Every year on Christmas Day night when the adverts for holidays came on the tv, I'd beg my parents to take our holiday in Butlins. The rides, the shows, the crazy golf - it looked like so much fun. But they would never take me, instead we spent the same last week of May at Aunty Lil's house in Weymouth.
I never grew out of the desire to go to Butlins. By the time I'd grown too old to be excited by the rides, I'd found another reason to want to go - David Essex as a randy red coat in That'll Be The Day. I was desperate to be taken behind the dodgems by a curly haired fairground worker with twinkly blue eyes and a gold sleeper in his ear. Alas, the holidays to Weymouth carried on and my dream was unfulfilled - until last weekend...
Butlins Bognor Regis beckoned, I'd been invited to a friend's 40th birthday celebrations at a Motown Weekender. I have to confess that over the years Butlins had lost some of its allure, though I was still curious to taste the Butlin's experience. The weekend ran from friday night until the monday morning but I decided that saturday lunchtime to sunday morning would give me enough time to sample its delights.
It was warm and sunny when I arrived and I soon located the other 12 girls on the fairground rides (several pimply operatives and not a David Essex in sight). They took me to our accommodation to drop off my bag. I glanced wistfully as we passed the impressive looking newly-built hotel, then climbed the rickety wooden stairs to our 1st floor chalets. To be fair, they weren't too bad inside. Sure, the soft furnishings left something to be desired but they were perfectly functional - apart from the fact we didn't have a shower in the bathroom. No shower in this day and age?
We sat and had a long, lazy lunch at a table outside the Sea Breeze bar and grill. The reason lunch was long and lazy was due to there being only two 'chefs' on duty and a waitress with poor English. Still, we were in no hurry and it was good to have time to chat and get to know those of the party that we hadn't met before.
After lunch we split up - some for a nap back at the chalets; some to the beach and some(including myself) to the amusement arcade. Armed with 2ps I hit the machines. Luck was on my side, I won three keyrings -a dice, a yellow fish and a bushbaby in a tree. I only spent £30. Another quick turn on the rides then it was back to get ready for the evening.
After several Pimms and lemonades and dressed in our finest, we set out toward the main ballroom for the live entertainment. I'd been forewarned by those who'd been there on friday night to be shocked and surprised by our fellow guests, they'd likened the dance floor to the bar in Star Wars. I assumed because they all came from small towns in Kent and Sussex that they were a little naive and unused to the everyday sights that us Londonders come across. I assumed wrongly.
90% of the crowd were in fancy dress of some sort. None had chosen outfits to flatter, in most cases it seemed that they had done everything to accentuate their worst features. There were women in their 60s in blonde wigs, mini skirts and knee high boots - it was impossible to tell who was wearing fishnets and who just had varicose veins. Beyond-large women trussed up in basques, their bosoms thrust so high that they merged with their double chins. With some it was impossible to tell their sex - neither their faces nor their figures provided any clues. They were all fat,tattooed and aggressive looking. At one point during the evening a man came up to me and said that we were the only decent group of women in the place but admitted that wasn't saying much.
On the whole the men faired better in their attempts. Generally speaking there are more attractive women than there are men - that's just the way it is. Not so at Butlins. That's not to say that the men were good-looking, just that they weren't as scary to behold as the women. Some of the outfits were even quite well put together. The two Eric Morecambes were funny and the trio of surgeons were a bit hit with the ladies. However, I did find the Clockwork Orange characters rather disconcerting.
The weekend was billed as Motown yet none of the live acts, or indeed the music played by the DJ (save for a couple of Stevie Wonder tunes) had any Motown connection. I was slightly disappointed to discover that Andy Abrahams, the singing dustman from X factor had made his appearance the previous night but was soon cheered to hear that Heatwave were due on. They were rather good - Boogie Nights, Mind Blowing Decisions, Always and Forever, we danced to them all. More music from the DJ - a Drifters medley, Tina Turner - Simply The Best, Mustang Sally (3 times), some Michael Jackson - and then it was time for Angelo Starr. Brother of Edwin for those unfamiliar with the name. Along with his brothers various hits, he too gave a rendition of Mustang Sally (what is it with that song). The night finished with more from the DJ, he'd really veered from the theme of the weekend by then and we left to the strains of Robin S and Show Me Love.
By then, around 3am, the alcohol had stopped taking effect and suddenly our feet felt like they were on fire. We hobbled back toward the chalets, stopping at Burger King for sustenance to complete the journey. I can only praise the patience and good nature of those poor souls behind the counter serving up the burgers and chips. One particular woman -'hen' according the sash (or more likely banner) that was stretched to breaking point across her ripples of fat - leant over the counter and banged her fist, demanding to know where her 'fucking cheese' was. We shuddered quietly at a corner table and avoided eye contact. One of our group (41 and single) was dismayed at the fact that someone would marry such a creature when she (slim, attractive, intelligent etc) couldn't even get a date. We consoled her by pointing out that it was unlikely that the groom would be much cop.
Our appetites vaguely sated, we ouched the last few hundred meters back to base where we flung off our shoes, donned our pyjamas and thanked God we were us. I settled down on the sofa bed which I shared with another girl(we 'topped and tailed' to avoid embarrasing eye contact in the morning)but sleep alluded me as every five minutes heavy footed groups stomped passed the window shouting, singing and on the odd occasion arguing. It finally went quiet but then I had to get up to take some pain killers for my feet which were throbbing as if they'd been hit with sledge hammers. Sleep finally came as the sun was rising and the sea gulls began their early morning cries.
The next morning, while the others breakfasted on danish pastries, I took myself off in search of a traditional english. This was on offer at the Sun and Moon pub but the length of the queue, combined with the sight and smell of hungover men downing their first pint of the day, forced me elsewhere. I settled for a breakfast bap from Londis which I ate outside at a table in the sun. With a fresh coffee to accompany it, I opened up my Observer, at last some semblance of civility. My peace was soon shattered, three men joined my table. They too were eating Londis breakfast baps but continued to talk as they were doing so, spitting bits of reconstituted egg onto my Sunday supplements. They talked loudly to a woman who was sitting on the next table about going up 'Roman' and various other east end localities. I could take no more, as the undercover reporters say - I made my excuses and left.
Not long after that, I said goodbye to the rest of the girls and headed back to London on the train. Never again I told myself. 'Let's do it again' said the birthday girl back in the office 'there's an 80's weekend next May, we can dress up for it'. I fear she stayed there too long, they've got to her .....
