They shoot horses don't they .

I'm badly hurting all over. Between and in front of my legs; the base of my spine, my ass, my shoulder my badly blistered hands and what's left of my shattered my pride. More stagger than stag, this Lakeland weekend was a chance to re-bond with long lost chums and take on a number of "tweedy" pursuits on saddle and at the butt end of a twelve bore.

Seven of us played country gentlemen and fulfilling ambitions to experience something never done before. While the organisers were reluctant or just unable to offer Droit De Seigneur, we were given the chance to bounce, wobble and generally agonise 5 feet above the ground; eat pies and pepper buckshot around some of the atmosphere that surrounds high flying clays.

Before any of this we were lined up like kids being chosen for a football team and allocated carriers according to size and weight. Ours. Following the humiliation of being picked first (heaviest) a reversal of my childhood years when I was humiliatingly left till last to play football (pants at) we were led into a modern cavernous barn to be barked at by the owner/teacher for half an hour before she would let us take the horses out for a spin on the open road. References to Nazi salutes for reign and stirrup control and a horse christened Sambo really only led to long held suspicions about country folk in general and  riding schools in particular.The young 4th Reich tots who turned up every day to clean up equine mess for nothing  would probably do and agree to anything for 5 minutes astride a  dumpy pony and anyone content to stand on top of a midden shuffling future rose food had got to be vulnerable to the call when it comes.

Away from camp and once on board, my horse didn't even pretend I was in control and simply followed what all the others in front were doing regardless of my Teutonic salutes, whooas and curses. Going downhill was a direction and course my un-trusty steed was particularly reluctant and seemed much more content to perform a mare moonwalk back up the hill. Two hours trekking on a petulant nag.

Every minute in the saddle bred further resentment, contempt and agony and it was tempting to return later with the gun I'd used so manfully to blast the crap out of the sky and pop a cap in the stupid horses head. Chances are, even if I'd been sat on top of it I'd have still missed.

Bags of Cash

As if it's not grim enough having to travel through Manchester Airports' 'new for you convenience' Terminal One and all its promise and allure of a 1970's motorway service station and Blackpool back street amusement arcade; now they have the absolute audacity to charge £2 (2 Euros) for a pair of plastic bags for your liquids. Is it not their preposterous rules that make us stuff our milk, perfume, lotion, lighters into these zip locks? Why then are we at Manchester and I believe for some time, those at Luton now being fleeced for the privilege? What next? Fees for appearing on CCTV or being or charging us for own ID cards.

Even worse is the attempt to dress the purchase up with one of those small plastic globes that normally contain, cheap and child choking and toxic toys won in amusement arcades found at seaside resorts and motorway service stations.

An airport spokesman is quoted as saying that the £1 would, '"educate" passengers to bring their own.

A quick and admittedly rather less than scientific study found a 127 x 191mm bags on sale at £9.39 plus VAT. 10 times more expensive than Manchester, until you realise that this is for a 1,000 of the little plastic zippy darlings