When powerful European cars were first imported into this country they became an instant status symbol, but those that bought them (having been used to the mysteries and rituals of starting and driving away one of British Ley-Line's boxes of witchcraft) soon found the driving experience lacked a certain something. Unused to the sheer speed, stability and sleeknesss of the these Teutonic beauties our motorists became dejected; driving was now too easy. There were no more long conversations in pubs about the best way to start your Triumph Sodomite, no fist fights over the relative merits of MK I and MK II Morris Hedgerows. Motoring had lost its pioneering edge, now anybody could buy a car and drive it without having to learn those endearing little idiosyncrasies that had made the Sunday day-trip such a thrilling experience.
What could be done? Someone had an idea that was so simple, and yet so brilliantly effective it changed the face of British holiday-making. The motoring caravan (or "travel trailer" in the pagan colonial parlance favoured by Americans) was introduced to British roads. A small tin box on weeks (ideal for amplifying the inevitable arguments and/or concilliatory lovemaking), the caravan made these new cars sluggish and unstable. It was perfect. Now people could travel all over the place and take a small version of their home with them so they could pretend they actually hadn't gone anywhere at all. Instead of having to constantly switch lanes to annoy other drivers (a bore, but oh so necessary) they could now block all lanes with a minimum of effort. Another status symbol was born.
For a certain class though, those with a certain kind of outlook unsupported by the right kind of income there was a quandary. They could afford either a caravan or the nice powerful car required to pull it, but not both. For these poor souls the solution was to buy the caravan, have it delivered and parked in your garden - in full view - and, the masterstroke, leave it there forever.
Drive through any small town or suburb in the UK and you'll know when you hit that certain pocket of people, that sub-set of the population who are more interested in how they appear to be than how they really are. The evidence is all there; a tiny little Japanese car and a lumpy big caravan rooted to the lawn - an ideal place for daughters to get pregnant after parties.
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