Ships of the desert

[Rocker]

....But can you remember the chorus and its connection with a well-known brand of writing paper?

I am afraid I only know the first verse, as sung by the Women's Rugby Club of the University of Idaho, http://www.uidaho.edu/clubs/womens_r...ngs/camel.html

Rocker

[Driver]

I am afraid I only know the first verse, as sung by the Women's Rugby Club of the University of Idaho, http://www.uidaho.edu/clubs/womens_r...ngs/camel.html

Rocker

I can't be absolutely certain about this but I suspect that you may have committed a Code violation!

I also suspect that your links to this ditty may be stronger than the reference to the University of Idaho Women's Rugby Club seems to imply. How, for example, do you know about its popularity amongst aficionados of both rugby and rowing? Hmmm? Enquiring (and suspicious) minds would like to know!

[Rocker]

OK, OK, I admit it; 51 years ago, when I was young and foolish, I rowed as bow in my college's 5th eight (the most incompetent eight oarsmen in the college). But, mainly because we had a few Rhodes scholars from the US in the engine-room, we came within a whisker of bumping in four consecutive races. If we had succeeded on the last day, I would have had an oar adorning my wall.

Rocker

[Driver]

Ah, youth! Wasted on the young, of course.

However, bearing in mind your (admittedly fairly ancient) connections to the rowdy excesses of sporting companionship, I'm surprised that you can't remember the chorus - which dwelt upon the dubious habits of one Basil and his boyfriend Don.

In my own case it's nearly 40 years since I last roared out that song about the Camel and the Sphinx. It was a favourite at my old rowing club's annual Hot-Pot Supper- a gruesome and raucous event during which the club's members, young and old, were wont to disgrace themselves to the extent that our Hot-Pot Supper was eventually banned from every suitable licensed hostelry within a sizable circumference.

We managed to make a booking in the guise of a local chapter of the Womens' Institute. The landlord wasn't thrilled when he realised who we actually were and, with much dire warning about the consequences of horseplay, he reluctantly allowed us in.

Things were going well and a decorous ambience was being maintained when we sat down to eat. Our president, a greatly respected local dentist, stood to make a brief speech of welcome ahead of the serving of bowls of hot-pot.

"Gentlemen," he said. "We are fortunate to have been permitted to enter these premises this evening. As you know, it is a regrettable truth that we had to resort to a subterfuge in order to secure a booking. This situation has come about because of the quite disgraceful behaviour exhibited by the Club on previous occasions. I trust that there will be no repeat this evening.

In particular, I absolutely forbid you to throw food ..."

He got no further. His speech was interrupted by a fusillade of bread rolls which struck him about the head and shoulders. His response was to carefully select a bowl of hot-pot from the tray held by a waitress standing alongside him. He hurled the bowl's contents down the table.

Shortly thereafter, the local constabulary arrived in strength. Or so I am told. Along with most of the rest of the Club, I had by that time departed the venue, my club blazer extravagantly decorated with hot-pot and beer.

It probably will not surprise you to learn that there followed a hiatus in the schedule of the Club's annual Hot-Pot Suppers that lasted some years.

Ah, youth! Wasted on the young.

Col the Nostalgic

[AlexS]

Ah, nostalgia. It ain't what it used to be.