The five of us (me, Jean Louis (Lou) Johnson, Tammy Harris, Alan Moorse and camera man Richard (Dicky) Hull) decided one day in 1985, when we were eighteen, to go on a camping holiday. None of us had a decent car for the chosen journey to Port Einon in South Wales. Tammy’s Dad said he had a Maxi we could use but it had been stood for a year. He kindly gave it a service and an MOT test, which it passed. On the chosen day we loaded her up and off we set.

It was to be one of those holidays: very little money and plenty of rain. We set off and soon discovered that after a short while, in a prolong..g..g..g..ed downfall, the wipers had an annoying habit of blowing the fuse. Eventually reduced to using Cadbury chocolate bar foil, which proved not to be inexhaustible, we finally decided to pull over at the nearest phone box for me to call my Grandad (Jo Taylor of SOM 501H fame). He suggested the wires in the switch were in the wrong sequence but was unsure what the sequence should be. On extracting the switch we observed a number of wires. Like Russian roulette we pulled two wires out and swapped them round. Rain hammered down on the roof whilst we replaced the switch and the penultimate piece of foil in the fuse box. Ignition on, wipers on, fuse holding Houston. Marvelous. Forward to Port Einon.

Reaching there, though the rain had stopped and with sodden ground we pitched the two house tents. Face to face and close together with a sheet of polythene roofing the space between. Both were three man but one was newer than the other. Tam, Lou and Dicky bagged the best whilst Alan and I were relegated to the second division. Everything was damp. Alan contracted serious tonsillitis and managed to dislocate his shoulder when lying on his sleeping bag. I remember him saying with cracked voice: “What the hell am I doing here!”

I remember that the holiday was remarkably unmemorable. I do remember a terrific rain storm kicking up one night and there being some plaintive voices outside our tent asking permission to enter. Their tent was flooded, our tent was dry. We said ***off, sleep in the Maxi! They did with little complaint.

That’s all really. I can’t remember much else except having breakfast at a Greasy Spoon in the Mumbles. Gently steaming in the relative warmth and drawing patterns in spilt tea on Formica tops and wondering what to do next.

The photo is typically posed. Eighteen years old, maverick, fed on Monty Python and the Sex Pistols. No idea what I’m gurning at or what Louis’ is doing, Tammy’s even less sure. Alan’s just suffering!

I wonder where DUY 564S is these days?