• ‘I have won a Princess Nova caravan‘, 17 Sep 2009, in which the news breaks.
• ‘Meet the Princess Nova‘, 21 Sep 2009, in which the caravan is described.
• ‘What will I do with the Princess Nova?‘, 22 Sep 2009, in which I realise I have no idea about caravans.
• ‘The song that won a million hearts‘, 25 Sep 2009, in which I give the lowdown on how the song came about.
• ‘The Princess and the answers to unasked questions‘, 25 Sep 2009, an update on practical preparations for the caravan.
• ‘Fit for a Princess‘, 4 Oct 2009, totally impractical preparations for the caravan handover and photoshoot.
• ‘Rolling out the red carpet‘, 13 October 2009, I get a towbar.
• ‘She’s our princess now…‘, 19 October 2009, in which we are given the caravan.
• ‘Be a man: tow a caravan‘, 21 October 2009, in which I am thrown in at the caravanular deep end.
• ‘The Princess photo shoot‘, 23 October 2009, in which I tell the tale of the promotional photo shoot.
• ‘Judgement day revelations‘, 26 October 2009, in which I crow at the people who didn’t win.

One final thing occurs to me to tell you about our acquisition of the Princess Nova caravan.

The judging of the limerick/song/rap competition to win the Princess was, apparently, very involving. White Stuff‘s Georgie and one colleague trawled through all 3,500 entries one by one.

They divided the entries up into ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘Maybe’ piles. Then they realised that the ‘Maybe’ pile might as well be the ‘No’ pile too, if there were any ‘Yes’s.

The ‘Yes’ pile was then whittled down into a Top 10, which was wrapped up and delivered with a reverential hush to the CEO of White Stuff.

A winner and a runner-up were duly chosen.

And get this: this decision was reached on words alone. Only after they had decided on the winner did they listen to my masterly recording of the rap. This revelation was catnip to Christine, whose work most of the words were.

What I find most brilliant about the whole process is that, when the winner was announced on the White Stuff website, they received complaints.

Apparently, people wrote in to White Stuff saying that, had they known that it was not just limericks, but poems, songs or raps that were allowed, they would have tried harder. The beauty of this to me is that, it was made perfectly clear all the way along.

But that sadsacky brand of huffy shoulda-woulda-coulda is just so brilliant when you’re on the winning team.

This is one in the eye for all those customers who came up to me when I was working at MVC and told me it was “against the law” to advertise a sale as being “From” £4.99.

But fear not, losers. I shall not crow. After all, Jols and I spent hours and hours coming up with a winning phrase to score something inane from Fentimans soft drinks company a few years back. Our best effort? “Fentimans? Fermentimans!”

I still think we should have won that. You wouldn’t belieeeve the one that did.

Well, that’s about all.

jx

We didn’t enter the caravan competition to win it. Well, I didn’t, anyway. I entered it so that Jols and I could plough a disproportionate amount of time and energy into writing some lyrics that would easily be the greatest ever written, and so we could then indulge in a hearty dessert of outrage that the prize had been given to same lame-arsed ‘optimised’ effort constructed by a professional competition enterer.

This was the amount of psychological commitment I invested in the ‘Princess and the P-Reg’ project.

I was not prepared to find myself sitting in front of a chintzy pimped caravan in  the middle of a rain-swept Worcester High Street at school home-time, sipping champagne and mugging for the camera. But if I have learned anything in the last decade or so, it’s to mask a lack of preparedness with gusto.

As mentioned previously, the White Stuff people had generously towed the caravan to Worcester and decked us out in free clothes in order to get a bit of PR out of the whole thing. Who were we to object?

I haven’t seen the photos – they are apparently going to be touted round the high-circulation caravan magazines, of which there are many – but I imagine my amazing ‘trap’ double-chin will put in a solid cameo, and my ‘stress eye’ (an unknown characteristic prior to our wedding photos being developed) will do its very best Captain Darling impression.

During the shoot, the good folk of Worcester trudged by more or less without comment, but one or two schoolkids milled around and pronounced our new acquisition “well good”. I managed to blank everything that was going on around me, and just act as stupidly as possible, which I’m sure to the White Stuff crowd just looked like I was acting like a normal human being.

The only bit of control I managed to retain over the proceedings was the growing of a couple of mil’s worth of beard, which should have the effect of making me look tired and/or homeless. Certainly it led people at work to give me a wide berth, assuming I’d got divorced or lost a relative or something.

Luck was on my side for one aspect of the event. The White Stuff contingent let slip that one of my work colleagues had found a moment in his busy schedule to contact the White Stuff press office and ask for the photos. After mulling this point for a while, I vetoed the suggestion (ever the fun suck hole), and we came up with the compromise of taking a ‘special’ photo to send him.

As ever,

jx

PS. I withdraw my scorn at Catherine for letting the Birmingham Mail photographer snap her in a happy-go-lucky ‘elbow on pile of books’ pose – a shot which has yet to surface.

PPS. Oh, look:

One of the steepest learning curves of my driving life was learned in reverse last Thursday, when we picked up our prize of a Princess Nova caravan from the Worcester White Stuff store.

Decked out in brand new clobber (for the attendant photo shoot), I listened as the ever-industrious Mick, who had been towing the Princess from Cornwall to Scotland and back all summer, gave me the skinny on how to tow a caravan.

“Have you ever towed a caravan before?”
“Urr, no.”
“Have you ever towed anything before?”
“Umm…”

He smiled, picked the thinnest roll-up in the world from between his lips, and exhaled smoke.

“It’s a piece of cake,” he said.

Turns out it’s a fairly large piece of sherry trifle cheesecake with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

When your speed limit’s 70, go at 60; when it’s 60, go at 50. If you’re on the motorway and the van starts to veer, then speed up, don’t slow down, or it’ll jack-knife and you’ll all be dead (or something).

To connect it to the back of the car, reverse the car close, manhandle the caravan into place, lift that and crank that, then when it’s married, drop that. Then hoist that, and clip the emergency braking wire in place. Your caravan’s on. Then you can connect your two plug things, black-to-black and grey-to-grey — don’t get it wrong or you’ll blow the lot — and check your car lights are working through the caravan.

I nodded throughout this explanation, employing what I like to describe as my bullshit nod, which has seen me through university and many jobs besides. I arched my eyebrow through how to connect the wheel clamp and the hitchlock, and I hmmed and ahhed about how the gas bottle is connected.

Pulling away after the media circus (of which more anon) I was relieved and alarmed to find the Princess dutifully following. It was pissing it down, so I drove pretty slowly, and pulled some wiiiide turns. Jols and I winced and groaned as the satellite navigation dragged us over every speed hump in Kidderminster, and it was really only after this trial that we started to engage with the fact that we had nowhere to go.

The place where we had arranged to stow the Princess had long since shut for the day, and so Jols had made some enquiries at local caravan parks as to whether we could keep the Princess there for a night. One such park had “plenty of space”, but after we’d answered a few questions (“we don’t know exactly how long the caravan is”, “we won’t be staying in it overnight”), they suddenly found that they “didn’t have any space”.

Not only are caravan owners lepers to society, it seems that clueless competition-winning caravan owners are lepers-with-swine-flu to the lepers.

The day was saved (and not for the first time) by deeply generous and tolerant pals Lou and Mike, who lent us their driveway for the night, and kept a cheery outlook even after seeing the Princess.

Arrival at Lou and Mike’s driveway brought roll-up-touting-Mick’s final bit of advice back to me:

“The only real problem is reversing.”

As a queue of traffic began to form beside me, I struggled to recall:

“See, if you want it to go left, you turn right as you reverse. But not too hard, or it’ll jack-knife. You have to turn right, and then turn left to follow it on the arc. You’ll get the hang of it.”

That, my old son, is pressure parking.

jx

Well, what you’ve been asking about all this time has finally come to pass: the Princess is ours.

On Thursday Jols and I headed off to White Stuff’s new Worcester branch, where we were met by the very accommodating Georgie and co (up from London!), who were responsible for the whole ‘caravan’ promo. Georgie has, she told us with what you might classify an edgy laugh, carted the Princess from festival to festival, from Cornwall to the Isle of Wight, to Edinburgh and everywhere in between throughout the summer.

Life, she admitted, will be odd without the Princess. But Georgie’s made of strong stuff. After all, the White Stuff winter collection’s in, and she’s all about garden gnomes now. And it doesn’t stop there; apparently the campaign for summer 2010 is well under development, but no amount of prodding and pouting from Jols and me could tease a hint out of her as to what it’s all about – or what competitions they might be running.

What an odd job.

For all our don’t-know-what-to-do-with-a-caravan-ness, the White Stuff people have been very good to us; the Princess has been decked out inside and out by the woman who designs the stores, and so the wallpapered exterior has been matched by a wallpapered interior, a wallpapered picnic table, gilt-edged shelving and chintzy lampshades. Cushions have been specially made, a picnic hamper provided, but the pièce de résistance is an astroturfed step.

Quite against their Ts and Cs they carted the caravan from London to Worcester, and decked us out in White Stuff clobber so we would look the part for a few photos.

I shall do my best over the next few days to pen you a note about how all of this went.

The result of all this oddness is: the Princess is ours, and she now resides in a Secret Location in Deepest Shropshire.

Your pal

j

So we’ve been making the final preparations for the arrival of the Princess on Thursday. Jols has been researching into places we can keep it, and there’s a good looking storage depot only about 10 minutes away.

I sook out a place where I could get a towbar, and the lovely people at Copthorne Services carried out the following minor surgery on Lenny:

Quite natty, no?

And who knew it was so easy to get a number plate? A tenner to the local garage, a flutter of paperwork, and they’d got it within a couple of hours…

Now all we need is a pair of those crazy wing mirror extensions, and just a tiny idea of how on earth to drive while towing a caravan – and, more importantly, reverse – and we’ll be set.

Roll on thursday!

jx

In the continuing saga of the caravan, Jols and I have landed on a date of 15 October to meet up with White Stuff to take delivery of our Princess Nova and pose for some promotional photographs. The beard is coming along well, after a slight setback when I had to shave it off for the Roads Ahead book launch.

While working out the finer points, Georgie from White Stuff mentioned: “Of course, we’ll want you dressed head-to-toe in White Stuff clothes. Head off to the nearest store and get some ideas about what you’d like to wear…”

It will come as no surprise to you that it takes a situation of the gravest seriousness for me to hazard even a foot towards the changing rooms. I found myself in the Shrewsbury store, loaded up with a full five items to try on. Jols, for her part, flung herself into the task, and staggered up after me practically buckling under half a hundred-weight of White Stuff’s autumn collection.

“Oh my god,” the assistant actually muttered.

One quick explanation later, and by now ensconced in a packed-to-capacity changing room, Jols was subsequently referred to in hushed, reverential tones as “the caravan lady”.

It didn’t take me long to decide on my choice (by which I mean: I’m a man; we’re all the same shape; we’ll wear anything), and I settled into a nearby chair while Jols busied herself behind the curtain conjuring up some White Stuff magic.

We felt a bit bad departing the store having bought nothing, and leaving the staff to put the place back together – but the real work is yet to come: my wedding photos remind me it’ll take more than magic to wedge a comfortable smile into my face.

“Cheeeeeese…”

j

So I suppose we’d better start learning quickly about this caravan-ownership thing.

Where are we going to put it? As you know, we don’t have a driveway. Our house is not next to the road. It’s packed in amongst a bunch of other houses, and you can only get to it via a steep path, which narrows to maybe 80cm in places. No place for towing caravans.

There’s a car park down the hill — but the annual rent for a parking space is around £100, and, erm, the caravan is covered in chintzy yellow wallpaper. Given past experiences, the amount of grumbles-cum-complaints-cum-lawsuits we would have to endure in the first week make this completely unfeasible.

So, perhaps we could fall back on some kind friends to help us out.

Whichever way you carve this, we’re asking for someone to semi-permanently set aside 10 sq m of real-estate for a garish and quickly mildewing caravan that (history indicates) we’ll quickly forget all about. What we need here is some landed, generous friends who we don’t mind falling out with.

Which brings me to: family.

When Jols excitedly rang her dad to tell him the wonderful news, he said, ‘Oh, love, that’s great news! You’re not putting it on my driveway’.

I toyed with the idea of loading it with my childhood detritus and parking it across the road from my mum’s house, or maybe asking my dad to host it in the vast tracts of Ireland that currently surround him, but manners preclude.

So the answer to this question is still running wild. We’ll catch it in the end. Or it’ll catch us in the end.

Meanwhile, there are some other questions. For example, How make fit caravan on brum brum?

We’re going to have to get a towbar, and then — what — brakelights and all that? And a numberplate? Well, I’ve booked my poor car in to get a towbar fitted this coming Monday. The man at Copthorne Services was very understanding.

‘Do you want a single or a twin supply?’
‘Urrr…’
‘A single’s for if you want the battery charging and the fridge running while you’re driving.’
(Has it got a battery? Or a fridge?)
‘Urrr…’
‘Do you want a bag on your head?’
‘Urrr…’
‘We’ll see you on Monday’ [click]

Jols received an answer to another question we hadn’t yet asked: an insurance man phoned up and told her we’ve a year’s free insurance on the caravan. Who knew you had to get these things insured? Makes sense, I suppose. However, his friendly, uncomprehensive investigations turned up a few truths.

He: ‘So, where will the caravan be kept?’
She: ‘Urrr…’
He: ‘Ahh.’

The good thing about his phonecall is that he wants to borrow the Princess off us for a few days for the upcoming Camping & Caravanning Show at the NEC in Birmingham.

It’s like: sure thing! Give us a chance to find out what on earth we’re supposed to do with it…

Laters

jx

You were wondering about the song that won the caravan competition.

The history is this. Back in June 2008 I was reworking a novel; it was a very intense period. You know better than most that, faced with an intense period of work, I will apply myself doggedly to doing absolutely anything else.

After spending a leisurely Saturday morning with Jols seeking out all the theme tunes to kids’ TV shows from the 1970s and 80s on YouTube, I set about creating an electro pop opera in Garageband. I’d been listening to how Tim De Laughter of the Polyphonic Spree put his operatic pop together, and so I used that as a fulcrum to create The Adventures of Snoffler and the Wobbledog: a popera lasting about six minutes.

Jols locked this piece of information away in her little stove of ideas.

When White Stuff launched a competition to win a caravan by writing a limerick (‘or a rap or something’), Jols leapt on the opportunity. She spent the next several weeks reminding me that we ‘needed’ to get right on down to rewriting the lyrics of ’Are You The Wobbledog’ – a Tribe Called Quest-tinged rap from my popera.

I kept forgetting, for some reason.

So, cutting to the chase, we spent two sessions of several hours each writing new lyrics. Unlike myself, Jols is a stickler for standards – she really is excellent at this. I, faced with an intense period of work, will apply myself doggedly to doing absolutely anything else.

It was at this stage that I got my novel rewrites done.

So anyway, I sped the existing music up; cut it down to around a minute or so; and we rewrote and rewrote and rewrote the lyrics until Jols deemed every word a winner. I can’t remember who wrote what, but ‘ladythrone’ and ‘sassy little chassis’ are definite Jollisms, whereas ‘big end’ and ‘vehicular’ and general rhythmic choices tended to be mine.

Then I spent an hour or so recording the vocals, with old George Martin burying her head in a pillow for every take to stop herself giggling at my mockney accent.

Take after take after take was required to make the ‘car’ character ‘sound grateful enough’ at the end of the song. But we got there in the end, and popped an email off to White Stuff.

The rest, as they say, is a mystery.

your pal

jx

PS: I’ve also just made a video for the song. This wasn’t used to try and twist White Stuff’s arm, but if I’d known I could have submitted this, I would have done! Click here.

So have you got any idea what I’m going to do with this caravan?

I’ve had lots of suggestions from people.

Jonathan thought I should turn it into a mobile recording studio. I thought this was a great idea. Kris suggested a writing retreat. Even better. But both of these ideas mean I would have to leave the house and drive to the caravan to do it. It’s just not going to happen.

Dickon, ever the editor, thought I should try to get some capital out of it by doing something PR-able, or asking the high-circulation caravanning magazines if they wanted to feature it in any way. Then he suggested I try selling it to BBC’s Top Gear, as an excellent candidate for destruction. “You’d get some money for it, and White Stuff would get another round of publicity, so they’d be happy.”

Jols would never go for that.

Jon suggested I drive it slowly through London. It would be sure to get pilfered, piece by piece. It’d be gone by the time I got to the M1.

The one thing Jols and I have concluded between us is that we need to have a party. Matt suggested taking it to some caravan park and inviting loads of people over to camp.

Sounds like a plan.

You up for it?

jx

So: you were asking what I know about the caravan. Well, here’s a description lifted from some promo material, to whet your appetite:

Called ‘Princess Nova’ the caravan was extensively renovated before being decorated with vintage wallpaper and yellow paint for the panelling. A mini bar has been added alongside upgraded cooking facilities and a double bed.

White Stuff toured the caravan throughout the summer, starting at Henley Regatta, and taking in Cornbury Festival, Chagstock, the Limetree Festival and the Edinburgh Fringe before a grand finish at the Isle of Wight’s Bestival.

A well travelled princess indeed – I’m growing intimidated…

j

I have just won a caravan.

Not just any caravan, but Jols and my ‘winning’ song has bagged a Princess Nova that has been pimped, with retro wallpaper on the outside, and a mini-bar and a chemical toilet.

I know what you’re thinking: ‘But you hate caravans’.

Mm.

So what this leaves is a series of questions to which I don’t know the answer. I’m now going to try to answer those questions, for my own sake.

1) Where are you going to put it? You haven’t even got a driveway or a guaranteed parking space. Yeah… I suppose if Jols and I really thought about this, we wouldn’t have entered the competition. Perhaps it’s best we didn’t, eh?

2) Why did you enter the competition? The whole point of entering the competition was to create something really good that was going to make the people at White Stuff laugh. So literally: for a laugh. But we did want to win (without ever really entertaining the idea that we actually would).

3) Won’t the wallpaper come off in the rain? I have absolutely no idea if they’ve accounted for this at all. We’ll find out when we see it…

4) Are you going to keep the caravan? Now, I thought Jols and I had agreed between ourselves that if we won it we’d sell it. But winning seemed so unlikely we didn’t really have to firm that agreement up. When we did win, it became apparent we had agreed no such thing.

Believe it or not, I do actually enjoy (read: have grown accustomed to) being plunged into such things. Like, say, finding out I’m suddenly and unexpectedly a cat owner. That was a great opportunity to tackle my chronic cat allergy. This is merely the opportunity to figure out what it is that makes caravan lovers… well… love caravans.

After all, what else am I going to do with my time? Watch DVD box-sets? Become a high-class alcoholic?

On 29 September we’re due to go to Worcester to pick up the caravan. We’re going to meet the White Stuff people who organised the competition, who seem very nice, and very fond of the Princess, and we’re going to be photographed.

I know what you’re thinking.

‘But you hate going to places you’ve never been to, meeting people you’ve never met and, more than anything, having your photograph taken in an official capacity.’

Mm.

It’s an existential quandary, all right. Better meet it head-on or I might disappear all together. The only constructive thing I can think to do is grow a beard. For the photoshoot, like.

Watch this space.

jx