The conclusion we all came to after another pathetically chaotic attempt at travelling was that Chism is a knob. Of course he's not really a knob, but then we had to blame someone for missing the last flight of the day. And Chism was by far the most guilty.

Enough of this boring shite, take me to the pictures

It wasn't his fault that the Witch at St Pancras wouldn't let us on the train without tickets. Neither was it his fault that a train broke down at Kings Cross Thames Link, and they decided to close the station.

I don't know whether it was his fault that the big fat Easyjet Nazi wouldn't let us on the plane, despite us arriving 20 minutes before it was due to leave, and it eventually being an hour late anyway, but you never know.

In the end the easiest thing seemed to be to blame Chism. So that's what we did.

Anyway, things turned out okay in the end. We got pissed, lay on an airport concourse for six hours, secured a free lift to Font from Charles de Gaulle, and caught the next flight out of Luton. Which was at 5.30 in the morning. I decided then and there that I'm getting too old for this.

We eventually arrived at the campsite at 8.30 in the morning - a mere nine hours late - after our first middle-aged-woman rescue. We must have appeared pathetically incapable of looking after ourselves on several occasions to spark the motherly insticts of our saviours.

Anyway, there followed several days of bouldering to a varied - but typically low - standard, plenty of drinking, and slightly less of Steve's magic, head-fuck, grass. I was scared to death of the latter, and convinced myself that we were camping right next to a dedicated monkey zoo when it actually turned out to be frogs. But anyway, we won't go there.

A TR of a jaunt to Font should concetrate on the bouldering, I suppose. But, as Jonathon Livingston Seagull would always say: 'It's not the destination that's important, it's the journey.' And it certainly held true on this occasion.

Climbing into the hire car on the return journey to the airport, we were blissfully unaware of the ordeal to follow. While the French can be miserable, arrogant and stubborn bastards (xenophobia, Moi?) we weren't quite prepared for how this combines with a pissed off gaggle of Charles de Gaulle ground crew.

Clearly fed up with the overbearing work load of constant coffee breaks, being forced to be rude to Brits, and three hour lunch breaks, they decided to stop working. And the first flights to be affected? Yup, ours. So it seems that whatever methods we try in our travels, we are simply destined to miss flights. That's three and counting...

So, after sleeping in a ditch - yet again - queing up for hours and smoking endless cigerettes, we finally made ourselves look pathetic enough to receive our second middle-aged-woman rescue. This time she bundled us in her taxi and drove us to the Gare du Nord, where we boarded a Eurostar to London. But not before enjoying a well-deserved slap up meal.