear in it!
The recession has hit me so hard I’ve resorted to using that bastard plastic toilet roll you get in public lavs. You know the ones? They don’t clean your arse that’s for sure, unless you like being covered in shit that is. But it occurred to me the other morning sat on the bog before dropping the kids off at school that I bet folk like Hendrik would generate a shit load* of website traffic if they talked about how light and waterproof this plastic bog roll really is. (*The combination of these two words being quite appropriate I imagine.)
I mean, it could be used as a tarp or something. It’s certainly cheaper than that Fidel Castro material. What’s it called? Oh yeah, Cuban Fibre.
Putting those serious observations to one side, it’s worth noting that it’s such gram counting sad little pricks that miss the whole point of life don’t you think?
The hobby we’re talking about is the world of the outdoors: John Muir, Cameron McNeish, dear old Alan Sloman and Julia Bradbury and maybe a bit Ray Mears (though not necessarily in that order I have to add). Get a life, get outdoors. It’s certainly what I told my missus the other day. She didn’t though, so I nipped out the door and headed to the local beer garden.
The way I see it is this. An analogy for you. Why the fuck would you incessantly talk about cars when you don’t actually fuck*** piss off out in one? Why have a sweaty heart racing session polishing your crown jewels over the latest engine or Cuban Carbon Fibre frame when you’re not actually fuck*** using the bastard?!!
Hendrik and some of his brown nosed muppets for an audience need to get a life and fuck*** get outdoors. Hopefully permanently if I’m honest. I hear it’s extremely cold in the woods this time of year in Finland. It certainly make for one less gram in the world to think about.
I don’t consider the odd passing gear talk to be too monotonous. I enjoy it sometimes. I’d just much rather see some skinny young twat out there in the wilderness (preferably female and under 25). Not some pointless verbal diarrhoea about saving grams. Fuck me, I’ve lost count how many pricks I’ve seen out on the Scottish Hills claiming to be lightweight yet their packs are heavier than a winners shopping trolley from Supermarket Sweep.
The shit I’ve seen online where some get excited like a teenage boy chancing upon a stash of Razzle dumped in some bushes concerning a Cuban fly and mesh inner and a fuck*** walking stick. Ooo, it weighs this and that. Bollocks. Add all the rest in and they ought as well have invested their beer shares in a regular lightweight tent!! At least they’d have saved money and fuck*** energy rambling on about it.
These fuckers are like diet obsessives but with outdoor pursuits. What the fuck*** fuck? Come on people! If you’re unable to carry a couple of extra kilos on your bloody back well there really must be something wrong with you. OK, when I see wimpy fucks like Hendrik I can see why he’s obsessed with kit weight. But come on!
What do most working class people shout at diet obsessives? Go to a fuck*** gym. Well, it’s about time we all said that to these gram counters I reckon. Go to a fuck*** gym, build some muscle and stamina. Pussies.
No more airy fairy bollocks about what it all “means”. No more fuck*** chit chat about saving weight by shaving the hair off your back, sack and crack. We’ve seen the tit now we want to see the tat.
Get a life. Get outdoors.
Lightweight kit? I shit em!