Life’s a beach

H;mm beachy

I have spent much of the last two days in a state best described as “Moderately Damp”. This level of external moistness normally fires up the hedgy bilge pump to spray out exactly how wet/unhappy/in receipt of ‘trench willy’ my latest bike ride was. And followingsome random punctuation and naughty words, comes invariably a whinge that the bad weather has got personal, and there’s no one left to complain to.

Not today. An opportunisic very long weekend saw us heading out to the Welsh Riveria where golden beaches and stunning backdrops await. Not that we ever got that far, because a late start and early finish bracketed our sandy day. Which had started with a well known “low cost” tyre emporium cheerfully explaining that a) two tyres for the mighty Love Bus would be£330, b) They didn’t have any and c) tracking was extra.

How can it be extra? I am a major shareholder, surely, after that purchase and deserve some owner perks? And no wonder they didn’t have any, because at that price, I assume some Cuban virgin is hand rolling fresh rubber on her supple thighs. Hang on a minute, I just need to… er one more minute.. no I’m good…. right, as you were. Anyway I spurned their request for a large bucket of cash in return for some vague promise of future service, and instead deposited Baldy The Mini-Truck at the local garage.

Who, without any reference to far-flung, rubber rolling maidens, did the job in quarter of the time for about half the cost. This says to me that certain chains – okay KwikFit – are a bunch of racketeering, scaremongering rapscallions, and I shall not be darkening their telephone lines again. This is the first, and probably, last time the hedgehog does Public Service Broadcasting, and so I’d appreciate it if you could shout “THEIVING BASTARDS” ever time you pass one of their dens of financial inequity.

Anyway the beach was lovely, unspoiled and vast. The dog was mad, mentally disturbed and much chastised. The kids were briefly cold, often wet and full of the kind of smiles that only sand and ice cream can bring. I was merely sunburned on my extensive thin bit, and mildly exercised removing Murf from other peoples sandwiches.

The huge caravan park however is something else. It’s evenly split between people waiting to die, and those who are drinking such industrial quantities of cheap cider, they may soon be joining them. It was properly tacky with a betting shop on site, adjacent to a nasty looking greasy cafe and a gaudy bingo hall. It is also pretty close to my idea of hell, but – on walking through it – it seems I was in a minority of one. Although since I was the only bloke sober or not on life support in a twenty acre radius, this may have been contributory.

It’s not me being some kind of intellectual snob here. Mainly because I have neither the intellect or upbringing to be either, but I just don’t understand why you’d cage yourself in camp of 300 identical caravans, while there are delights aplenty all around. I am worryingly starting to view canvas bell tents in a non ironic manner, but the only good thing I can say about these caravans is at least they weren’t blocking a major arterial highway.

Having just about dried off, today we took 10 of Verbal’s friend’s swimming, ratcheting up the excitement with a huge floaty activity thingymebob*, before shovelling a zillion sugared calories and a similar number of e-numbers into their hungry stomachs. Parents love these swim parties as they get 2 hours of child-free weekend bliss. Having seen those kids at the end of the party, I’m not sure they’ve fully got the risk/reward gig here.

Anyway I must off to go battle with the eye high weeds with the Al modified strimmer**, because tomorrow the weather is again set fair. I think it would be wholly inappropriate not to enjoy that on some kind of bicycle.

* I fell off it three times. And then stopped, because I’d swallowed most of the pool. I told the kids I was merely prat-falling to amuse their little minds. They’re 10 and too lifeworn for that “Yeah, whatever“.

** Oh yes. Only a proper engineer can see something electrically certified and clearly dangerous, before thinking “right, to give it a bit of a kick, let’s simply convert it to NITRO“,

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