Withnailed

Having fished overnight for sea trout in Dumfriesshire, my brother in law dropped me off early morning in Kendal on his way back down to Manchester. I made my way to the Globe at the top end of the Market Street and waited. A fellow Withnailer, Dave Mitchell was on his way up to meet me from Manchester. An unlikely pairing, we didn’t really know each other that well, occasionally passing in the corridors of the Town Hall, or in the pubs of Bury, we knew the film however, and those who know the film will know that that is enough. Dave arrived with his folks in tow; they had given him a lift that far and would take us both on to Shap from Kendal before continuing their way up for a weekend in the north Lakes. What a hoot they were, we found ourselves a table outside the pub and on the stroke of eleven set to it, his dad laying off a little, on account of his need to drive, his mother the opposite, on account she didn’t. Dave and I both gearing up for a weekend in character kept them coming. It wasn’t until we got up to leave following some roaring good craic that my drunkenness, even by that stage became apparent, no sleep coupled with no breakfast, already making its mark on my sobriety, I felt like you do when you start drinking early Christmas morning, lucid, excited, but wobbly. My bag and tent fell from my shoulder as I leant down to pick up some bottled water; they took out the empty glasses on the table, and then caught its edge, flipping it, causing me to drop the catalyst, which then bust, spraying across the floor. The landlord took it all in remarkably good spirit, he’d taken good money already and it wasn’t even time for lunch. We were the first to arrive at Sleddale Hall, besides the Picnic Cinema crew, who had set up the tepees for the glampers, the screen, lights and film paraphernalia; there was a van up there, but nobody really about. We pitched at the bottom of the field and in against a dry stone wall, although the sun was out and the day clear, you’re so high up that the wind swirls, but we were nicely tucked in and sheltered below it. We cracked into the boxed red and ciders, I’d say we started as we meant to go on, but we’d already started. Dave had a screenplay signed by Bruce Robinson himself, he’d won at auction a few weeks earlier so we took it down to the ‘shooting fish bridge’ with some wine. There were people coming down off the hills to access the estate via the bridge and we were there to meet them. Lots of like minded eccentric types, they were the cult following, or at least a proportion of it. All ages, obscure dress sense, from as far afield as London and Kent, all quoting ‘Withnail & I’ in pockets of harmony. There was a good sense of camaraderie building already, and a huge amount of anticipation at being let loose, to be as flamboyant as you liked with a group of like minded people, all in the middle of nowhere. We were quickly beginning to establish ourselves as a couple of likely characters from Manchester who everybody met. So much so, that by the time we’d worked the glamping pool and headed back to our tents to get supplies, a cameraman was waiting there with a microphone and camera ready to interview us. We were flying by now, both in character, although it was difficult to work out who was the ‘Withnail’ and who was the ‘I,’ for us as well, I guess we both thought of ourselves as ‘Withnail,’ we struggled a little for the limelight whilst still bouncing off one another and thoroughly enjoying the kindred company. It was a good dynamic, we waxed lyrically about the film and the prospect of what was to come. The night fell and we got up top for the main event. I’m afraid the combination of no sleep, no food, apart from a raw hash cake, and way too much booze had taken its toll on me. I could hear myself from behind the big screen, and then mine and Dave’s giant ten foot faces were getting beamed onto that screen, just chatting effortlessly in the sunlight of the day, some bits of ‘Withnail & I’ after that, there were definitely lots of people, but then nothing. Next thing I knew I woke up soaking and shaking, wet right through in the rain, somehow, I got back to my tent and collapsed. Next morning Dave explained to me about the antics of his night, seemed we’d struck a chord and gained rather a celebrity status amongst the revellers, our interview had gone down a storm and the full 30 minute film had been shown prior to the headline movie. Dave had relished in his new found celebrity, everybody wanted to meet us, give us booze, cake, share spliffs and in Dave’s case have sex with him, even having been propositioned by a sexy young couple for a threesome. I alas, had missed it all, flat out asleep in my pop up tent by a wall, sopping wet and cold, the one chance I had at fame, washed away in the rain. Dave on the other hand had his night in the limelight; he’d been his ‘Withnail.’ I put his tent away as he laid pay – pebble dashing the tops of the soaked moss covered stones. Still, it’s quite something to walk out of a campsite and every single person on site know you by name, they were all calling out at me, walking with me, talking to me, and Dave became ‘I,’ whilst I myself had no idea why. We hadn’t thought about how we’d get to Penrith to catch our train, seemed we didn’t need to, we got a lift in a people carrier from Samantha and her brother, her husband and son in another; nice, professional, middle class forty something’s by day, they’d done it in style, had a barbeque and everything, couldn’t stop talking about our antics though, mine especially, best thing they’d ever seen. We swopped e-mails and they dropped us at the pub in Shap, promises of seeing each other again next year. I won’t even tell you of the pictures her son had taken; she had sent them, (some time after). The landlord served us and stayed with us as we drank, promising we’d have his roast dinner after a few more. We woke the local taxi driver with a call from his card, he said he’d be with us after a shower and shave, took him three hours. The food did look good mind, soon there were others eating from whence we’d came, others that knew our name! We agreed we’d be back, have a full roast next year, but for now, cider, ice in the cider.