So everyone loves a caravan holiday right? It’s like camping but less shitty. You can connect with the great outdoors but still pee inside which is basically the definition of civilisation. Philosophy, religion and politics all become irrelevant in the face of having somewhere warm and moderately snake free to unload your digestive system.
Now this is all well and good until you are on your journey home from a folk festival, quietly congratulating yourself on achieving bacon sandwiches at both the preparation and disposal ends of the spectrum with a modicum of dignity. At this point the car makes a strange flatulent noise (a bit like the disposal of aforementioned sandwiches alongside several pints of beer and a large kebab) and sputters to a halt in the middle of a very busy dual carriageway with no hard shoulder and a caravan that is quivering like an agoraphobic snail.
Luckily for me and all those who use the highways of Britain, I was not alone. The practical thinking, macho type man beside me uttered all the appropriate swears before donning the hi vi jacket of super official responsibility. The one day of British summertime was in full force and no hazard lights were visible to the hordes of motorists who had attempted a day trip to the seaside to complain about how hot and busy it all was.
Anyway, my stalwart companion boldly strode forth into the road and attempted to shoo away oncoming traffic as if it were a flock of particularly malevolent geese. Profanities streamed from his mouth in such a way that would make the saltiest of sea dogs quake in their undergarments and the trauma of the moment caused gusts of arse turbulence such as could only be emitted by a man who has spent a whole weekend on real ale and now faced his imminent demise under the wheels of a thousand Nissan Micras.
Now I was not idle during this time. I was frantically calling for rescue and vodka in equal proportions. Being stranded in the West Country on a Sunday, both were in short supply, as was my sense of perspective. It appeared that my breakdown cover was only valid on days with an ‘x’ in them if the moon was full and goblins had attacked otherwise there were additional charges.
At this point a saviour appeared. Far from being a Christ like figure in white robes and with the power to summon hard liquor at will, he was a six foot son of the land complete with shit stained overalls and a Somerset accent so thick it could cut treacle.
He also had a large Landrover complete with a very large chainsaw on the back seat and two very bemused sheep in the boot. Our hero, recognising the plight of the terminally middle class and helpless, dragged us to the safety of a nearby layby. The sheep by this time had happily ensconced themselves in the caravan and were enjoying a quiet gin and tonic whilst criticising my curtains.
So anyway, rescue happened but I can’t tell you much about that on account of losing the whole night doing tequila slammers with extra mint sauce