Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 23 — The All-Bran Catastrophe
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
I was a keen runner, and on the Sunday morning, I was about to set off on a run, which would last around the hour. The Doctor and John were playing speed chess in the caravan, and the former asked what was in the box by the side of the kettle. 'All-Bran.'
Now, let me tell you, the Doctor, since leading a single life the last couple of years, had lived the life of the true hedonist. He had money and didn't need to cook, and all his food, every scrap and milligram of the stuff, was from the nearest takeaway. Added to that were many years and copious amounts of the brew. The Doctor would often take out his belly and inflate it unnaturally to any unfortunate soul happening to pass and then rub it with glee and say, 'Look at my debauchery!'
'Can I have some All-Bran, as I can't be bothered to walk all that way to the cafe?' the Doctor asked without looking up from the chessboard. The cafe was no more than 100 yards away.
'Take what you like; I'm off for a run,' and off I went, slamming shut the caravan door, leaving the two to play five-minute chess.
Misfortune can happen in so short a time. Just under an hour later, I arrived back, pulling open the caravan door whilst gulping air.
'Jeeze! Fucking hell, that's strong is that, John!' I exclaimed.
John was sat there on his own, his eyes watering.
'It's that dirty bastard, he's shit himself with that All-Bran you gave him.'
The Doctor had indeed 'shit himself'. The high fibre must have surged through him with such ferocity because John related how the Doctor had suddenly stood up, horror on his face, turned and ran for the toilet. He was too late, however, and had to go instead to the shower in Swansea's Sports Centre. I dread to this day the sight of the Doctor washing himself down in there.
Reader Comments
Leave a Comment
We would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter.
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.
Author Page