Five pieces of doggerel loosely to do with motorised accommodation units in a Scottish context.

These were written at various times, provoked by midges, the Covid restrictions, the Great Baillieston-Sturgeon Motorhome scandal, and the dozens of ‘stealth vans’ currently infesting Shetland…

The elderly traveller’s farewell to camper vans and motorhomes

A camper van’s not for the likes of me

Waking at well past midnight for a pee

Braving a blizzard for the toilet block

And finding that the door’s securely locked

You happily paid extra for permission 

The campsite key is in the van’s ignition 

And now you are regretting last night’s curry

Your bowels demand expulsion in a hurry

You cannot hold on for a moment more

And with one kick you break open the door

Such sweet relief! But just a moment later

Your realise there is no toilet paper

And so, half-naked with an unclean ass

You’re rolling frenziedly upon the grass

When to your intense consternation 

You meet another camper’s pet Alsatian 

Who, puzzled by your presence on the ground

Identifies the object that he’s found

As a generally suitable location

For practising aggressive mastication 

So: bitten, bleeding, trouserless and sore

You realise you can’t take it anymore 

And swear the traveler’s life is not for you

You need a warm and well-lit flushing loo

And not some caravan’s internal cludgie

With fumes that would exterminate a budgie

No Romany or gypsy, it would seem

Ruling it unhygienic in the extreme

Would permit such an accumulation

Within their  clean and mobile habitation 

So take those motor homes, scrap them all forthwith!

Drive all the Winnebagos off a cliff

From this moment on I’ll rent a bed

In a hotel or b&b instead

With proper beds a six-foot male can fit

And somewhere I can comfortably shit.

This is not a motorhome (The Covid mobility song)

No need to  stay inside any more

That Nigel Farage he knows the score

After all, he fought in the Second World War

Says the Mail on Sunday

Thought I’d drive up to Scotland to go for a walk

Employ my mum as a nanny just so we can talk

Try and stop her drinking so much Aftershock

At least on a Monday

Now I’m staying alert on the M6 Motorway

I know Scotland won’t turn me away

I can’t leave the old dear to suffer alone

Don’t tell me I’m driving a motorhome

This is a campervan

Well I phoned my mother in Milngavie

She said she was OK for supplies

She was quite prepared to die

With deliveries from Waitrose

She was having no bother filling her time

Sewing masks from old bras and selling them 

online

And Zoom parties nightly with jagermeister red wine 

A few proseccos

Now I’m staying alert on the M6 Motorway

I know Scotland won’t turn me away

I can’t leave the old dear to suffer alone

Don’t tell me I’m driving a motorhome

This is a campervan

I might sneak up Loch Lomondside

Down to Argyll

Jump on a ferry to one of the isles

I’ve had some masks made in an artisan style

They give immunity

I’m sure the locals will welcome us there

Just  up from London to get some fresh air

I was born in Bearsden where people really care

About community

Now I’m staying alert on the M6 Motorway

I know Scotland won’t turn me away

I can’t leave the old dear to suffer alone

Don’t tell me I’m driving a motorhome

This is a campervan

The Passing Place (The North Coast 500 confessions of an angry crofter) 

Frankly, I think it’s an utter disgrace

To find a motorhome parked in a passing place

A big, ugly Bessacar, its awning erected

Was really the last thing I had expected

A Suzuki Ignis to its arsehole was hitched

They were emptying the toilet tank into the ditch

Which was filling up quickly with the family’s shite

They’d evidently been there the whole of the night

I was driving a Seven Series John Deere

A four-wheel-drive fitted with silage bale spears

I was moving slowly and came in at an angle

The motorhome flipped and eventually dangled

Over a small drop to the lochan below

I allowed them out, and then  let go

Suzuki and Bessacar tumbled into the water

To hysterics from dad, mum, son, granny and daughter

I shouted: “Fear not! There’s no need to be nervous!

I own the only local recovery service!

And for a reasonable fee I’ll extract car and van

Or at least  I’ll try to. I’ll do what I can.

Or just phone the RAC or the AA.”

And with that I reversed and drove swiftly away

I admit, with a satisfied smile on my face

There’s no mobile signal in that passing place.

And God created midges

I dreamt I went to heaven, and that’s by no means certain

I said  to God, “listen, I have a question

In all of your creation, so wondrous and rich

Why did you give Scotland the  evil of the  midge?

We could’ve had Koala bears or cockatoos

Elephants and pandas, meerkats or kangaroos

Is it that you hate us? I sometimes think you do

You made us play the bagpipes

And gave us those neighbours too.”

God said, “oh Scotland

You are divinely blessed

Of all the countries I have made

I think that you’re the best

A few small imperfections

That’s the price you have to pay

You’re where I like to go on holiday.”

“But I take your name in vain,”I said

“I scratch and itch

Due to Cullicoides impunctatus

The biting midge

I inhaled a swarm in Ullapool 

I spluttered and I coughed

And nearly poisoned myself

With Avon Skin So Soft.”

God said “I will admit

The bagpipes were a joke

As for making men wear dresses

That was a masterstroke 

But divinity must be amused

And when I traverse the Cuillin Ridge

I enjoy infesting motorhomes with my favourite breeds of midge”

I prayed: “If midges can keep camper vans away

Dear Lord, release a billion more today!”

The Baillieston Camper

Please confiscate that campervan                               

It’s been sitting there for years

Tyres are flatter than Conservative opinion polls

It’s driven us nowhere except to tears

The neighbours I must say are less than happy

They think someone’s making crystal meth inside

I parked it in that drive a year so ago

The DVLA say they weren’t notified

We drove it to Dunfermline in the darkness

Stopped in South Queensferry for a cup of tea

I heated up some water in the microwave

Watched Question Time on satellite TV

All we wanted was a wee Volkswagen microbus

Something classic that was cool and yet discreet

Instead we got this hundred grand monstrosity

I couldn’t even park it in our street

Don’t call me Heisenberg

Don’t call me Walter

I’m innocent, i’m totally bereft

We were going to catch a ferry

Calmac to the Western isles

Until we found there weren’t any ferries left

I dreamt of wearing beads, sandals and kaftans

And heading off along the hippy trail

I had a friend who did it in the 60s

He’s still in Kathmandu and still in jail

I hoped we’d spend some time over in Lewis

Party with Angus and the local party there

But every time I booked the camper on a ferry

Calmac said they didn’t have a ferry spare

Don’t call me Heisenberg

It’s not the Krystal Ship

This isn’t Albuquerque, we’re in Fife

Please,  go ahead and confiscate

Or auction off that campervan

A motorhome’s for summer 

Noone told.me it’s for life

Please don’t tell the wife