Anyway.
For the trip back home, we decided to avoid that motorway nonsense, as anyone sane in mind would.
Consequently we parked up in some town on the way for a break.
We walked past a few dead people.
Then we ended up on a town square, where indigenous bumpkins from a rather restricted gene pool celebrated one of their rituals. Mind you, had I been on my own, I'd have fucking floored it to get the bloody hell outta there.
A butcher's had some plastic ham on display, presumably because you don't want to know the meat of which species they normally sell.
Should you have any transport problems in that area, just call Durham 710322, because area codes have yet to be assigned there.
Try to hike a ride back to -well- sort of civilisation. If you dare, that is.
Why do the wrong people always have the right stuff?
I don't know what your concept of motive heritage is, but I think this is fucking Disneyland:
This is a lot more like what I think it looked like:
Where I'm from, this sort of tat wasn't needed.
There was and is electricity readily available for showmen to just plug in.
I'm not denying that an area void of even such basic infrastructure didn't come up with a solution that is nice to look at.
I just don't want to get into a discussion about acceptable working conditions.
Now, if you want the bikini babes run after you, you'll need this conveyance in a different location from where its existence is wasted currently.
However, even in the middle of the intellectual Sahel Zone, someone figured out what to buy.
No matter where you go, there will always be the odd normal person.
I -errrr- for once, was speechless.
As soon as I had recovered from the sight of above, I spotted an opportunity to nick a set of headlights for my R16.
Then this thing arrived.
It really is bigger than a house.
Be the gene pool as limited as it is, there is still always someone who needs to be removed from it.
Squire knows how to nick these.
Now, we finally stopped pushing our luck and left the place avoiding being spit roasted in the centre of these native activities, when a fucking ANPR Gestapo Interceptor pulled up behind us. I still don't know what scared me more.