BillyNoMates - Trainee Caravan Tugger.

Discussion in 'Diamond Lil's' started by BillyNoMates, Oct 29, 2010.

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  1. Well, it's great to be back. Fresh from my World Tour of caravan swamps just outside Paignton (complete with two of the Grand-bastards)....I must confess that holidays on two wheels are a thing of beauty. You just can't beat the 5* comfort of a shed-on-wheels, and the absolute joy of waking up at half-five in the morning, freezing you arse off 'cos WolfPackLeader has "Swiss-rolled" herself up in the one and only decent million tog duvet that you remembered to pack, leaving you with your buttocks firmly pressed up against the side wall of the caravan, which somehow has been converted into an igloo overnight. Bliss!
    Then there's the flagrant disregard for the "rules" I tried to instigate before we set off on our travels.
    "DO NOT (I uttered), use the caravans toilet for anything other than a wee-wee kids.....okay?"
    (This instruction was met with complete silence and utter indifference).
    One night later and I heard the following conversation. (Kids names changed to protect them from any further embarrassment, but not my four-letter ranting fury).
    "Sarah! Have you just been to the toilet?"
    "Errrr yes gran."
    "You just went for a wee didn't you?"
    "Errr yes gran - but I did a poo too 'cos I didn't know I was actually doing a poo until I'd finished poo-ing...."
    "Grandad's not going to be very happy....."

    Fu**ing too right he's not going to be happy.

    I rant, mank, moan, shout, yell,scream and generally complain a lot, but - as usual, WolfPackLeader turns herself into the kids defence lawyer and IT'S ALL MY FAULT, before I've even got my arse-cheeks unstuck from the inside of the caravan and clambered off the "Double-bed" that has been lovingly created out of breeze blocks, tarpaulins, gorse bushes and anything else that can make a nights sleep as f***ing uncomfortable as is possible, (at least on my side anyway). Right! - portable shit-house instruction manual in hand, I open the caravan door and I'm instantly greeted by complete darkness, a force 8 gale and the sound of a vertical tsunami of rain battering the awning into soggy submission. I step downwards into the soft, cloying mud and feel my way towards the awning "door" which has been f***ing flapping all night because the grandkids couldn't be arsed to zip it up.
    Rainwater runs in rivers over the groundsheet and soaks into my slippers. I am a very happy man.

    I open the shit-box instruction manual as I stand before the locked door on the side of the caravan.
    (The side of the caravan where the wind is howling, the rain is coming in at a horizontal angle and the swamp underfoot is getting swampier by the minute.) I scan the instructions by means of a miserable beam of light radiating from a small torch clenched between my chattering teeth.


    1. Unlock door. (Done)
    2. Press catch and slide plastic shit-container outwards. (Done)
    3. Swear like a bastard when said shitbox turns out to be toppers and its contents are dribbling out of the (it says here) "Non-return valve".
    4. Try to remember where the chemical toilet cleansing facilities are on this f***ing site in relation to where your caravan actually is.
    5. Stomp off in THAT direction, carrying big plastic container full of human waste, ensuring that a fair amount of liquid cascades down the leg of your jeans. (This in actual fact - makes it lighter and therefore much easier to carry). My slippers now feel like I've wrapped both my feet in wet towels.
    6. On arrival at the chemical-crapper cleansing station, pull out large plastic tube at front of container, unscrew cap and pour waste contents away.
    7. Wash container thoroughly and pour one capful of the Blue stuff per whatever litre of water into container before screwing lid back on and re-housing tube and slotting back into the side of the caravan.

    I've followed all the f***ng instructions and I am watching all the effluent glug-glug-glugging out of the tube.The chemicals in the actual container have turned everything blue, but there's the odd bit of bog-paper here and there, and one or two smally lumps and bits. The thing takes an age to empty and my arms are aching as I hold the fu***ing thing aloft.

    The bloke standing next to me is looking a little puzzled. I couldn't give a f**k - all I want to do is wash this bastard thing out, put the cap back on and f**k off back to bed for an hour or so.

    "Morning!", I chirp happily.
    "Lousy weather today - looks like it'll be like this all day mate".
    My fellow happy camper says nothing - he just carrys on washing plates, cups, knives, forks, spoons and various pots and pans in the big sink in front of him.
    The other sinks are empty. It's too f***ing early for anyone else to be up.
    Just my fellow camper - whos family obviously enjoy an early breakfast.
    And me and my plastic tank tull of urine and faeces.

    Which I have just tipped down one of the big f***ing sinks specifically designated for the washing of pots, pans, cutlery and all things to do with filling ones face with food.

    "The chemical toilet disposal point is round the back.....", says he.

    (The words "Ohhhhhh F**K ME!!!!! don't even come close)

    I stare into the shiny stainless steel sink, that has just had 24 hours worth of human waste tipped into it. The other bloke quickly gathers up his breakfast crockery and f**ks off back up the hill towards his £99,000 motorhome. He's left his bottle of Fairy Liquid on the side, perhaps by accident - maybe on purpose, in order to help the stupid, thick, dim, half-asleep and completely pissed-off amateur caravanner who now has the task of poking all the remaining residue down the plug-hole. I search for a heavy stone with which to keep the plunger down on the hot tap (they're never normal taps on camping sites are they?). A scalding stream of water blasts into the shitty depths of the sink and covers me in moist layers of blue toilet paper and tiny flecks of crap. I used the whole bottle of Fairy Liquid on that sink. I do as good a job of killing 99.9% of the germs as I can before slinking away into the morning gloom and crap weather, leaving behind a foaming, seething mass of bubbles that are blowing all over the f***ing place, and a shiny sink that you could (hopefully) eat your dinner out of.

    Though I wouldn't recommend it.

    Beverley Park, Goodrington Road, near Paignton. Just at the entrance to *Field No. 3*. The kitchen sinks are round the SIDE of the block immediately in front of you. First gleaming sink on the left.

    (The shite emptying facility is BEHIND it)

    If you're ever there on holiday and need to wash the plates and stuff - give that sink a miss.

    * * * * * *
  2. I got talked into caravanning (against my better judgement)many years ago_Only got 10 miles down the road and turned the van over and wrote the fcukin lot off.Strangely she wmbo has never suggested towing anything since!!
    I did remark at the time how lucky we were as no one was hurt and best of all it was her dads car and caravan so didn't cost me zip :D
  3. Quality dit!
  4. I'm already planning next years extravaganza. I was thinking along the lines of towing my death-trap around the country.....parking up behind various RumRation members houses on bits of wasteland that their residences must be adjacent to and having nice big bonfires of used car tyres. I shall also be arranging evening entertainment which will include dog-fights, dismantling old Transit vans, letting the kids hoof footballs through your greenhouse windows, whilst sending the wife out to bash on your front doors and sell you plastic bags full of clothes pegs.
    Add to this a fair bit of fly-tipping and a bit of breaking and entering, I think me and my family will leave your delightful suburb in a complete and utter shambles......after all, that's what you pay Council Tax for.

    I also hope you like the smell of tarmac being cooked at half three in the morning because my mate Romany Joe and his converted Foden Truck are coming along to give you all first refusal on a brand spanking new driveway.

    See you all next summer!

  5. "Caravan wheels of terror" by SVEN HASSEL

    The book no German caravan club dared print!

    A novel of atrocity - The caravans of Englands 666th Convict Holidays on Wheels Regiment thundered around the United Kingdom, searching for that last week in October break at a decent site before the biting chill of winter set in and all the holiday camps closed for the season. Everything was forgotten but the struggle for personal survival. The caravan-tuggers lived in a maniacal world filled with screams of agony, as awning pegs pierced frozen flesh, the frenzied animal couplings of teenagers from Doncaster and Dawlish in someones 4-berth and the pitiful wails from the toilet block, as inmates discovered that the big metal drum perched high on the wall was completely devoid of toilet paper.
    These were the only realities.

    * * * * * *

    Part 1 - An Awning too far.
    The journey from Plymouth to Paignton had been a hellish nightmare. The Tom-Tom had sent Obergefreiter Nomatez round Newton Abbot no less than seven times, before it had decided that the best way to *Stalag-luft Beverley Park III (Paignton)*, was via 30 miles of single-track dirt road no wider than an anorexic super-models leg. During the journey, Obergefreiter Nomatez was halted in his forward progress by a local partisan tractor driver coming in the other direction.
    The tractor driver steadfastly refused to reverse up the road, instead electing to hold his ground, whilst cursing the stupid f***ing cravan-tugging tourists that were constantly f***ing clogging up his own personal stretch of road. Obergefreiter Nomatez attempted to get the local yokel to move but he was having none of it. Nomatez trudged back to his vehicle and called in an airstrike via his HTC Wildfire mobile phone (unlimited texts, unlimited internet, 600 minutes and 1 airstrike per month - all for £20 p.c.m. on Tesco Mobile). Two A-10 *Tractor-Busters* screamed in low some ten minutes later. The lead fighter raked the yokels tractor with a deadly stream of .50 calibre ammunition. The driver of the huge farm vehicle screamed once, before vanishing in an explosive red mist of human tissue and body parts. The second A-10 jet fired two missiles into the smoking pile of twisted metal and human bits. Pieces of the tractor flew in all directions and as the smoke billowed from the remains of its enormous tyres, Obergefreiter Nomatez slammed the Toyota into first gear and ploughed onwards through the burning wreckage. The caravan trundled forwards obediently. "F***ing ignorant PIG-DOG janner tractor-driving bastard!", yelled Nomatez.
    "I live in f***ing Plymouth!"
    "YOU TWO IN THE BACK!", he wailed.
    Two small heads came into view above their Nintendo DS's, at which they had been staring since daybreak.
    "Yes Grandad?"
    "Pass me a packet of Monster-Munch..........I'm f***ing starving!"

    The journey continued in silence, save for the sound of Super-Mario III and the crunching of a packet of savoury snack food.

    * * * * * *

    It was midday, and the wind howled through the trees, bending branches at crazy angles until they snapped and fell into the road ahead. Obergefreiter Nomatez cursed and wrenched the wheel of the Toyota Granvia. The lumbering automatic Japanese import lurched up on to the muddy bank, and the caravan it was towing bounced drunkenly on its rusting A-frame. Both car and caravan crashed through the hedgerow before Obergefreiter Nomatez span the wheel in the opposite direction, bringing the fish-tailing caravan back into the centre of the road behind the big car. The rain lashed the cars windows. Visibility was virtually zero.
    "You bloody WHORE!", he yelled, as he fought to control the vans progress along the North Devon B-road.
    "I've fought my way from the front line of Plymouth and by the grace of God - I'll not be stopped by natures fury!"
    From behind him - he could hear screams of mortal dread.
    "What's happening Grandad? Grandad? .....GRANDAD?!!!!!"
    Obergefreiter Nomatez cursed under his breath.
    "Be quiet !", he hissed, "Or it'll be a freezing winter on the Cornish Front for the pair of you - and very few ever return - do you understand me?"
    "Yes Grandad", they piped in unison.
    The car became silent once more and Nomatez pushed the accelerator to the floor.
    Another voice yelled loudly above the noise of the engine.
    "Put the f***ing windscreen wipers on!"
    Nomatez flinched.
    The voice rose to an insane level of ear-splitting loudness.
    Obersturmgenfuhrer Wife barked orders one after the other. Nomatez wound down the window and spat the remains of a German sausage out into the freezing wind. He heard yet more screams, only this time from outside - as his car and caravan collided with an elderly gentleman on an invalid scooter who had been coming back from ASDA with his weekly shop. The wheels of the huge 3 litre monster tore the small invalid carriage apart and the old-timer disappeared from view. There followed sickening "bumps" as all six wheels of the car and caravan crushed the OAP into a bloody pile of paste and rags by the side of the road. Blood and flesh sailed down the gulley to vanish into the drain in a bubbling cauldron of red foam and rainwater.
    "There!", he spat.
    "See what you've just made me do wife?"
    Obersturmgenfuhrer Wife chose to ignore the carnage and her husbands mad ramblings. She bent forward and poked around in the glove compartment for a Neil Diamond CD instead.
    "Just drive you f***ing moron.....AND SHUT THAT F***ING WINDOW AS WELL!"
    Nomatez grunted and pressed his grizzled features up against the windscreen.
    Just ahead on on the left, he caught sight of a sign illuminated by a single energy saving lightblub.
    *STALAG-LUFT BEVERLEY PARK III (PAIGNTON). All tourers please report to reception on arrival.
    "LOOK!", he cried.
    "We are here! By all that's holy - we have made it!"
    Obersturmgenfuhrer Wife turned Neil Diamond up to full on ear-drum bursting loudness.
    She opened her own passenger window and threw the remains of a Somerfield roast chicken she had been chewing on for three hours out into the flooded road. A gang of ragged children emerged from the bushes and started to fight amongst themselves, tearing at each others flesh as they ripped the greasy carcass to pieces like a pack of scavenging dogs.

    It was half-term, and half-term is Hell.

    * * * * * *

    Stalag-Luft beverley Park III's reception was pleasant and terribly efficient. Obergefreiter Nomatez joined a queue. He noticed that the other queue was considerably longer, and that several members of "staff" were helping to remove the clothes, shoes, jewellery, false teeth and artificial limbs of the folk in that queue, before ushering them through a double doorway with a sign above it that read *TO THE SHOWERS*
    "How nice", he thought.
    "Giving their guests that chance of a hot invigorating shower before they attempt to reverse their touring caravans on to a hard-standing....not the most pleasant of tasks".
    It was a known fact that Stalag-luft Beverley Park III gave their guests more time to reverse on to their pitch than any other Holiday-luft in Devon. You had four hours to back it in, hook it up to the electricity, fill your water container and get Sky Sports 2 on your portable satellite dish before the camp guards came round and hauled you off for summary execution by firing squad behind the entertainments centre *The Blitzkreig Klub*.
    Nomatez shuffled forward.
    The receptionist glared at him through her one good eye - the other lost in a fight with a gang of campers from Huddersfield at the start of the season.
    "NAME??", she uttered.
    "Nomatez.....and wife.....two hooligans aged 13 and 14", he responded
    "PITCH 13, ROW 13, FIELD 13 - YOUR TICKET NUMBER IS 666....ENJOY YOUR STAY!", she sneered.
    Nomatez leaned forward and whispered into the receptionists ear.
    "I have four hours to get my caravan all up and running then?", he enquired.
    The veteran of many, many Holiday-luft parks smiled cruelly.
    "You have four hours you swine! Then it's a blindfold, a cigarette and a gut full of bullets if you fail...."
    Nomatez thrust his grubby finger into her good eye. She yelped in pain as he yanked it out and it dangled by its optic nerve on her pock-marked cheek.
    "I shall do it in under two hours you she-bitch!", he replied.
    As he strolled away, back to his waiting family, the wounded receptionist chortled madly. She pushed her eye back into its socket with the bottom end of a bottle of Tippex, and called after him.
    "But then.....", said she.
    "You will have to put up the awning, and we WILL have you in front of a firing squad before the end of Happy Hour.....that is if your wife does not kill you first."
    Nomatez felt the blood leave his body and sink into his boots. He ignored the *No Smoking* sign and rolled a ciggy before marching back to the waiting wife, Grand-children and full sized, never-before erected awning.

    The instructions (he knew), were on the glass plate of his all-in-one printer back at home. He HAD intended to make them bigger and easier to understand. He had intended to do a big diagram and then run it through the laminator. He had forgot.

    He was dead.

    * * * * * *

    (Thanks to all the Sven Hassel paperbacks I have ever read)

  6. Brilliant - keep it coming BNM, its just like the good old days
    of James Bonds Dad.
  7. 15th SS PanzerKaravanner Division mobile luxury caravan unit - Paignton. A popular addition to our quality rentals. Designed by Rudolph Hess and fitted with all the latest state of the art equipment. (Sleeps up to three million. £240 per week in the high season. Buy one gas bottle - get one free - see reception for further details)
  8. Brilliant. I love it. Ive been tugging for years and what a great feeling when you get there :happy4:
  9. You forgot to take the dog with you :lol:

    Upsetting the kids in the backseat eating their sweets and biscuits or
    chewing the drivers ear cos he wants you to stop along the road when he needs a pee.

    Caravans --love em!

  10. :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

  11. Appendix 1 to "BillyNoMates Trainee Caravan Tugger"

    "A clinical and psychological study recently undertaken by the Institute of Criminal Behavioural Patterns, headed by Professor Gujerati Packamac and his team at the Harold Shipman Memorial University, Weston-Super-Mare, in which several British homicidal serial killers were interviewed and psychologically assessed over a period of five years at a cost to the taxpayer of some £43,000,000 - has come to the conclusion that being a psychotic axe-wielding nut case can no longer be associated with social upbringing, bad parenting, lack of self esteem, childhood abuse or any other indicators that have been used in the profiling of these members of society who are suddenly possessed with the urge to hack, slash, hammer and batter as many innocent individuals to death as possible before eventually being caught and banged up for life, where they will show no remorse for their actions whatsoever."
    "Instead,- they will either:-
    (a). Write a best selling autobiography.
    (b). Top themselves
    (c). Appear in a new (Cert 18) PlaysStation III game, and receive royalties for the rest of their prison sentence
    (d). Have an ITV Drama made about their lives, usually starring Sean Bean or anyone who has ever appeared
    in "Taggart"
    "The study concluded that the "trigger" that sent these sociopaths over the edge, was the fact that they had all at some time or other in their lives - gone on a caravan holiday (or had actually owned a caravan), and as a direct result of this had suffered a complete mental breakdown, either during the towing of a caravan, the assembly of an awning, the reversing of a caravan on to either a grass or hard-standing pitch or in fact any other general mundane day-to-day tasks normally associated with a week in a caravan anywhere in the United Kingdom"
    The breakthrough was made when Professor Gujerati Packamac, who had been away on holiday in his own caravan, just happened to mention this whilst interviewing Fred West. Mister West lost the plot and started to eat the table in the Interview Room and had to be physically restrained by six Security Guards. It was not long after this that Fred did himself in. Professor Packamac then made the link between caravans and serial killers, after he placed a load of back issues of *Caravan Owners Monthly* magazine in Peter Sutcliffes prison cell. Upon discovering the magazines,
    Mr Sutcliffe gouged his own eyeballs out with biro and flushed them down the toilet. Similarly, when one of Professor Packamacs team showed some pictures of tow-bars to psychotic criminal Charles Bronson, the man immediately started to bite his own fingers off whilst screaming "LEFT HAND DOWN A BIT - LEFT HAND DOWN A BIT!"
    "The trauma that these people had suffered - even though it may have been many, many years previously - had somehow been laying dormant until something had re-activated it, and away they went, bashing, hammering, slashing, stabbing, digging and burying with no sense of guilt or remorse whatsoever",
    "Most caravan owners and caravan holiday-makers can cope with the stress of putting up an awning or spilling boiling hot cooking oil down the front of their boxer-shorts at half-seven in the morning. They can also deal with mocking, and jeering from fellow caravan-owners - who watch as they try pathetically to reverse their holiday home on to the correct bit of grass before nightfall."
    "Unfortunately - some people have a weaker side - and it is this that will eventually turn them into lunatics that we, as a society have a duty to care for"

    Professor Packamac has sold his caravan and has recently booked himself in for a lobotomy at the Klaus Barbie Teaching Hospital (Brain Surgery Wing), Swindon.

    You can't be too careful.

    * * * * * *

    "Two wheels on my wagon - and I'm still rolling along....."

    Most stories have a beginning, a middle and an end. This one does not, because my brain could not process all the data and advice being "offered" to me by the wife (who had overnight, turned into an expert on all things to do with caravans, towing, kitting out, steering, reversing and general man-handling of said two-wheeled Spawn of Satan).
    So I'll try and start at the start and see how far I get before my head turns to mush.
    We bought the Bailey Auvagne 4-berth for eight hundred smackers and the first thing she said was:
    "Oooohhhh! She (the previous owners wife) has the same taste as me! I'm not going to change a thing inside the caravan......."
    I hitched it up and towed it off his driveway at three miles an hour, and began my first sweat covered attempt at caravan towing on British roads. We were crawling past the local B & Q with several ambulances, police cars and fire engines tooting, hooting and telling me to get out the f***ing way when the wife yelped.
    "Stop! Stop!"
    I e-v-e-r so carefully dragged the thing into B & Q's car park and she took off with her credit card. She returned about two hours later with at trolley loaded with half a Brazilian Rain Forest, new curtains, a shit-load of screw in hooks, paint, wallpaper, another portable barbecue and two tons of nails and screws.
    "You can put another bunk at the back of the caravan - it's simple! Won't take you more than an hour or so...."
    Observation number one. A caravan (4-berth) is a 4-berth caravan. It's not a 5-berth - there's no way to secure another bunk to the f***ing walls (them being made of recycled Cornflake boxes) and I tried to inject some humour into my response to her request.
    "It's a four-berth caravan love........NOT a f***ing tardis!"
    This reply was wrong on so many levels, suffice to say that when we eventually arrived at our caravan storage facility, I had been told in no uncertain terms, that she could fit a new bunk in, in less time than it would take to boil a f***ing egg, and that I never did "anything for her at all, ever, ever, ever....!" (save for paying £300 for a tow-bar, £800
    for the caravan - and volunteering to try and get two adults and five grand-kids into a four-berth shed-on-wheels just before the British winter set in).
    I hauled all the D-I-Y shit out of the car and she motored off home to "get some more stuff".
    My darling wife returned some time later and presented me with all my plastic boxes of power tools saying:
    "Well??? Get on with it! Get that bunk in because we're off on Thursday!"
    I opened up the box with my Black and Decker *Scorpion" saw in it and waved it under her nose.
    "And - where the flying F**K d'you expect me to plug THIS f***er in then eh??!, I enquired.
    We were now on the storage site - no electricity supply to hand, unless I rolled out a three hundred metre extension cable and asked the receptionist at Plymouth Airport if I could plug the bastard in at the socket where the cleaner plugged her floor polisher in that is.
    I was wondering now how this wonderful gift of a reply could be now turned around to make it "all my f***ing fault"
    "I've got your portable stuff in the car too y'know...."
    "Batteries charged up are they?"
    "You twat! You KNEW I wanted another bed putting in it...."
    "Eh? We've only just got the fu**ing the f**k was I to know that today was *Extreme Caravan Makeover* day eh? You said you wasn't going to change fu*k all in there half an hour ago woman!"
    My outburst was greeted by a barrage of abuse, followed by handsaws and manually operated tools with which I could complete the job before I died of extreme exposure.
    Anyway - after a few hours of sawing, ranting, raving, cursing and general hilarity - I actually succeeded in converting a f***ing huge bit of MDF, several baggage straps, some really big screw in hooks, coach-bolts, wood trims and three tubes of *No-Nails* into a reasonably safe and secure removable bunk at the stern of our new holiday home. Dead proud
    of it was I. It goes under the rear bed and only takes half a day to f***ing problem!
    It's like half-six on a cold Wednesday evening before we get back home. I'm knackered and I goes up for a shower, leaving WolfPackLeader to pack for our little jaunt down (or is it across?) to Paignton.
    "Don't pack too much love!", I says.
    (ex submariner me - got round the f***ing world with a pussers grip, two pairs of knicks, two pairs of socks, a t-shirt, pair of jeans and some trainers....pretty f***ing simple, but it was tried and tested and had never failed).
    By the time I got out of the shower and into the bedroom - I was thinking that I might as well put the fitted wardrobes on f***ing wheels and tow the bastards behind the f***ing caravan as well. The bed was creaking under the strain of all the clobber she intended to transport down to the holiday camp. One suitcase, three holdalls, two backpacks and several Tescos carrier bags full of f**k-knows-what awaited me. I lugged all the stuff down the stairs and wife bimbled after me into the kitchen.
    "Oh shit....Oh shit....Oh shit.........she's emptying the kitchen cupboards....all of 'em", I heard myself say.
    First - the toaster made an appearance. (The caravan had come complete with a f***ing toaster, she had gone out and purchased another one which was still in its box on top of the freezer, and she was putting our own four-slice toaster into yet another Tescos bag). Then came the slow-cooker, three frying pans, two saucepans, a fu**ing huge bag of plastic knives, forks and spoons, plates, plates, plates and yet more fu**ing plates, cups, saucers, the electric tin opener, the kitchen top all in one mini cooker, the toasted sarnie maker and the kettle (making our collection of caravan kettles up to three), the flask........she was relentless, and I had to shove all the f***ing stuff into the car in some sort of order before I got to get a decent cup of coffee......via the microwave....BECAUSE SHE HAD PACKED THE F***ING KITCHEN KETTLE for f***s sake!!"
    The kitchen utensil collection was quickly followed by all the food....and I mean "all the food". One bag was toppers with bugger all but tinned beans and tinned custard - interesting. I recall trying to carry about one hundred bags of crisps out to the car in the dark...they all went into the boot. I recall carrying eight cases of Diet Coca Cola out to the car in the
    dark. They all went into the boot of the car on top of the crisps.

    I recall getting a cup of coffee at close on 23:55 p.m. that night having put enough edibles in the motor to stock your average Hindu corner shop for a fortnight.
    I recall crawling zombie-like into bed as the L.E.D. clock blinked over to the first minute of Thursday morning.
    I recall my eyes closing with extreme exhaustion just as WolfPackLeader said:
    "You've forgotten to pack the television........take the one from the lounge......."
    "You f***ing what???'s a 90 inch behemoth Sony Bravia whatever-the-f**k-its called....I'm not unplugging that f***er...........have the little one out of the kitchen...........please?"
    "Oh alright.........They had a portable satellite dish....have WE got a portable satellite dish then?"
    "No we 'aint"
    "Tescos is still open - it's 24 hours....shall we go and get a portable satellite dish now?"

    I pretended to be having a stroke, and acted like all my limbs had suddenly become paralysed. Saliva dribbled out the corners of my quivering gob.

    I crashed out, leaving the wife to continue adding to the list. Professor Stephen Hawking said "The Universe is infinite, with no beginning and no end. Professor Stephen Hawking is wrong.
    My wife has a list longer than that.
  12. :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

    I thought it was just me and my late departed Wife that had the loading
    caravan moments --------with the Kids stuff and dogs food etc etc.

    Anyway you can relax now its all been tried and tested in the van
    however I suggest you start saving for or prepare to use credit card to replace all the items from the house ------that will stay in the van.
    Or buy new items for the van outfit and return home items to house
    again. .

    Bad news -------------some sites stay open all year round for tourers !!

    So keep your long johns ready in the if required 'holiday bag''

  13. I've been tugging for years.What a great feeling when you come there :wink: :D
  14. And don't go knockin when the caravans rockin
  15. Carry on Caravaning

    "Paignton - The final frontier. This is the voyage of the Starcaravan *Clusterfuck* - its four-day mission, to seek out strange new pillocks who like to spend weekends in October in a plywood box watching their toes blacken as they slowly succumb to the delights of extreme explore new amusement arcades and indoor swimming pools full of cackling women from Rotherham, Hull and Wigan. To boldly go where nobody in their right mind has gone before!"

    "Naa Naaaaaa Na-Na-Na-Na Naa Naaaaaa etc........"

    * * * * * *


    How does one describe the noble art of packing up for a caravan holiday without making it sound completely insane?
    There isn't one - so bear with me.

    Picture this scene if you will.
    You, your darling wife and your two beautiful children have finally made the escape from that awful house just outside of town, with the terrible neighbours and the gangs of hoodies that are forever burning down the bus- shelters - and you've finally moved into your Dream Home in the Country. It's a pretty 4-bedroom cottage, with a lovely garden, neighbours who cannot do enough to make you feel welcome and a part of the community. There's loads and loads and loads of open countryside between you and the rest of civilisation. The cottage was an absolute b-a-r-g-a-i-n (just needs a bit of T.L.C. is all), and you start to make your mark on it by stripping all the old wallpaper off the walls in the lounge. As the wallpaper steamer stripper removes the final layers of flower-patterned wallpaper, you stand back to admire your hard work - and notice that what you thought was just "marks" on the wall, is in actual fact, an ancient pentagram that covers the entire wall. It appears to have been painted on to the wall using human blood, and the words "SATAN IS LORD" are written above it in some kind of mad scrawl. Hand-drawn images of the nine High-Demons of Hell have also been use to adorn the pentagram and the rest of the wall is covered in the numbers "666", daubed in every other available space.
    As the wallpaper stripper fizzles out - and all the misted up windows start to clear, you cannot help but notice that you very friendly "neighbours" are all in your front garden, peering through the windows at you and your family. They are all dressed in black cloaks, each one is carrying a headless chicken and they are all chanting:
    It would probably be round about now you should realise that your new blissful life in the country is about to turn into a world of shit, and they're going to sacrifice your kids in order to have a good crop of turnips come summer, you're getting burned in that f***ing big wicker bloke they've been constructing in the field opposite and your wife is going to be gang-raped by the village crown green bowling team in the name of The Lord of Darkness. The cottage will then be back on the housing market again for a ridiculous price -
    Vacant posession - No chain.
    That's the way of most horror movies. Something nice mutates into the next installment of "A nightmare on Caravan Street"

    Well, this is one way to describe packing. I was looking forward to going away in my brand new, second hand caravan for a few days, getting pissed, having a larf and generally chilling out.....then I saw the "pentagram" that was the mountain of essential stuff that the wife had piled up in the kitchen.
    And still it came.
    "We need the folding three-seater from the garden......two foldable chairs........all the windbreaks....get all the li-los....don't forget the kitchen television....there's those nine sacks of food .........I've put all our clothes in those two hold-alls and that suitcase....fetch the flask........get the kettle.....shall we bring the microwave? ............don't forget all the kids fishing gear in the shed............I've got all the duvets off the beds upstairs..... there's four spare sleeping bags in the'll need the step ladder to put the awning up ...........there's some spare tarpaulins outside (one was 33 feet by 33 feet square)........I've bought some spare doormats..........don't forget your toolbox..........where's the torches?................careful with the slow's full of stew and dumplings!.........have you got a hammer?........".
    I was outside in the back garden, digging up the patio with a pick-axe, thinking it would be nice to take it along with us as well, along with a spare gazebo and the above ground 15 foot swimming pool, when the doorbell went, and two Grand-children (14 and 13) appeared with all their belongings.
    The two of 'em were peering at the wife from behind a wall of back-packs, bags, little suitcases on wheels, PlayStation III's, Nintendo DS's, DVD carrying cases, yet more sleeping bags and a cardboard box full of videos.
    Their dad didn't even stop to say "thanks", electing instead to piss of sharpish, no doubt looking forward to a four-day marathon of sex , alcohol and cannabis. He had (at least) given them twenty quid a piece, which would strangely get "lost" as soon as we pitched up in Paignton. Hooray for Goldfish and Barclaycard!
    I lugged all the kids stuff out and into the car.
    "F***ing stroll on love!", I uttered.
    "Are we taking these two on a smally-holiday....or have we just f***ing adopted them?".
    Moving swiftly on - WolfPackLeader is registered disabled, so apart from the five tons of stuff I'd already crammed into the motor, there was an Invalid Scooter stowed in the back - in three bits, plus battery and battery charger.
    Combine this with everything else and the car was bustin' at the f***ing seams, so I chose to leave the Stannah Stair-lift at home still attached to the staircase.
    "Everyone - get in the f***ing CAR!", I shouted.
    It was now time for the usual shouting and screaming match.
    "Can I sit in the front?"
    "No - I want to sit in the front!"
    "You're not sitting in the front 'COS I'M SITTING IN THE FRONT!"
    "IT'S NOT FAIR!"
    "NO I DIDN'T!"
    "YES YOU DID......I H-A-T-E YOU!"
    Anyway - I stopped yanking the wifes hair out and sat in the front. She sat in the front as well. The two kids where already in the back. One was FaceBooking on her Blackberry (a better phone than mine), the other was watching a pirate version of *PIRANHA 3D*, on my portable DVD player no doubt ogling Kelly Brooks awesome fun-bags with a vast amount of adolescent teenage yearning (I know the feeling).

    We were all "packed" and we were off! A huge cloud of black smoke burst forth from the cars exhaust as it protested against the enormous load it had been ordered to carry. Messages of sympathy appeared on my *Twitter* page from drivers of Eddie Stobart articulated lorries that overtook me on my way to picking up the caravan.
    "You're back axles bent mate!", twittered *GeordyJoe101*
    "LOL LOL LOL LOL", came in from *supersteve99*
    I twittered back from the keyboard of my Samsung to all my followers:
    "F**K THE LOT OF YOU - YOU ARSEHOLES!", *billynobrakes*
    I pressed the on button of the TomTom, and waited for guidance to this caravan site that I'd never been to before.
    The SatNav sparked up and started to plot a course.
    *23,000,000 roads processed - Route being programmed* it said.
    I watched as the f***ing thing charted me a Alton f***ing Towers (The LAST place I had taken my brood).
    Yep - forgot to put in the f***ing postcode for this place in Paignton. An awfully polite voice erupted from the TomTom speaker.
    "Turn around when possible. Turn around when possible...."
    I wasn't even at the end of our f***ing street yet. The wife (being technologically ignorant) just stared at me.
    "No problem's just sorting itself out......only 30-odd miles to the place after all....piece of piss, even with a caravan".
    The postcode, and address for my holiday heaven were on a *post-it* on my computer desk in the house.
    My top lip was getting sweaty, and I still had to hitch up my plywood hotel and drag it out of the caravan storage place and onwards to Paignton.
    So there we were - four human beings, squished into the interior of a Toyota Granvia, buried up to our collective necks in a world of bags, suitcases, duvets, sleeping-bags, pots, pans, red-hot slow-cookers, flat-screen televisions, chairs, seats, wind-breaks, tool boxes, fishing rods, a big box with a new extending digital television aerial in it, four door mats, half a dozen tarpaulins, one invalid scooter, the entire conents of Food Aisles one through nine, Sainsburys, Marsh Mills, Plymouth, assorted li-los, a big bag of bog rolls and a f***ing TomTom that wasn't going to show me the way to Beverley Park Paignton.
    Some time ago, there was a documentray on the telly about a mad bloke who had stuffed his house to the rafters ith a lifetimes worth of crap.....he couldn't part with ANY of it. The Council had to sort of "mountaineer" into his house over enough shite to build a small habitable island in the middle of the North Sea with.
    A bit like the inside of my car really. All I had to do was re-stow everything in the caravan before we set off - and the caravan was already bustin' its guts with gear the wife had already deemed essential to the familys survival.

    Oh joy of joys.

    (Google "Edmund Trebus". Then we'll be singing from the same hymn sheet).

    * * * * * *
  16. "Simples!"

    (Watch this space)

  17. Caravan Wheels of Terror - Part 4

    "Above us - the awning"

    Way back in 1939, the British Primeminister, Neville Chamberlain, appeared before the British people and spoke some very historic words. In the year of our Lord 2010, Mr Chamberlains famous speech (dubbed and altered and soon to be uploaded to YouTube), should give you all some idea as to what happened:

    "Today - I handed BillyNoMates wife a note, instructing her to leave him the f**k alone, whilst he valiantly attempted - single-handed, to construct a *SunnCamp* Cardinal caravan awning on a cold October morning. This note, requested that she take the kids to the amusement arcade with twenty quid and let Mr NoMates get on with putting up this hoofing great awning, with no distractions, instructions, suggestions or any other irrelevant input"
    "I regret to inform that I have received no answer to this note and Mrs NoMates has opened up a folding chair and sat down by the door of the Toyota Granvia to "oversee" operations, and, consequently a state of war exists between Mr and Mrs NoMates".

    * * * * * *

    It was in two big canvas bags. The first bag was full of poles and bendy-things and clips, and bits of string, and two rubber hammers, and two thousand tent pegs, and rubber bungee-chords, and sliding poles and screw in clips and a couple of artificial hip replacements.
    The second bag was full of "sides" (with windows), "sides" (without windows), a seperate bedroom compartment, a really-really-really big bit that went over all the poles to form the vast majority of the caravans extension, and two bits that joined together to complete the front of the canvas bungalow. Terrific.
    There was also five mysterious plastic round things that somehow got hung off the side of the caravan at certain measured distances, in order for the f***ing thing to have a bunch of poles with right-angled hooks slotted into them to form part of the roof.
    It was 12:00 p.m.
    The previous owner had given me a brief as to how to put the sodding thing up. It had taken HIM about 45 minutes..........I hate clever bastards. He had colour coded all the poles. There was bunches of poles with red tape on 'em, poles with blue tape on 'em, poles with green tape on 'em and poles with stripey green and yellow tape on 'em. He whizzed round (on that day of Awning Task-Book instruction), and before I knew it - the f***ing thing was all done, zipped up and ready to go. He'd being doing it for three f***ing YEARS.
    Mrs NoMates sparked up.
    "Just do like he did and it'll be done in about ten minutes won't it?"
    "You what? Give us a break love.........listen....send the kids to the arcade for a bit. They can't get in the caravan too much to do at the moment"
    The grandkids legged it with their money and I looked at the dog eared awnings for morons guide.
    *Red pole to Red pole* *Blue pole to Blue pole* *Stripey Green pole to Stripey Green pole* *Upright one connects to left hand pole with BLACK tape* *First Red tape pole (from caravan door) to Yellow taped right-angled joining bracket* etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc.
    Without looking up from her Take-a-Break wordsearch, my dearest wife said;
    "That bit you've got in your hand goes to that bit on the ground over there!"
    "I've got SIX f***ing bits in my hands darling....which bit are you on about?"
    "That bit"
    "Which bit?"
    "The bit with the end that goes to that end on the end you're's OBVIOUS!"
    I dropped five of the six bits and picked up bit seven and shoved piece *A* into part *B* (with the RED tape wrapped round it).
    "Now put THAT in the hole in that plastic thing over the caravan doorway"
    I reached upwards and attached the two bits to the caravans plastic bit. It fell out and embedded itself in the mud and grass like a school sports day javelin.
    "Typical! Look - if you hold the two end bits together - you can put all the canvas top over it and THEN put the side poles up and THEN all the top bits in and THEN that front one and it'll stand up on its own!"
    "Just hang on a minute love....who's doing this then? You or me?"
    (Wrong reply)
    "Wasn't you watching when ********* showed you how to put the awning together then?"
    "Yes dear - but he went so f***ing FAST - I couldn't keep up with him...."
    "Just do what he did then, it's cold out here....I'm getting in the car!"

    The time ticked by. Every now and then the cars window wound down and I was offered some friendly advice.

    "OH PISS OFF!"
    "Oh F**K OFF!"

    My fingers were getting numb - I was freezing my arse off and I had poles and bits of canvas all over the f***ing place. I got one end up....raced to the other end and put those legs up. The other end fell over. I hung five bits from the round plastic bits I had attached to the caravan. They all fell out. I went back to jam the end that had fell over into the mud and banged it in with a big rubber mallet. Did the same at 'tuther end.
    I re-attached all five extending poles to the caravan and balanced them all on the top of my head, walking carefully forwards where I stuck 'em into the holes in other poles that I had grasped between my teeth. With a further two "uprights" held between my thighs, I forced them all together and ever-so-gently....let go of everything I had been hanging on to.
    It didn't fall over. A metal skeleton protruded from the caravan.
    It was 14:00 p.m.

    My head was mush. There was still a shit-load of sides, tops, extra bedrooms and string and pegs to go....but it had not caved in. I deserved a smoke.
    Just then the kids came back.
    "Grandad, Grandad! We've lost all our money!"
    "You f***ing WHAT?"
    "We've lost all the money....can we have some more please?"
    The car window motored downwards.
    "Go to the cash point in the arcade and get them some more money will you?"
    "Hang on love - they've both got through twenty quid each in just under two hours...and I used all MY f***ing cash for diesel for the car!"
    "Then get them some MORE!"
    "When does this f***ing holiday start then eh? I mean when the f**k can I actually sit the f**k down and have a couple of tins?"
    "Just go and get them some more money.....and get that awning up before midnight!"

    I had a mental picture of me ramming upright *B* (Red tape) through the wifes forehead, impaling her on the caravan door, but then I thought better of it and imagined hammering a few tent pegs into my own brain, just to get a few minutes peace and quiet. I shuffled off to the amusement arcade cash point to get more dosh with which to feed the kids gambling habits.

    I couldn't remember my pin number.

    Ever had that happen to you? Stressed out to f**k - my head was awash with complete and utter crap. Stuff I did not want to remember, but could, and stuff I was trying to remember, but couldn't. Pin number gone - other junk in its place.
    Bits of television ads flashed before my eyes as I stood in front of the cash machine. Half a dozen people queued up behind me.
    Oh for f***ks sake.....
    Aaaarrggghhh. Please, what's my pin number?
    Give me a break.
    I'm going mad. The machine has told me I've got one more go before my plastic gets swallowed.
    "WHAT'S MY F***ING PIN NUMBER!!!!!!!!!!!!"
    The people queuing up behind me moved back a bit, probably wondering what this raving lunatic was going to do next.
    One whispered to another.
    "It's alright - he's putting up an awning"
    "Oh.....okay then.....poor fu**er...."
    Help me-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeee. I jabbed the cash-point keyboard. My plastic vanished and forty quid fell into the tray. The card popped back out. Thank f**k for that.
    I handed over the dosh to the kids and shuffled away, heading back to the construction site.

    It was 14:30 p.m.

    Time for the covers to go on. When I got back, I couldn't help but notice that other happy campers had taken up residence in assorted folding chairs in a semi-circle around my pitch. They had flasks of tea, plastic bags with egg sarnies in 'em and they were all waiting for Act II of this pantomime.
    *Awning - The Musical* (Scene I Act II)

    * * * * * *

    There was NO instructions for this part - just a bunch of folded up stuff that weighed about a ton and a half.
    The audience was going wild.
    I opened up the big piece and slung it over the frame. It fitted!

    The audience clapped and cheered.

    I bashed in pegs and hooks and straps and set to with the sides and the front, and took the remaining parts of this canvas and pastic nightmare from the depths of the kit-bag.
    Sides and front(s). Four bits and it would be up!

    Then I saw all the f***ing zips.

    NEVER in my entire life have I seen so many f***ing zips. Each bit had no less than four zip-connectors at each end. They all hung down in big f**k-off bunches and they all "connected together really easily". Did they bollocks.
    There are less zips on a dominatrix's rubber nicker gusset. F***ing hundreds of 'em. As fast as you dragged one zip round in order to get another zip to zip to it, the first zip didn't meet the zip it was supposed to zip into, and you have to return THAT zip back to where it started from and yank the next zip around in the vain hope that it'll zip up with the other panel (providing you've got the correct zip piece available for zipping).


    She wound the window up and cranked up the volume on a Barbara Streisand CD.

    I zipped here, I zipped there, I zipped every f***ing where. They fell off, fell apart, didn't zip together, did zip together (but upside down or all the zips ended up in the same corner), and I just wanted to get pissed and fill some f***er in. Through nothing more than sheer determination to not have this bastard defeat me - I continued and eventually had every f***ing zip zipped, a 33 foot by 33 foot ground sheet down and all the remaining crap hauled out of the car and stacked up in the awning.

    It was 16:00 p.m.

    Four f***ing hours. The audience gave me a standing ovation, the wife wanted a divorce and my two beloved grand-children returned from wherever they had been just as darkness began to fall.
    The eldest (aged 14) was half-pissed having been in his mates caravan where they had helped themselves to his mates dads collection of tins....the other was pushing a f***ing huge wheelie-bin down the road towards our pitch "so we didn't have far to walk to ditch the rubbish".

    One Grand-kid semi-shit-faced, one Grand-kid bringing us our own wheelie-bin (his ADHD medication was obviously wearing off), one wife with a monumental twat on and one BillyNoMates sober, cold and tired beyond belief.
    Day one had been a thrill a minute so far. I sat down on a pile of sleeping bags, rolled a fag and had a nervous breakdown.

    * * * * * *
  18. can thoroughly recommend caravan club sites.......have electric hook-up that powers the heater 24/7!

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