Sometimes you wake up in the morning and wonder what the day will bring. Maybe you’ll find some money, meet a soul mate, kiss a stranger or shake hands with a farmer. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that, a mere four hours beyond my hypnopompic slumber, not only would I have a sticky willy in my hands, but Ruthie would be taking photos and begging to have a go…
It was time for Betsy to rub shoulders with her sisters, so we spent a fabulous day and night at The National Bongo Bash in Stourport on Severn, an event organised by Bongo Fury for its members to meet up and drool over each other’s campervans and Heath Robinson innovations.
This was the 12th Bash with an expected 150+ Bongos descending on the Lickhill Manor campsite. There was fun and frolics, craft stalls, excellent camping facilities, electric hook-ups and live music. Some even turned up in vans other than Mazda Bongos or Ford Fredas. And with the bustling town centre a mere lazy stroll along the river from the campsite (perhaps half a mile), the event proved too good to miss.
So off we went…
She was beautiful. With skin as black as coal and silky smooth. Young and nubile. Her name was Freda and we loved her.
Betsy wasn’t impressed that Freda was an X Reg.
Betsy didn’t care that Freda had immaculate bodywork.
Betsy took no notice of Freda’s Thule tow bar mounted bike carrier.
Betsy hates Ford Fredas. She says they’re mere charlatans trying to be Mazda Bongos. Mutton dressed as lamb.
Betsy said nothing as we raced over to Freda to admire her expensive gadgetry. She would have her say when it was time to go home. A woman scorned… Continue reading
‘We’re stopping at The Red Lion next week,’ Ruthie said over lunch.
‘Cool. I love pubs. Are we staying in the car park or have they got a campsite?’ I asked.
‘It’s not a pub. It’s a farm.’
‘A farm? What type of name is that for a farm? Sounds more like a pub to me.’
‘It’s got a campsite.’
I sighed. ‘So what? Where’s the beer?’
‘There isn’t any. Not there anyway. They sell ice cream.’
‘A farm? Selling ice cream?’
Ruthie supped back a mouthful of saliva. ‘Yep.’
‘Oh, don’t fret dear! There’s two pubs right next door to it. You’ll be fine,’ she said.
I frowned. ‘The Red Lion? A farm?… That sells ice cream?’
‘Do you have to keep repeating everything?’
‘What do mean “repeating everything”?’
At this point Ruthie then broke an unwritten rule of marital conduct.
She called me a tosser.
As the insult fell from her lips, we both looked at each other and knew that it was going to take more than somebody dishing out dollops of Neapolitan from an old cow shed to make things right between us…
Morrissey once wrote (in The First of the Gang to Die), “You have never been in love until you’ve seen the dawn rise behind the home for the blind.” Now, I’m not sure if he’s being ironic or just cruel with that particular observation, but I contend that, “You have never been in love until you’ve seen a Confederate soldier vaping in a pub in Derbyshire.”