Road Rage, Scrotes and Rich Tea Biscuits

            I’ve tried to hold back, truly I have…but now, (and as they say in ‘Poltergeist’)...

“They’re here”. And worse than that, they’ll be limping around these parrrts for the next six months. Yes, the annual event that is ‘Scrotefest’ is upon us once again.

Namely, the caravans have arrived.

Yes, the people for whom road rage was invented are back. The sun is out; the daffs are giving it the large, but any thoughts that turn to jumping in the funmobile and fucking off out of it for a bit, are immediately thwarted by these tea towel-wielding, tea flask pouring, (just how you like it, love) berks with their tidy barnets, ‘sweaters’ and packets of bastard Rich Tea biscuits. They’re out there now (the fuckers) and their sole purpose in life is to scupper the average motorist’s plans to reach any destination, anywhere on the planet, this side of fucking doomsday. Ye Gods! I’d love to chin them all!

You just know (as day is day, and night is night) that heading up this lot is a caravan containing Mr and Mrs Scrotey-Pants who are sucking on Trebor mints between tunlessly humming 'King Of The Road'.

Not only do these gusset scrapings take to the road under the pretence of acting in the ‘spirit of adventure’ but they do it at such a two-toed sloth pace that the rest of the motoring population are queued up behind them (unless of course, it’s a dual carriageway or a motorway, in which case proper traffic can breeze past the offenders with a loose hand gesticulation and hoot of abuse from the passenger window).     

And I’m sorry, but there’s no spirit of adventure. In fact, I’d say there’s more spirit of adventure in Prince Philip’s undercrackers. No, it’s basically dragging a micro version of your home around, with all your ‘little comforts’ and things ‘just so’ as obviously the thought of entering the ‘unknown’ (to you and me, a guest house, B&B or a hotel) renders them heady and breathless and reaching for a back copy of the Radio Times. Spirit of Adventure? My fucking arse.

And half of the fuckers go to the same fucking caravan site each year! Grrrrr! Have you ever clocked them? Hoards of the fuckers, all sitting in their poxy fold-up chairs and looking smug as they nurse a ‘nice cup of tea’. Someone pass me a flame thrower (and make it snappy).

And what’s the deal with the fuckers that tow a car behind them? I’m telling you, sometimes a six-year stretch for manslaughter looks like good value…learn a new language, save on gas bills, one up the Khyber…

This disgruntled motorist takes things into his own hands. Having followed his tormentors to their destination, he nicks the caravan keys during their afternoon nap and locks the fuckers in. Furthermore, he takes away their shit and piss bucket and steals their Rich Tea biscuits. He is a top man.

So, as you may have guessed, I’m not a happy bunny. I’ll never get to the beach this summer (and it’s only down the sodding road).

And if I ever hear any of these scrotes making mention of the ‘thrills of the open road’ (and all that fanny), I may not be accountable for my actions.

And furthermore, I (most definitely) fart in their general direction.

Thank you and goodnight.