The Numskulls had decided, rather unwisely, to go on holiday. Now, before you picture golden beaches, sunshine, and the calm of gentle waves, let me stop you right there. The Numskulls do not do calm. They do chaos. And instead of golden beaches, they chose camping. Camping, of all things! Which is just another way of saying sleeping outside in the damp while pretending to enjoy yourself. Uncle Numskull insisted it would be a “brilliant idea.” Uncle Numskull, let it be said, is not an expert on brilliant ideas. He once tried to dry his socks in the microwave and set fire to the teapot.

Dad Numskull, on the other hand, thought camping would be “character-building.” Dad always says things like that. “Character-building.” “Educational.” “Good for you.” These are phrases that usually mean “boring.” Anyway, there they were, stuffing the campervan to bursting.

“Don’t forget the trampoline!” Uncle shouted, hurling it onto the roof.

“Why on earth do we need a trampoline?” asked Cousin Numskull, who, being the smartest of the “dumskulls”, often asked sensible questions but rarely got sensible answers.

“In case we get invaded by kangaroos,” Uncle said firmly, as if this happened every Tuesday.

Cousin rolled his eyes and scribbled something into his little notebook.

Yes, before you correct me, I know they are called Numskulls, but anyone who knows the Numskulls will agree that they really ought to be called the dumskulls. You’ll agree later.

Meanwhile, Granddad Numskull was wheeling his armchair up the garden path.

“You cannot bring that,” said Dad Numskull, who was frantically ticking items off a camping checklist: Tent, Sleeping Bags, Cooker, First-Aid Kit. (Someone should add, brain to that list.)

“Of course I can,” Granddad retorted, plonking the enormous chair into the van. “How else am I meant to nap properly? Tents are drafty, you know.”

Dad sighed, crossed ‘chairs’ off the list (even though it definitely wasn’t on there in the first place), and muttered, “This is not how camping works.”

The two little Numskull children were bouncing up and down with excitement, clutching marshmallow bags already half-empty thanks to Dog Numskull, who had developed a suspiciously sticky snout.

And me? Well, I was watching this whole catastrophe unfold and thinking, ‘This is not going to end well, and I most certainly will not get involved.’

By the time they were ready to leave, the campervan looked less like a vehicle and more like a travelling rubbish heap. Bits of tent poked out the windows. A fishing rod dangled dangerously out the back. The trampoline wobbled like jelly on the roof.

Dog Numskull barked proudly from the passenger seat as if to say, “I did most of the packing, thank you very much.”

“Off we go!” shouted Uncle, starting the engine. Except he hadn’t actually put the key in, so the engine didn’t start at all. They sat there in silence until Cousin, sighing heavily, pointed to the ignition.

“Ah,” said Uncle, twisting it at last. The van coughed, rattled, and shot off down the lane with such force that Granddad’s armchair nearly flew off the roof.

“Secure it better!” Dad shouted, panicking.

Granddad stuck his head out the window and went to sit on the chair while it was still tied to the roof. “There. Fixed.”

(Do not try this at home. Unless you are a Numskull, in which case you’ll probably do it anyway.)

The journey was, as you may have guessed, a disaster.

At the first bend, Uncle tried to read the map upside down. At the second bend, Dog tried to eat the map altogether. Dad took the map back and attempted to navigate properly, but Cousin insisted he had memorised the entire route.

They argued so long that when they looked up, they were somehow in the car park of a pickle factory.

Cousin suggested using a compass, but it turned out Uncle had brought a pizza instead. (“It was cheaper than a compass,” he explained, and to be fair, he was right.)

They stopped for petrol, but Granddad refused to get down because he was napping on the roof. They bought sandwiches, but Dog managed to eat all of them before anyone else had a bite. The little Numskull children started chanting, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” until even the radio begged them to stop.

And Dad? He spent most of the journey with his head in his hands, mumbling, “I knew we should have stayed home.”

The narrator, you know, me, was wondering if perhaps we should all just turn back and avoid the inevitable catastrophe. But of course, with Numskulls, catastrophe is never avoided. It is guaranteed.

Finally, hours (or perhaps decades) later, they arrived at the campsite.

Now, most families would set up a tent in a sensible fashion: pegs, poles, and perhaps a polite discussion about where the toilet was. The Numskulls, however, treated it more like a battle.

Dad laid out the instructions carefully. “Step one,” he began.

But before he could finish, Uncle charged at the tent poles as if they were spears. The children tangled themselves up in guy ropes and played skipping games. Cousin announced he knew how to build a “geodesic dome” (don’t ask) and promptly tied all the poles in one giant knot.

Granddad set his armchair right in the middle of the grass and announced: “This is my spot. The rest of you can squeeze in the corners.”

Dog chased squirrels.

At one point, the tent looked almost complete. Unfortunately, it was upside down.

“That’s modern design!” insisted Uncle. “Keeps the rain off better.”

Dad tried to correct them, but a gust of wind blew through, and the tent flew ten feet in the air before landing squarely on Granddad, who didn’t even stir from his nap.

“Best tent I’ve ever had,” he mumbled, snoring loudly. That evening, they attempted a campfire.

Uncle Numskull gathered sticks. Dog gathered socks. Granddad gathered biscuits, though most of them went into his mouth.

Dad tried to cook sausages properly, but Uncle kept throwing things on the fire (“Marshmallows! Shoes! A deckchair!”).

Cousin announced he could scientifically improve the flame with his latest invention: a contraption of wires, batteries, and a hairdryer.

“According to my calculations, if we apply heat at a velocity of…”

The entire pile of sticks exploded in a whoosh of flame so big it singed Granddad’s eyebrows.

“Marvellous!” said Uncle, tossing marshmallows on the fire. Half of them burned to blackened crisps instantly. The rest went straight into Dog’s mouth.

Dinner was, in summary, a failure.

But the Numskulls did not care. They told loud, ridiculous stories around the blazing fire. Granddad claimed he once wrestled a crocodile. Uncle insisted he had invented umbrellas. Cousin tried to explain gravity but got tangled in his own shoelaces and fell face-first into the dirt. (This, you should have seen, it was hilarious.)

Dad quietly scraped the blackest bit off a sausage and muttered, “Still edible.” Nobody ate it. Not even Dog. And the children? They laughed so hard their marshmallows sprayed out of their noses. Which, if you’ve never seen marshmallows come out of a nose, is something I suggest you avoid. It is both sticky and horrifying. By the time the stars came out, the Numskulls were exhausted.

They all crammed into the half-collapsed tent. Uncle snored like a chainsaw. Granddad snored like two chainsaws. Dog howled at the moon, which made everyone else howl back just to be annoying.

Dad lay awake in the corner, staring at the sagging canvas above him, and muttered, “Tomorrow we’ll do something sensible. A nice walk. No chaos. Absolutely no chaos.”

“Tomorrow,” Uncle mumbled happily, “we shall go sightseeing. I know a shortcut.”

And at that, dear reader, your humble narrator groaned, because nothing good ever comes from an Uncle Numskull shortcut.

Absolutely nothing. I also think that from here on out, we should just call them the dumskulls. With all this mayhem, I cannot say for sure what mum did, as I was honestly too distracted by the disasters of the other family members.