A collection of short stories and journalistic commentaries depicting my simple life
and how I fit in with the modern day universe of our times


Rain beating down on a rusting tin roof... Choking gas light and heater fumes... And add to that the sound of urine hitting the sides of an old plastic bucket.

These are the abiding memories of some of my childhood holidays.

It’s perhaps no surprise then, that my relationship with the caravan is not exactly an easy one.

I mean, can you really want your entire family to share in the aftermath of last night’s curry? Well if you did, you made the right choice with a caravan. Not only will they hear it, but they’ll get the full visceral experience as the entire structure resonates in sympathy with your digestive distresses, and the fragrant aromas waft gently into the adjacent kitchen space.

And have you ever wondered what it’s like to breath in some freshly exhaled air? Well you will wonder no more as you sleep in overcrowded conditions which are probably illegal for today’s farm livestock, never mind humans. 

And if you want to know what it must feel like to be the target of rabidly focussed and universal hatred? Well you can easily have your curiosity satisfied as you hook up your pride and joy and dawdle along a single carriageway road at just 40mph with the boys from Top Gear stuck behind you.

I know things have moved on a bit since I was a kid, but I still don’t get it. I really don’t. 

You could just as easily stay in a hotel or a bed and breakfast… or maybe rent an apartment, a house or a cottage. Something with more civilised facilities and a structural integrity that transcends that of cardboard.

But no, you have a far better idea for your holiday. You’re going to drag a tin box across country, park it in a semi-isolated field because you still can't live without a local shop, and voluntarily subject you and yours to the kind of living conditions that Sir Bob Geldof has been trying to stamp out for the past 30 years.

I would venture as far as saying that people who buy caravans can’t possibly own calculators too.

I mean if they did, they would quickly realise that for the same cost as this, possibly the world’s worst ever purchase, they could surely spend many weeks each year in a nice hotel where there are luxuries like proper beds, room service, toilets that work and the added bonus of walls to boot. Oh, and there's room to swing a cat.

Spend $40,000 - $50,000 on your ‘home from home’ (assuming you currently live in an old shed) and you lose about half of that in depreciation the second the smirking salesman ushers you off his forecourt into your whole new world of self inflicted pain.

Just a random thought, but It just seems crazy to me.

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Its my own fault really, its all about what I see in the world, and how it all translates for me.

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