I’m writing this well after the event, well after Christmas and well after the world was brought to a halt by a wall of water which originated in the Indian Ocean. So forgive me if things are just a little hazier than they are anyway when a major feature of the thing always seems to be three barrels of real ale.

The Christmas dig was to be on the Lichfield & Hatherton, that fine project renowned for its triumphal arch- the aqueduct spanning the recently-completed M6T. I simply cannot wait for the day the canal finally joins this structure, and the first boat crosses; it will be a major event of this New Canal Age.

All this, and Lichfield is inside of an hour from Chez Mk2, so I was nice and early, even after leisurely packing the car. So only another hour to find the venue then, after I realised I’d forgotten to print out Eddie’s directions and even after calling both Eddie and Dr. Liz (who couldn’t answer), I was none the wiser. Stopping at a hockey club (!), I walked straight into the staff Christmas party (see rant, below) of a medium-sized organisation, and left with perfect directions.

In the middle of all this, another Liz (W) called and asked for a station pickup, so I drove to the accomm, greet Brian and Maureen, carried three bags (full, sir) from Bri’s car and took off for the station again, mysteriously having remembered exactly where I am and needing no mappery to drive straight to the railway station.

Returning to the accomm, I dumped my stuff and was about to set up camp when Gav Gav proposed the pub and I found myself seconding. Sleepy Dave directed us to a non-existent pub (or to a real pub but in the wrong direction) but one loomed up anyway and we entered the lounge bar to find Mr. Jolly Singing Brummie And His Bippity Boppity Backing Tracks in full swing, at full volume, to a full house. Gav received a telephone call and stepped outside whilst we ordered. Mr. Backing Tracks bellowed the first immense syllable of something by the Kinks just as Gav re-entered the room and all of a sudden he (Gav) found himself sitting in the car park again. We checked Gav for vital signs (pint glass, fag) and made for the public bar and peace.

Bizarrely, I bounced out of bed the next morning (I’ve not been well lately, as I believe has been discussed – in my absence - at the post-Christmas canal camp) and ate breakfast before bounding onto the site, needing only a minibus for assistance. This being full (our having only one bus due to an unforseen key absence in Jeffreyshire – see Dr. Liz couldn’t answer the telephone, above) I hopped into Tim Lewis’s car instead and sat next to the remains of the previous day’s tea. The Purple Fairly sat up front.

The L&H (if I’ve got this right…) will one day link the ‘under-resto’ Lichfield Canal and Hatherton Branch with each other, via the existing Wyrley & Essington Canal, via a new bit. And That Viaduct. We were working on an easily-accessible stretch just west of Lichfield. Site itself comprised a flight of locks with different sets of project work at each. At the Lichfield end, brickery and pointery saw Monsieur Floodgates and Phill Cardy set to with aplomb (and other heritage-approved tools) and Clive realised just how much chilliness and mud comes with digs, and possibly spent the day wondering what Liz sees in them.

In the middle bit, the top offside of another lock needed finishing, and for this, it needed Sal, aided and abetted by Nigel, Susie and Sleepy Dave, plus several different types of bricks and two types of mortar. The latter came from a compound set up next to L&H’s highly-organised storage container which seemed to contain everything imaginable right down to a super-length ladder. Dr. Liz and I started mixing (once Ed had started the recalcitrant mixer) and I was just about to set up the tea station when L&H WPO Phil Sharpe announced that this aspect of diggery-pokery had also received the L&H organisation treatment. He directed me to the third section of the work site (where Ed Walker and I were to install a ladder in the lock chamber recess and Marcus and Chad were to dig out a ditch) and to the purposely-allocated Tea Hut, complete with brick Burco stand and sitting-around-eating-biscuits benches. Sadly, Bob and others tested one of these to destruction later and were lucky to escape without splinters-in-the-arse issues.

All along the site, locals scrub-bashed and wrgies did pyro stuff to the results, and I’m fairly sure that Smudge disappeared off with some bods on another job, but I never got down there to see it. Sorry, Smudge.

Ed and I, as mentioned, were issued with the lock ladder, an aluminium one to dangle off (see super-length ladder, above), and a tool kit comprising two strange phials of dubious glue and Eddie Jones. (They managed to get Eddie into a tool box?!? JC) There were four threaded metal bars sticking out the side of the lock recess, and four holes in the specially-constructed steel ladder, and you guessed it, they didn’t line up.

We chopped off the top two with the Stihl saw and wire-brushed the concrete off the bottom ones. We then drilled new top holes, inserted the phials of goo and fresh threaded bars, bopped them with a nammer, and retired for tea. Or, sort of. What actually happened was that the alu ladder was somehow placed in the lock chamber (I haven’t mentioned that the canal bed contains a storm drain comprising concrete pipes - of, ooh, 3ft internal diameter? – and that suspending myself over the chamber involved tying the ladder to a conveniently-parked (immobile?) 1965 JCB and putting my arm through the rope. Offering up the tremendously heavy steel ladder was similar, except that I was at the bottom of the chamber between the pipe and the wall. Oh, and one hole just wouldn’t get itself drilled. God alone knows what was in there, but we reckoned it might have been a re-bar in the reconstructed lock wall.

And so to DINNER, via the showers at a very nice, very friendly local school / sports centre and another barrel (one having been taken care of on Friday night…) of Stephen’s well-chosen ale. Entertainment was provided by the bloke off the Church Army boat at Cavalcade (or was it the National) who likes Southern Comfort, in the form of magic. It was lighthearted, funny (even Marcus being seen to smile) and Liz Wilson is still in one piece and able to tell the tale of having been sawn in half. Vast quantities of excellent food continued into the night (really, there was that much including cheese and biscuits) and if you didn’t like turkey there were several other meats! WELL DONE all those who shopped, cooked and served up an unbelievably impressive dinner. Brian & Maureen, Jenny and Ellie seem still to shine through the haze (see just a little hazier than they are anyway, above)

Martin provided yet more entertainment with a review-of-the-year quiz (one question featuring my derelict railway station antics) and there was dressing-up in the form of Old Macdonald’s Farm, the chosen theme. I made up the rear of a pantomime cow (cow, Gavin, not ‘horse’!) with Andi Girl, which is what happens when you have dinner in Gateshead with wine for three and only two drinking. Martin will no doubt produce photographic evidence of who won; I couldn’t see who it was on account of being in a rear (geddit?!). Thanks, by the way, to whoever gave me that yellow Marigold glove for my udder. I later dressed up as a diversified farm’s bed & breakfast, by collecting the materials for the usual junk modelling competition, climbing into the cardboard box provided and refusing to get out of it so that my team had to build a rural diorama around me and push me to the judges. I’m still eating the sherbert lemons…

The Sunday was something along the lines of bricks / pointing / walls / lock ladder / ditch / scrub-bashing / wood-dragging / rampant pyromania / soup / sarnies / tea / cake and above all MORE FIRE, culminating in a bonfire featuring twin 7ft-high sheets of orange flame. Clive realised just how much warmth and pyromania comes with digs, and probably spent the day seeing what Liz sees in it. Oh, and Eddie found the KESCRG snatch block in the Discovery (every pun intended) only to have it stolen from the trailer weeks later (absolutely no joke at all).

For me, the London wrg / KESCRG festive joint diggery-pokery IS Christmas. I no longer particularly enjoy the real thing and I cannot stand the forced-bonhomie, turkey-for-3000 and photocopying-yer-bum gatherings in late November that pass for office/factory Christmases (rant, there). Give me a canal, three barrels and the KESCRG catering team anyday.

“Happy 2005, all,” says Mk2