Andrew Royle and all his clan,
would set of with their caravan.
Then with his wife and kids installed,
inside the car, would start to bawl.
And off they'd go on their long jaunt,
until they reached some windswept haunt,
a place so barren, bleak and stark,
that they would call, a caravan park.

Whilst Rosemary would bath the tots,
and make the tea, and wash the pots,
and put the children all to bed,
and work 'til she was nearly dead.
Andrew would spend the night and morning,
wrestling with the dreaded awning.

If there was any work to do,
like fetching water, cleaning poo,
like finding Alice's lost shoe or Cameron's lost cap,
you'd find Andrew, locked in the loo with atlas and with map.
Then when all of the work was done,
he would appear in time for "fun",
and take all of his family to,
some stormswept cliff to see the view.
Is that a tern? Is that a shag?
Oh no, it's just a plastic bag,
that's blowing wildly in the gale,
the rain, the sleat, the snow and hail.

Then they'd return unto the van,
for half-cooked chips and pre-war spam.
Some bread they bought last year on Harris,
and Aldi chocolate, from Beaumaris.

Then once the party had been fed,
and all the children put to bed,
then round would come some strange old goat,
or woman with some anecdote,
of how they traveled up that day,
from Exeter or from Torbay,
or some such place I do not know,
and really wouldn't care to go.
Then they'd proceed to prattle on,
about the things that had gone wrong.
Of how they lost their hats and coats,
whilst wandering round John O'Groats.
And on and on and on they'd talk,
until a donkey couldn't walk,
as its hind legs would have to be,
refitted by vets surgically.

The next day if they could swing it,
they'd link up with some relative.
Who'd feed their kids and wash the pots,
would entertain their charming tots,
whilst they'd pop off for half a tick,
and vanish for the day to Wick.
Now you'd think Andrew would have the brains,
whilst cruising down those country lanes,
to give way to a tanker-load,
of petroleum spirit on the road.
But no, in a ditch at quite an angle,
it now rests with suspension mangled.

So take a tip from one whose been,
if an invitation you should glean,
to holiday somewhere with this clan,
and their accursed caravan.
A trip with Sophie, Cam and Alice?
You'd get more peace at Basra Palace.