C**v Holiday Paradise
The following events happened many years ago. The C**v phenomenon had not yet come to the attention of the media, Burberry was not in, but the spirit of the C**v was very much alive and well then, as it is now…
Picture the scene: A bike ride from John O’Groats to Land end. Two young and very posh public school lads weary from the road approach what we surmised from the map to be a delightful Scottish seaside town in Ayrshire. Or at least that is what we presumed. It had a campsite and from this we deduced – a holiday town! How lovely! Must be a nice place. We were genuinely looking forward to stopping there for the night.
Suspicions were aroused on entering the Saltcoats/Stevenston/Androssan conurbation. What seaside resort has giant industrial works by the beach we asked. Scottish ones we presumed. And lo! What is that encampment down there, the one than looks like a holding centre for POWs, with razor wire surrounding it and separated from the beach by a railway line? Our campsite no less! Well lets check it out!
We pitched our tent by the razor wire next to the railway line. One solitary tent in a field of fixed –position caravans. We were the true peasants of the campsite.
Or so we thought. With little else to do, we headed to the campsite pub. We stayed for one pint. One obnoxious c******e addressed my friend, but with her back to him as she did so, so my friend was not aware that she was speaking to him and anyway, neither of her could decipher her local dialect. The offence caused by this –“Oi e’hm toilking ti ya!”, coupled with our own home countyness – “we truly are most terribly sorry” and the fact that all in the bar were now looking at as, and all were die hard chavscum to boot, meant that we felt pretty uncomfortable. So we decided to ditch our pints in favour of a nice cuppa brewed up on an epigas stove and the comfort of our 1.5 man tent.
As usually happens, I needed to piss that evening. So off I went to the local portakabin, which doubled as the campsite s*****r. Clearly the campers preferred to piss on each other’s caravans, for the toilet was instead used as a hangout for the younger holidaying male c***s of the site, perhaps the ones banned from the pub. Five spotty, spikey haired ruptuaries greeted me on entry to the toilets, none of the ablouting themselves, but instead smoking fags, and possibly shooting up (I did see a syringe in on the grass in the campsite, which was nice). Obviously the toilet was the place to hang. And I presume the girls were having an equally pumping time down at the ladies.
I can assure you that it is extremely difficult to piss in a urinal when a five jock chavscum are watching you do it. My dick was out, but there was no flow. The awkward situation lingered. Then I zipped up and walked out without yielding a drop. My toilet buddies burst out in laughter as I did so. From then on it was the grass for me.
We opted for an early night. We did not get it. Unfortunately we had pitched our tent rather to close to the campsite “Nite Club”. The tunes cranked out. Finally it came to a particulalry obnoxious hit of the time, the one with the chorus that goes “Alice? Who the F**k is Alice?!!!!” This was an enormous hit because the c***s could belt out the chorus, swearing in unison. Clearly it was great for them because it gave them the opportunity to say “f**k” for a legitimate reason, and so ad colour to their otherwise dour and pointless lives. The song was such a hit that they played an encore and then another, and another. It was so popular, they did not bother with any other tunes that night.
When the club closed at 4am. The c***s all spilled out singing their favourite song. And because they liked it so much, one of them obviously got a mate to come round and continue the party. The sound of a souped-up escort screamed up to the parking in front of the club and proceeded to belt out the who the f**k is Alice tune for another hour on the cars obviously souped up stereo (c**v speciality). The communal bonding experience of swearing in unison continued to the wee hours. If I had a hand grenade, I swear I would have thrown it in their midst
We left quietly the next morning, as early as possible.