It was the moment when I had to get out of my sleeping bag in the early hours, brave the freezing, horizontal rain that was whipping my body and park the car across the entrance to our tent to help shield us from the typhoon strength winds, that I realised camping just wasn't for me.

This was our second attempt at a weekend under canvas. I had been reluctant to repeat the experience after the meteorological onslaught we'd suffered first time round but had been persuaded, against my better judgement, because somehow my hardy (or should that be foolhardy?!) kids, and indeed my wife, had enjoyed the ordeal.

We had reserved a pitch next to several other families we knew, which I found comforting. Not only because they were good company but also, as I'm practically so inept, it's always useful to have extra pairs of hands.

Packing up the car is a feat in itself. It's incredible how much stuff you have to cram in to go away on what's supposed to be a pretty basic break. The fact that my heart sank when I spotted a lovely, cliff top hotel just a few miles short of the campsite should have alerted me to the fact that I wasn't mentally prepared for the next few days.

Then, pretty soon after arriving I was introduced to 'camping envy'. A condition I had previously been unaware of. Apparently, the size of your tent is very important, the bigger the better of course – I presume it's a man thing. Do you have electricity running to your pitch? What do you mean you didn't bring a portable drinks fridge, industrial heater, ipod compatible music system, gazebo….? The list of designer accessories goes on and on.

Well luckily, thanks to my mates, we got our tent up before the weather set in. And boy did it set in. Dinner that night was eaten under one of the aforementioned gazebos, taking it in turns to hold the corner poles to prevent it from turning into a giant kite. However many clothes you put on, it was impossible to keep dry or warm and I confess I sought solace in a bottle of dark rum!

I struggled to sleep. Blow-up mattresses give me motion sickness. And then of course there was the noise of the storm and my dead of night heroics that saved our tent being ripped from its awnings.

All this and I hadn't even endured the joys of communal bathrooms yet. An experienced shared with many men who obviously didn't attend the same school of hygiene that I did.

So despite the credit crunch however many times the children nag me, I won't be joining the growing numbers of you camping this year. What? Oh, alright kids, I'll give it just one more chance.

So Kevin Pietersen, a cricketer cut from South African granite, is the new England captain. I have to admit I felt slightly uncomfortable listening to him professing undying devotion to his adopted country after his appointment, in an accent acquired growing up in the bush.

So does it really matter? Well, Pietersen qualifies to play here through his English mother and so, there's no reason why the captaincy shouldn't be offered to him. No, the real shame of it all is that there was no-one else. And that tells you much about English cricket at the moment.