Yes!!
It's that time of year where Team Shotgun put down their axes, shutdown their creative minds and inform their parole officers/rehab centre that they are going to be unwinding for a week or two and with any luck coming back home feeling rested and bronzed of skin and possibly sporting a sombrero or sexually transmitted disease.
So perched over a map of our glorious planet we truly had the world at our calling.
The names of exotic locations danced off the page, teasing with a beautiful grace. But as with all things in life it really comes down to budget. So having excited the senses and perhaps installed false hope of jetting off to some sun drenched island, I finally announced our location as the Isle of Wight, just a few miles south of Portsmouth just off the A3.
Hours later after the paramedics had finally removed the laptop from my skull I tried to put a bright spin on it.
"It involves getting on a boat, so its kind of like a cruise, except we get to take our car, which almost makes it a hybrid cruise/fly-drive holiday, minus the flying........."
Fortunately the paramedics were only parked outside eating their sandwiches and didn't have to travel from to far away to administer the CPR.
Eventually I talked sense into my most dearest and she finally succumb to the notion of spending sometime on an Isle that is reachable by even an asthmatic child in a dingy, but still, researching on the internet had delivered exciting tourist adverts involving chines and needles (gashes in the landscape and pointing outcrops at sea) - I spoke lively about a chilli and garlic farm we could visit and was rewarded with a look that could have felled an elephant.
She seemed elated, in a nonchalant kind of way.
"So where are we staying?" she asked.
I announced the name of the caravan park and watched in terror as she manhandled the 50' TV from the wall and launched it at me as if it was a toy truck and she was man-child with a serious case of alien hand syndrome. It probably wasn't the name of the park that did it but the mere mention of the words "caravan park".
The next day, after enough sedatives in her to keep her pacified and dribbling at the car window, we arrived at the park, and having checked in with a devoted iPhone using admin girl we were pointed in the rough direction of our Chalet.
Now to those that are of the trusting ilk, such as myself, you would envision a holiday chalet a kind of cosy but smaller version of a bungalow, quaint but homely, perhaps some flowers growing up the side? Instead we were greeted by an exact replica of an Afghan mountain side hut that has just been blessed with an informal introduction to a Predator drone and its entire payload.
The door all but fell off when opened and the smell that emanated had me wondering what room the I'd find the mutilated remains of a hooker in. In a screech of burning rubber we head back to reception. The sedatives had worn off the missues at this point and I suddenly wished for either a tranquilizer gun or a way of pre-warning the receptionist of her impending demise.
Moments later out steps the missues, a smile to her face and a lack of blood on her hands. She spun a new set of keys on her finger and announced that we had been upgraded. My first thought was along the lines of wondering what could be a possible upgraded to? An abattoir? A Slovakian torture house for budding snuff movie producers? But no, it seems the upgrade levels were steep, in that we found ourselves in a light and airy caravan. Now normally I scoff at caravans but as mentioned, this was a budget holiday owing to the fact I had just spent all my wages on a new guitar amp....
And so, some time on the Isle of Wight has provided to be quite pleasant. I wasn't shanked by an escape con called Gummy and I didn't find any rashes on my body after sleeping in the remarkably white bed of the caravan.
Henchman Smith on the other hand is currently cruising through Europe with the family of his Czech girlfriend (and his girlfriend, otherwise that would be weird). As to whether he has been sold to a boy-hungry group of fishermen remains to be seen, but I've no doubt that on his return that he will regale you with news of his trip.
Once Team Shotgun are fully back in the basking rain of Kent and enjoying the fresh smell of raw sewage as it pumps without fault onto our beaches- we will give you some real blog info, including (and not limited to) our new drummer and his uncanny ability to have hair so neat that it defies the laws of nature .
With love and hugs,
Team Shotgun.
