The title of the following narrative does not, as one may imagine, refer to a vehicle which floats on sand but to our wonderfully versatile and oft recalcitrant old friend the camel. Most of you, I presume, have had little or nothing to do with these creatures; in many respects you are extremely fortunate, for, as I will explain, they hover between irascibility and sheer bloody-mindedness.

The camel has many virtues, that much at least must be admitted, but they do not lie upon the surface. He is said to carry a water cistern in his stomach which aids him no end, but this assists neither his gait or his temper, as a beast of burden he is however unsurpassable.

It was my great good fortune nearly seventy years ago to serve my country as a young soldier in Egypt’s sunny clime and on a certain Christmas Day in the year ‘Dot’ it was announced to a severely inebriated battalion that by order of the commanding officer camel racing for all ranks would commence at 14:00 hours, dress optional. The witching hour duly arrived and I was led reluctantly, but with thoughts of a posthumous ‘VC’ to a gigantic camel complete with keeper who was smirking from ear to ear, no doubt in anticipation of the pantomime to follow, the good fellow had no doubt witnessed it all before.

The beast had the distinct appearance of disliking me from the start. Fortunately small steps had been provided for mounting, it was just as well, the animal at this juncture was emitting the most fearful noise imaginable, a series of grunts and snarls reminiscent to a comic old granny as portrayed by that prince among comedians, Les Dawson.

My grumpy conveyance was urged by a few curt and unintelligible grunts from his keeper to lurch in a most ungainly fashion to his feet. I was thrown backwards and forwards like a rag doll and feared for the well-being of my spinal cord. I was under the gross misapprehension that I was "out of the wood" as it were, but this was not so. The camel has four paces which are far more trying than his temper - from the solid base of terra firma I wall elucidate. The first pace of the camel is a deceptive rolling walk not unlike the rolling of a small boat in a gentle swell, the second a decided jog which seeks to dislocate every bone in you body, this leads to a trot which, whilst not quite signaling impending disaster is a prelude to it. The final pace, especially for somebody who has only ever ridden a donkey at the seaside, was hell on earth. It was after all a race and being a highly competitive and sporting individual, I like to win but in the circumstances was only too pleased to survive and come fifth.

My long-lasting admiration for that intrepid adventurer, T.E. Lawrence, has, after this experience, increased tenfold. I will have to admit that having written all the "Jargon" I do harbour a slightly animosity towards the camel, it stems not from the fault of the beast but the masochistical teacher who made me parade before the class at the tender age of nine to recite a hideous poem entitled "The Camel’s Hump Is An Ugly Lump", it was a failure!