Entry for 14th August, 2008

I am just back from my annual holiday with the boys in Crieff. We always go away for a couple of nights in February where we do boyish things like eating too much curry, laughing at flatulence, and playing guitar hero.
I appreciate that these are probably things that we do at home anyway, but all of the foregoing activities are frowned upon by our respective womenfolk to a greater or lesser extent. And so, Crieff allows us to give vent (literally in the case of the flatulence) to our manly tendencies without fear of reproach from the ladies in our lives. In these days when we are all supposed to be New Men, such opportunities to revel in our manly spleandour are rare, and are not to be indulged in all of their glorious masculinity.
So - Crieff is not just a holiday. It is a celebration of all that is manly. It is a time to bathe in an atmosphere awash with testosterone; to beat our hairy chests; and to relive the joy that has been felt by groups of men throughout the millenia. We are aborigines on the hunt. We are the crew of U58. We are Manchester United in the dressing room before the 1999 European Cup Final.
By 4.30 pm on the first day 5 out of the 9 of us were sleeping in our arm chairs in front of the telly.