There was a canopy erected at the side of the caravan, sheltering a video screen.. Standing by the caravan, sleeves rolled up and smoking a cigarette, was a grey haired, cult lifer, ready to welcome the curious. He looked and sounded exactly like an insurance salesman and he came with the blue caravan. A few seats were arranged in front of the large TV screen. There was a pair of headphones over the back of each chair. (Captain Rawat is a “modern guru” and likes to utilise new technology).

A film of the Captain was playing on the TV screen. I didn’t pick up a headset as I’d heard it before. No doubt it was full of his usual wisdom, along the lines of, “Happy is good. Sad is bad. Join my cult and I’ll make you happy happy happy all the time. You’ll be so full of bliss you’ll walk round with a fucking inane grin on your face all the time and probably be a realised soul in two years. That could be brought down to six months if you make a few hefty donations to show how detached from mammon you are.”

Only one person was plugged into the movie. The was the “Community sponsor” of the little blue caravan, another grey-haired cult lifer. The caravan appears in “cult communities” by arrangement only. I presume the normal pattern of cult financing works in this situation, and the bill for the caravan, plus a considerable booking fee, are paid in full by the local sponsor.

Anyway, however much the guy paid, he was determined to get his money’s worth. Why watch the Lord on TV at home when you can pay a few hundred quid to have a caravan with a bigger screen, towed halfway across the country to the market square in your home town, where you can watch the Captain in public?

I’m sure the sponsor would have been delighted with the day. His Lord and Master had been talking to him in the market square. What more could he ask for?

I asked the insurance salesman how many people had donned the headphones so far, “Well, two I think. The sponsor and his partner, but she had to get to the shops so she’s left.”.

“Anybody else.”

“Well one bloke recognised the picture. He walked past and said, “Ha, ha. I saw that bloke once in Birmingham.” He didn’t want to watch the video though.

The cult is in its death throes. When I was a member, the caravan would have been surrounded by at least twenty five eager cult members, giving out leaflets and selling the cult newspaper. A cult band would have been playing live. Anybody interested would have been promised eternal peace, free of charge, and ushered in front of the screen. The chairs would have been full.

Those were the days. Why did harsh reality have to come and spoil all the fun? Another six months and we could have saved the world. Now all we have is the little blue caravan of dreams.