Home | Features | Music | Fashion | Interviews | Archive | Contact Us
The White Horse Caravan
by Terry Farley
The White Horse Caravan Park Selsey Bill seems in retrospect a strange destination for a bunch of teenage wanna bee soul boys, mind you this is a time when air travel really was something you watched that Whicker geezer do on the tele, shleping about some Moroccan casabah dressed in a white linen suit and sporting a panama hat while buying huge carpets and hubble bubble pipes. The holiday situation in the South of England was dire, no bright lights & trams of dazzling Blackpool for us. Instead we had teddy boy and greaser infested Kent shitholes or sleepy retirement towns such as Bournemouth. The White Horse site though was a popular destination amongst the upwardly mobile (ie a porch on the council house) families of West London and with the idea of holiday romances and lost virginity's we headed down to the coast in a fleet (well two) of cars that consisted of a Ford Anglia and a Vauxhall Viva, top motors for top lads in our view.
Sexually, most people remember there first shag and by the time your old enough to worry about your daughters first holiday away, the girl who was the victim of that fumble had morphed into a wonderfully glorious godess, my only memory of mine (the ugly one of the Bermondsey soul patrol) was her legs...huge tree trunks without ankles - apparently the result of a childhood disease no doubt caused by the Dickensian conditions of 1970s Bermondsey - or so my mates reckoned. To be really honest I'm actually not even sure were my nob actually ended up, there was so much flesh around those parts and as it was over quicker than last years Premiership race, I claimed the result to my mates without any real conviction. Looking back on it, she ate like a fucking horse and was probably just a greedy fucker. Years later someone who came from that part of the world put about a rumour that Jade Goody's mum may well have been one of these ladies which could easily be true as while they had style, soul and better records than us, they certainly weren't blessed in the looks department. The following year of 1976 we returned to the White Horse and the look of plastic sandals, carpenter jeans and dungerees, crops and wedge haircuts was all over London and the South like a rash and we ditched the 7 inchers and took down the brass construction album - older and wiser we should never have returned it was a bit like when Jimmy the mod pops back to a midweek Brighton. Selsy Bill with its pebble beach and rusty caravans and a diet of pie n chips will always hold a place in my heart and its place where we really learn't how to be soulboys thanks to a group of wonderfull ladies from South London.
| Features | Music
| Fashion | Interviews |
| Contact Us
Copyright © 2006 Swine Magazine. All rights reserved.