Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 16 — Lorraine's Explosion
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Strain, however, was beginning to show upon Lorraine. One night, after a customary argument with her about something or other, she’d stationed herself opposite the bar.
‘She’s up to something, Karl,’ whispered Richard, the barman.
I already knew and kept a strong eye of vigilance on her. I noticed that when the glasses on her part were being collected, they hadn’t been put near the glass washer, as they should have been, but had been randomly left on the table opposite the bar, where she now glared over the tops from.
When someone is on the point of exploding, it only takes one word, or in Lorraine’s case, one look, and that was all it took for me to Richard, a regular customer, and then to Lorraine.
The first glass was easy to duck out of the way from, but the next ten glasses or so demanded great care from Richard – who had been caught up behind the bar with me – to avoid getting hit. Glass after glass came flying over the bar, followed each time by some other piece of glass smashing when the projectile hit it. When Lorraine had finished her assault, the bar was a veritable floor of glass and broken bottles, and the only free area was that beneath, where Richard and I had been hiding.
I availed myself of the opportunity to get out, and so did Richard, but Lorraine was having none of it, and when we both emerged she launched herself, not much cat-like, but more like a rabid terrier towards me. Michelle, a big farmer’s wife, intervened, and Lorraine began a futile stand-off with her. Richard, Michelle’s husband, also gave effort to restrain Lorraine and did so, but that only made her grab the phone and call the police, who attended within minutes, as the police station wasn’t that far away.
Police quickly calmed matters down, interviewed all those concerned, and asked Michelle and Richard to leave the premises, as Lorraine, the landlady, wanted it so. As for me, I too had to leave, because Lorraine was the landlady, and that was the law of the land.
‘We’ll drop you off in town somewhere,’ said the woman officer. ‘We know it’s not your fault, but we can’t do otherwise, as she’s the landlady, and that’s all that matters.’
I readily agreed and took to the waiting police van.
‘Where would you like dropping off?’
‘Can you drop me off near the Fat Badger pub, and I can walk down there.’
Within a minute, they’d pulled up right outside the Fat Badger pub for all and sundry to see me emerge from the police van.
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About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
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