Caravan of Love?

Is this really summer? I’m so depressed about this lack of seasonal weather that I’m seriously considering joining the ranks of thousands of people who have already contacted the Met Office to complain, and demand that something be done about bringing out the sun. It has been several days now since the sun shone – in fact the last time it shone I was encased in a greenhouse-like structure called a supermarket.

The only possible way to tell that it is summer is to take a look at the traffic on the dual carriageways, and motorways of Great Britain. One word – Caravans! There they are in all their 50-mile-an-hour-jack-knifing-across-two-lanes-glory.

What the hell possesses people to think that dragging a hunk of plastic, and metal halfway across Britain, and Europe constitutes a holiday? When I think of a holiday I think of sun-drenched beaches, air-conditioned apartments, and travelling by aeroplane. I do not think of flop-me-down beds, extremely dangerous gas cylinders, shared showers, and chemical toilets.

People who enjoy (how can they?) caravanning defend their actions by using the excuse that you can have all your belongings with you so that you feel like you’re at home. Who in their right frame of mind would only consider going on holiday if they took their Royal Doulton, and other such tat with them. If you really need to feel this much at home, here’s a thought – why not stay at home? Why not save us all the bother of having to join the convoy of articulated lorries, buses, and Sinclair C5s overtaking you, and yes stay at home.

These people who like the home comforts that a caravan offers are quite often the exact same people who visit far-flung destinations (as far-flung as you can get when making like a tortoise) and never sample the local food, because it’s foreign. Of course it’s bloody foreign. In a foreign country even you are foreign. They won’t even consider the notion of purchasing a dictionary so that they can translate their unadventurous food requirements to the ‘foreigners’. Instead they just turn up the volume on their grinding, monotonous voices, and generally point and gesture in the style of Lionel Blair.

I remember being on holiday many years ago (yes it’s been a long time) and overhearing some philistines discussing what they would and wouldn’t eat. The scene was an Italian motorway stop, and yes these people were towing a caravan. They had already sampled baguettes with pastrami in them, but this had resulted in one of the women’s false teeth becoming dislodged, so they were about to choose something else. They looked incredulously at the food that was on offer (a damn sight better than our motorway offering of mushy peas, and limp fish), and discounted most of it because it was foreign. They eventually decided that they would have what they deemed British food. It was pasta. I refuse to associate myself with people like this merely because I live in the same country. I mean where the hell do these people get their education from?

I blame supermarkets – no surprise there then.