Where Pissheads Dare...
My school and college amigos traditionally get together during the first week in September at a well known rural Beer Festival in Essex to drink warm ale and shoot the breeze. We turn up on a Wednesday, pitch tents at our usual spot and head into the grounds of a charmingly delapidated railway museum where the "pisscatorial" takes place.

We're a quiet bunch these days and usually keep ourselves to ourselves. The gentle pace of the countryside surroundings does not lend itself to Club 18-30 style party antics, so the most controversial we ever get is the occasional lazy game of cricket between slow sips next to our tents.

One Thursday afternoon however, my enjoyment of the obituary section of the Times was ruined when a dozen caravans, towed by the most obnoxious of 4x4 type vehicles turned up in our field and to our intense irritation, roped off a section twenty feet away from us and parked in formation within the boundary.

I harbour a seething hatred of the masses who tow one of Satan's Portakabins along East Anglia's B roads, especially when I need to be somewhere so I was even more convinced of the innate selfishness of the caravan club when they insisted continuing the fun late in the evening after the festival's chucking out time. Not only had they turned up and annexed a sizeable portion of the field - OUR field - but the bastards were still noisily doing whatever they do at 1am, ensuring that the rest of the field was kept awake.

Next morning, we arose bleary eyed and hungover to note that the caravanners had erected a large green marquee, complete with a flagpole and a green flag emblazoned with the "Swift Carvanning Club" logo fluttering proudly in the breeze.

Cunts. Utter, utter cunts...

Something just had to be done. With military precision, we planned a reprisal raid on their marquee.

11pm that evening saw drinkers ambling slowly from the railway museum back to their beds. We were the first to leave the festival as we had a cunning plan. The very symbol of their B road clogging tyranny was our target of choice for the flag had to go. One of our number, Nomis, was a serving member of the TA and his military experience was invaluable.

Silhouetted against the green tents in the moonlight, we crept toward the marquee, crouching to avoid the moonlight. The gentle late summer breeze covered the sound of orders being whispered down our ranks as we maintained the crucial element of surprise.

Nomis himself was first on the scene and tried to lower the hated symbol of our tormentors. However, the flag was secured by a stiff cable, not the nylon twine we had planned for. A small but dangerously sharp penknife was produced which failed to make a scratch. The operation had one trick up it's sleeve.

Mark had a brainwave and with great stealth was sent back to retrieve his calor gas stove. This was sparked into life with the intention of weakening the cable in the flame so we could hack away at it. The dim blue flame of the stove was easily concealed from view (remember, this was an open field) by two of us holding jackets around Mark from a safe distance. Amazingly, several caravanners walked past within twenty feet, unable to see us in the darkness and no doubt unable to locate the source of the muted "hiss" from the stove.

Nathan produced a Leatherman, which snipped through the nylon and wire cable, now weakened from the intense heat. Success!

The flag was lowered and using great stealth, we retreated back to our lines carrying the prize stashed in a jacket as if it were the Fallen Madonna with ze big boobies. You know the famous picture of the Red Army soldier lowering the swastika from the Reichstag in 1945? Well we knew exactly how that bloke must have felt.

Triumphantly, several cans of ale were broken open as we toasted our operation. We then turned in for the night and waited for the fallout the next morning.

Seven hours later, we emerged from our tents as the scale of our sabotage became clear. The green marquee was flaccidly fluttering in the breeze, as the flag cable we'd taken out lowered the pointed roof. A scorch mark was visible on the length of broken cable flapping uselessly as a number of caravanners ambled around as if shellshocked, clearly knowing that they'd been hit but unable to fully comprehend how. A few were half heartedly looking in the surrounding bushes for evidence of their flag.

By five thirty that afternoon, the Swift Caravanning Club had dismantled their cordon and began to depart from the field one by one under a heavy cloud of defeat.

A great moral victory was one that night and our gallant commander Nomis still owns the charred remnants of their flag.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 10 Jan 2008, 18:54, 8 replies)

Great story.
And Chappell beer fest is ace.

APU student perchance?

Oooh and I'm greatly amused at the irony inherent in a caravan club calling themselves 'swift'.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 10 Jan 2008, 19:27, closed)

Spot on that man
Yep, Chappel it is.

I'm an ex student of a local Comprehensive who's name is shared with the bloke who was behind "The Lovers Guide" and of course Colchester's wonderful Sixth form College.

It's the little things that satisfy so much, knowing that these smug bastards dragging Beelzeebub's Site Offices behind their Toyota Wankahs met their match that day.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 10 Jan 2008, 22:08, closed)

Had it been me
I'd have kept on playing cricket until the ball 'accidentally' hit one of their windows. But I'd then have been caught (not in the cricketing sense) and probably had to pay for it. Your method was far more subtle. I love it.

Well done!

*click*
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 11 Jan 2008, 8:31, closed)

Being a resident of Devon
I am of the opinion than caravans should be outlawed, and their owners roundly mocked until they cry.

Well done!
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 11 Jan 2008, 10:29, closed)

learn something new everyday...
didn't realise you could fish in a delapidated railway museum.....
(Studentken is looking for motivation on, Fri 11 Jan 2008, 11:55, closed)

a little glimmer of joy to carry with you
if it makes you feel any better, I once blew up a caravn with an anti-tank rocket. What Ian M Banks might call "an excession".

Sadly, it was neither full, nor being towed (or even hitched) at the time, but it's the principle.

They can be defeated.
(pounana Slept well, and dreamed of large women, on, Mon 14 Jan 2008, 12:55, closed)

A brilliantly told story
& a reference to Allo Allo.
That my lad gets you a “clickity woo”
( The magic of chutney Shakes it like an Instagram filter!, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 15:17, closed)

Great story
Aah everyone should have a Chappel beer fest story, unfortunately none I have heard thus far compares to this.

As a former student of the local school named after the sweary chef me and my mates spent many hours in or around that festival since we were old enough to get away with it. Brings back fond memories...

*click*
(KangerooFlapjack, Wed 16 Jan 2008, 14:08, closed)