Every camping ground we stay in around Australia seems to have a camp something, you know, like a camp know-all or a camp smart-arse.
There’s the camp drunk, who opens his first tinnie around breakfast time and is totally drunk by lunchtime.
Then there’s the camp bore, who bails you up in the shower room or some place and tells you his life story in great detail, and then proceeds to talk about his butterfly collection or something like that.
The camp hoon drives his hot-rod (screaming loud ‘music’ drowning out the excessive engine noise) too fast through the camp, usually thowing up stones and clouds of annoying dust.
The camp snob won’t talk or say ‘good day’ to anybody and the camp nerd is too unintelligent to hold a decent conversation with you anyway.
The camp slob slouches around the place with his bum hanging out of his pants and the camp tart with most other parts of her body doing the same thing.
The camp loud-mouth you can hear from the other side of the grounds and the camp joker is forever telling you piss-weak yarns you’ve heard a hundred times before.
The camp sleaze tries to chat up every woman in between the ages of 12 and 72 and the camp wog ‘ll be an obese foreigner in his old suit pants and leather shoes, smoking incessantly while carrying a fishing rod all over the place.
The camp derelict will have pots and pans and all kinds of other paraphernalia lying around in an untidy mess and the camp yobbo wearing his obligatory thongs, footy shorts and a white(ish) singlet, blaring out unbelievably nauseating rap music.
Then there’s the camp busybody, who sits around his tent all day, critically appraising all and sundry, muttering his distaste of everything and everybody about the place to his long-suffering wife, who by now probably reckons that he himself is in fact the worst camp so and so of all.
The camp busybody…… yes…. that’s me!