Beware the one-manner.

Byline: By Bob Cuffe

A sign of middle age is how we appreciate our surroundings. Take the Lake District. As a young man, I saw the Lakes as pubs interrupted by big hills. With simple folk wandering around on them. Now I see stunning beauty. With simple folk wandering around. The Lake District inspires me - quite simply I adore it. I worry about the simple folk, mind.

This summer, I and my wrinkly friend, Alan, camped at Ullswater. We dragged a couple of our children with us, in order to secure our weekend pass outs. The sun shone throughout. The beer garden was quite simply divine. The simple folk were everywhere - serious walkers. Seriously simple.

The camp site had ten thousand rules. Each designed to squash any outbreak of fun. No noise after 11pm. No radios. No ball games. No washing of dinner plates in the showers. No urinating in the shower. No urinating on dinner plates in the shower. No showers after 11pm. No urinating after 12pm. No Voodoo ceremonies on a Sunday. The list was attached to the camp site reception. It circled the lake three times. It took twelve hours to read. Which meant, for many, that it was then too late to urinate.

The land is owned by a farmer. I don't think he's been on a customer care course. The sign-off to the rules was the warm come-on, `If you have any problems with any of these rules - ask for Mr Taylforth'. Not John, Jim or George. Mr Taylforth. Mister to you and me. He's probably a cuddly teddy bear - like farmers are. But I imagined him to be a seven foot, 20 stone bear of a man. And not someone to negotiate rules with. I bet no-one has ever asked for Mr Taylforth.

Surprisingly, with disturbing images of Mr Taylforth and his impressive physical capabilities continuing to trouble me, I still had a splendid time. Campers are thoroughly decent coves - immensely respectful of their fellow campers, and their surroundings. The occasional campers - aka me - are, without doubt, worth their weight in gold. Experienced campers like nothing more than watching others trying to put up a tent. I like watching Cement Woman being plagued by a wasp. She gets instantly hysterical - placing any nearby child between herself and the increasingly angry wasp. It fair warms the cockles of my heart.

Back to the camp site. Three hefty men, who clearly took a drink, parked next to us. Within three minutes they had their chairs up. After four minutes they'd cracked their tinnies. Within five minutes they'd told us they were from Yorkshire. It's something Yorkshire folk have to do. Two hours later, they decided to wrestle with their tent. It was like a classic It's a Knockout sketch. Stuart Hall would have been in hysterics, as arms, legs and hefty derrieres fell this way and that. At one stage the blokes considered kipping in their cars. To our credit, we simply sat and watched, as they tried to erect the tent upside down.

But camping does throw up a group that concern me greatly. The One Man Tent brigade. There can be no more distressing site than a One Man Tent. They are the size of a handkerchief. They are always to be found next to the most enormous family tents owned by The Accomplished Camper - thus further exaggerating the desperate nature of their social circumstances. The Accomplished Campers are never in their tents. They are always sat outside - admiring their own magnificence, and delivering pearls of wisdom to their unfortunate neighbours.

"On your own?" they'll enquire of some poor soul erecting his handkerchief. "This can hold 12 people you know. I can put it up in 12 minutes. I don't know how you could sleep in that. Don't you feel claustrophobic?"

Which drives The One Manners into the handkerchief. My advice to the One Manners is to buy a Two Man Tent. It looks so much better. You can say you're waiting for someone. At some stage you might even meet someone. You could, at a pinch, take a mannequin in with you - and just tell people your friend is sleeping. Actually, that's a bit scary that one. Cancel the mannequin.

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Pizza with no taste

Alastair hates `Baby On Board' stickers. Malcolm Todd offers us the cause of his angst. "How about taxi drivers and pizza delivery drivers (you're mining a rich seam here, Malcolm) who always seem to stop opposite a parked car in a street, forcing motorists to take an unscheduled stop of several minutes, while they wait for their fare, or deliver their precious, if not life-saving goods.

"Have any of them ever passed a driving test? Certainly when questioned about showing consideration for other road users - see the Highway Code - all they ever seem to come up with is a Neanderthal grunt/threat or the ubiquitous `get lost'.

Many thanks, Malcolm. Now, what makes you angry?

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Waking the what?

What makes you feel stupid? What gives you an insight into the world of the Professional Footballer - Thick Of Head And Wallet - where you're totally puzzled.

For me, Countdown is to be avoided. I'm OK on three letter words, and I have been known to get four letter words as complex as DOGS and CATS. As soon as the music with the clock thing starts, I panic. I've been the same since the music started at my wedding, in fairness. I've never got one of the sums right - hope I'm not being too complex here.

Crosswords - see above. I have never got one cryptic clue correct. I've never completed a quick crossword quickly. As a child my mum bought me Summer Puzzlers. Books full of puzzles. None of which I could do. I don't think she knew the mental damage she did to me.

But recently I've been made to feel like plankton. I've watched several episodes of Waking The Dead. I only know that the case has been solved when they find new dead bodies in different places. Even then I'm still not certain. I haven't an inkling what's going on - but as long as Claire Goose is in it, I keep watching. It hasn't been on for a little while - so that must mean that they sorted out the last case. But I'm only guessing here.

What makes you feel dim?

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Let them eat meat

The heatwave led to beef sales rising by 25pc. That means that where four beef based animals were slaughtered last year, in 2003 five copped their whack. It fair makes my chest swell with pride.

Barbecue lovers devoured steaks, lamb chops, sausages and pork like never before. I'm wiping tears from my eyes. The spirit that makes our nation great.

And it's there for all to see. Marvellous green fields, sweeping before us in a really big way. And hardly an animal to be seen. Because, between us, we've eaten them all. But we mustn't rest our increasingly capacious girths on our laurels. There are vegetarians out there. Lots of them. I think there should be a publicly available register of them. With photos. All reed thin, pasty and miserable. But with the moral high ground under them, and with pomposity being the wind beneath their twig-like wings.

We - the Animal Eaters - have had a good summer. I urge you to Keep On Eating. Through the long hard winter. Pile on the mint sauce. Bring forth the mustard. Hand me my horseradish. Put the slaughterhouses into overtime. Fellow Gorgers - I salute you.