BillyNoMates
War Hero
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.
*THETFORD CARAVAN PLASTIC BOG-BOX INSTRUCTION MANUAL - IDIOTS GUIDE 1995*
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.
* * * * * *
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.
*THETFORD CARAVAN PLASTIC BOG-BOX INSTRUCTION MANUAL - IDIOTS GUIDE 1995*
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.
* * * * * *
