Let’s parler campingcar

We older market researchers have a thing called comparative data. They work like this: I go to one camping site and think “That was pretty good”. Then I go to a second site and think, “That wasn’t as good”. So my data on the first site change to saying “That was brilliant”, and the second site’s review becomes “That was pretty ordinary”. See that – that’s yer comparative data, that is.

Le Camping du Pont in the centre of Avignon gets **** from The Slogship Enterprose. Le Camping des Mures here in the Var gets ** thus far. And the nice lady in the supermarket gets both stars to herself. The rest of the camp – while clean, spacious, and just off a fabulous beach – is badly run. It is run for income maximisation, not value for money.

Some examples of this follow. The refill for camping car drinking water is slap bang next to the kids’ play area. This means that every day, twenty times a day, incompetent old drivers of seven-metre monsters drive into the area, and instantly mums scurry around gathering up kids, dogs and bikes that might be crushed inadvertently. All the pitches are numbered on the ground plan, but not on the ground itself, as such. So even in the current low season, camping cars are chuntering around while two small heads inside swivel like characters in The Exorcist, desperately trying to find numbers, but discovering only carefully repainted yellow backgrounds…the site owners not having got round to repainting the red numbers.

This morning, I discovered that the sink was blocked. Given that, on researching camping cars before purchase, I noticed that almost all the pipes seemed to travel uphill, I wasn’t surprised by this. What I was astonished by, however, was that Campsite Reception hadn’t got a clue what to do about it. So it was at this point that Ingenuity Ward once more came into his own.

Pretty much every conduit for water in a motor home is plastic, and very occasionally, rubber. So using any of those products variously called Blast, Bang, and Krranng! could be disastrous, in that one would clear the blockage, but melt every viaduct in the process. So it was that Slog the Sleuth turned to the local supermarket in search of bleach and white spirit. Both were available. Anyway, mix em up, pour the suspension down the plughole, and then an hour later pour some boiling water after it….Robert est ton oncle, blockage gone: end of.

………………

Watching kids play soccer on a campsite shows what’s wrong with the modern game. The infant footie here involves Germans, Italians, French and Dutch, but the commonality is the way in which they celebrate a goal.

There are weaving motions, funny hip-swivels, woo-woo-woos, but little or no appreciation of the strategy behind the result. I only mention this to point out the exception to the rule. Because in every kids’ footie game, there is always one player who gets it.

That sole player is usually (I’ve found) of medium height, thoughtful expression, and perfect physical balance. In all seriousness, I can watch all such games at any level, and spot this kid within minutes. He gives the telling pass, appreciates the skill of his teammates, and cuts out the attack on his own side. He has vision. He is the future…the next Beckenbauer.

At the very most, 1% of these children will make it to the top in the game. What worries me is that they might carry the DNA of ego forward and ruin the sporting love of my life still further…from the beautiful game to the bastard gamin.

I hope not. Lionel Messi is living proof that this need not necessarily be so.

Earlier at The Slog: Any old irony in British politics – the madness of EU elections