I fucking hate caravans.

Apologies for beginning with a spurt of bile (and for splitting the infinitive) but it’s important that you understand the magnitude of my hostility.

I really do abhor, detest and despise caravans. And not just the poxy retarded tissue-walled seesaws you see swaying dangerously behind a Volvo on the M5 (I hate those too – if God had wanted you to drag your home around with you, you’d be a snail, or a tortoise, or in the circus) but I mostly hate the so-called ‘static’ caravan. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever I saw one - comparable with Led Zeppelin, or Oldham Athletic – a caravan too big to move, but so flimsy even the first Little Pig would suss its lack of structural integrity. Somebody, somewhere, is having a laugh. But perhaps it’s not just the thing itself that makes me shake with rage; perhaps it’s the places you find them.

Now there’s an idea for a Duel remake.

Every year, my family would rent a ‘luxury’ static caravan somewhere on the coast, and spend a week wandering the promenade, buying ice-cream, and making use of the on-site recreational facilities. These sites were very focused on family entertainment, with variety shows in the evening, and kiddie-friendly pools and games, and outdoor playgrounds with wood-chips on the floor.

As a child, I remember meeting up with other children of the same age, or height, and tearing around the place, screaming with glee, leaping in and out of the pool, then trying out all the Blue Peter-esque organised activities, and generally having a jolly good time, and making lifelong friends, before embarking on a series of adventures with a dog or a parrot and foiling some criminal without the help of an adult and…

No. I never did any of those things. Just leaving the caravan, and the safety of my books, was traumatic, let alone socialising with the boisterous, fashion savvy, goddamn good-looking kids that seemed to inhabit such places. Being of ethnic origin (and growing up in a predominantly white country) gave me issues about fitting in, and these trips to the coast, away from the perceived safety of anonymous, multi-cultural London, just focused my paranoia. I was awkward and clumsy at the best of times, but here I was all but paralysed. So there was nothing pleasurable in these trips for me. Nothing but self-hatred and isolation. I loathed it all.

Not-so-splendid isolation.

Apart from the arcades.

That’s the one thing about living in the suburbs – visiting the arcades was a practical impossibility. The local chip shop? Do you honestly think my dad’s going to take me there? Options are limited when you’re ten, smaller than the average wheelie bin, and in the big city.

But on the coast, well, that’s different. There’s fresh air, and room to run around, and no-one’s going to kidnap you and sell you on the black market. So every evening my parents, God bless them, would hand me a bunch of ten-pence pieces, and shove me out of the caravan, in the hope their weird little son might actually do something that involved other human beings. They didn’t like me playing in arcades, but I guess they figured it was better than nothing.

”Do I look cool? Well, do I? DO I?”, etc.

Even then, I’d shy away from other people. I’d go where it was quiet, or only play a machine that was unoccupied. I didn’t want the attention, or to jostle and barge with the bigger kids (which was all of them). I just wanted to enjoy these moments of magic for myself.

But slowly, this changed. Because when you’re battling your way through traffic on level four of Outrun, people start to watch. It doesn’t matter if the person at the wheel is popular or not. Or young or old, rich or poor, Brad Pitt or Peter Beardsley, when you’re playing Outrun, you’re all exactly the same. You’re all worth one credit. And when you start playing Gauntlet, and people join in, there’s a common language that transcends cliques, cultures and class divides, and maybe even a young boy’s mistrust of his peers. Because you don’t shoot the food. You leave it for the weakest.

And slowly, through these shared experiences, I came out of my shell. I learnt to interact with people I met, to laugh and joke, and to curse in an entertaining way. I became known and respected, both for my gaming prowess and my witty repartee. The same thing happened at school, and again at college. After graduating I set up a chain of hugely successful nightclubs, all bankrolled by my blossoming personality, and am now often found with an attractive, adoring blonde hanging off my arm. I am, in fact, Peter Stringfellow.

A nice picture with some highly Photoshoppable text.

Yes, I’m lying again. I never socialised, nor was I ever good at arcades. And the blondes are all employees. Truth is, nothing really changed. When the caravan park got really busy, late in the evening, the music blaring and people in their coolest clothes, hanging out and flirting on the dance-floor, I’d still have rather sawn off a leg with a rusty penknife than venture anywhere near them. I’d be holed up in the caravan, nose in a book, trying to blot out the sound of other people having fun, which isn’t easy, when the walls are made of a substance similar to economy recycled toilet paper.

It’s strange how things change as you grow older. The coast is now one of my favourite places to visit. There’s something about its faded glory I sympathise with. And as for caravans? I own one. Not the Father Ted type, a nice big one.

Blissful solitude. Apart from the just out-of-shot stoners with bastarding bongos.

Yes, I know I said I hated them, but yet again, I’ve been a bit Jeffrey Archer with the truth. Try huddling under the duvet whilst listening to the rain bounce off the roof – it’s the safest, snuggest feeling in the world. I did hate those holidays back then, but when I go now, it’s on my own terms. I walk the beach for hours at a time, forgetting the smog of London with every step. I stare at the sea, the single most powerful thing on this planet, and feel all the stupid petty things I’ve been worrying about gently ebb away. And I play the arcades, because they’re moments of magic, which enchant me every time I play them. And I have them all to myself.

CHANT, August 2004.

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