BillyNoMates - Trainee Caravan Tugger.


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.


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.

* * * * * *
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


War Hero
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!



War Hero
"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)

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!


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