Today we launch a new series in which Kiwis reveal one thing in life that they just can't face anymore. Kicking off is film director Ant Timpson whose latest movie Bookworm, which he also co-wrote, launched on Thursday to rave reviews. A father of two now teenage boys, Timpson explains why he will never go camping again.
I was once young enough to relish the wistful pleasures of camping and all the sundry appurtenances under the auburn ambience of never-ending Kiwi summers. In the beginning it was as a rogue nipper amongst others, seeking thrills from beyond the periphery of non-observant parents, medicated from lashings of warm Gordon's and even warmer Lion Red. Then later, as a young adult, gathering with friends on near-distant islands; to fish ’n’ frolic before crawling into scorching polythene cocoons and, like our parents before us, drinking ourselves into sublime comas.
So you’d be thinking it would probably take a lot to eliminate nostalgic goodwill from my fading memory banks and I would simply counter with this: You never went camping with my kids. It took just two experiences to wipe the slate clean and tarnish every single joy of my prior camping life. The second experience was due to a torrential wash-out. No harm, no foul, shit happens. The first is the one my wife doesn’t like to speak about. Like some nightmarish form of sleep paralysis, once you begin describing it, the horror starts to recrystallise, an outdoorsy form of PTSD. She’d say the SD part stands for Sad Dad.
A long time ago there was a very special day. The single hottest day ever. Even those who love a good skin-baking, were like yeah nah. A good day welcomes a good idea but even good ideas can go bad. Here’s an example, going camping with two unhinged mini-demons on the hottest day ever. That knot in my tum tum must mean it’s time for some of that joyous old-fashioned Kiwi camping.
Hours and hours later, more than a day should have, and after many emasculating minutes erecting a $69 Kathmandu special, our two minions from the seventh circle of hell, decided to boulderise the ever-loving sh** out of the nearly constructed tent. Rinse and repeat. Near erect. Then completely soft. Paging Dr Freud! This supplanted suburban circus, quickly became the focus and amusement for everyone else in the area, who with cocktails in hand watched the tense psychodrama unfold. My wife’s laughter was the perfect fuel required to turn this minor setback into an all out internal war on my masculine inferiority. As the kids continued to play their fave new game – "lets run full tilt into the side of the tent and watch Dad’s face go redder" – deeply dormant and ungodly thoughts began to percolate.
On the tenth round of said game, I suddenly heard a blood-chilling quasi-simian primal scream echo around the landscape. It was terrifying. Coastal birds froze and fell from the sky. Small children urinated in fear. Cheap wine glasses were dropped and shattered.
And then a red mist enveloped everything.
In the safety of the suburbs much later on, a man lay very still on a comfortable bed.
Surrounded in darkness he stared up at the ceiling.
He kept hearing a distant scream, which was rather strange, as it sounded quite a lot like him.
Bookworm, a family-friendly wilderness film starring Elijah Wood and Nell Fisher, is cinemas nationwide now.
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