Do you ever find yourself staring into the abyss wondering what you should do to make a success of your floundering camel riding business?

Here’s the issue: You made the cognitive leap that people in the North of Wales are sick of the weather and pine for a taste of the exotic. You mentioned it to a friend. They were stoned and agreed that you were on to something. You imported two prize camels from Egypt. They barely survived the journey. They don’t agree with the Welsh landscape. They seem morose when southerners with Surrey accents and lots of equity climb aboard. You can’t cover your costs of operation as customers are few, and camel-feed is expensive. You know people would love what your business has to offer, but you’re out in the sticks. Few know you exist. There is very little footfall. This isn’t the Trevi Fountain.

Does such a situation sound familiar? No, don’t answer.

It’s 8am and I look wearily at my friend (the one who said that this was a good idea). We’re sat in front of my caravan in two plastic chairs, waiting for customers. Behind me, peering over my shoulder and eyeing up my morning strudel, is Tim; the largest of my two camels.

“Any ideas?” I ask. I know there aren’t, but the silence isn’t helping my spirits. Plankton – my friend of too many years – looks at me vaguely. He’s stoned again.

“Well, as I see it, it’s the chicken and the eggcorn,” he says, the words falling out of his mouth with a glacial lack of eloquence.

“What?” I retort. But he just takes another drag of his Devil’s Mustard.

“Want a puff?” He says. I look at him. I’m annoyed. His presence makes me will an unfortunate accident upon him. He’s holding me back. I knew this years ago! Now I’ve got two camels, and that black cloud looks threatening. I turn around, hoping for a miracle. My two prize camels are staring back at me glumly. Poor bastards. They don’t like the rain and they know there’s more on the way. Join the club I think, and just wait until winter sets in.

An hour passed. Maybe two. It didn’t matter, my time wasn’t worth so much. I certainly wasn’t one of those people who could charge by the hour. At best, I could spot some floundering tourists and try to convince them to part with some coin to get on a camel.

What was my business model? That people are dumb, or at the very least desperate for things to do.

After three hours, I was searching for self-help books on Amazon. Someone out there had the answer for my troubles. Maybe if I applied the 80/20 principle everything would come together for me? I looked up from my phone. The pastor was coming down the road. He was Irish, of course.

“Morning Pastor,” I say.

“Ah. Top of the morning to ya. How be the camels?” He’s holding back contempt, trying to be nice. But deep down, I know that God does not agree with the fate I have bestowed upon these camels.

“How’s business this morn?” Says Pastor.

“Don’t get funny Father,” I say. I don’t care who’s got God on their side, I’m not in the mood and I don’t mince my words for anyone.

“I coulda told ya this was a shite idea,” says Pastor. “Why don’t you get a wife eh? I told you to get a wife and you get camels. Do yee not listen to God? He speaks truth through me you know does God, you daft prat,” says Pastor or Father, or whatever. A title alone does not grant one clarity.

“Don’t get cute with me, Pastor.”

Pastor laughs. Then he turns to Plankton, who is barely cognisant of the fact he is a man.

“Plankton? Top of thee morning to yee child. Be a good lad and lend us a drag on your mustard now.”

Plankton isn’t one to argue with God, so he hands over the monster spliff. Pastor takes a drag. It’s a look that agrees with him.

“Should you be doing that Father?” I enquire.

“There’s some devil in all of us, child. And if I were you I’d be more worried about the fact ye got two camels stood behind ye. This is Wales. Do ye see pyramids? Do you, dick head?”

“What do you suggest, Pastor?” I ask.

He hesitates. Takes off his God hat. Looks at the floor, possibly in thought. Then he looks past me towards the camels.

“Aye, it’s the chicken and the eggcorn.”

I stare at him, waiting for more. But he pulls a can of Guinness out from under his black overalls. He cracks it open. Nods at the camels. Takes a swig.

“Sláinte,” he says.