In Good Company: Soggy And Awful
...It kept fine until we reached the South Shore, where everyone seemed to be enclosed in plastic. Damp dads were barking at whimpering children, mums were growling at everything, small babies tucked away under pram hoods were the lucky ones...
Enid Blackburn wrote this article during a wet British summer long ago.
Has this depressingly wet nasty soggy awful weather affected the British holiday takings?
Last Wednesday with the sun burning through our anoraks we decided to take a trip to Blackpool and find out.
It kept fine until we reached the South Shore, where everyone seemed to be enclosed in plastic. Damp dads were barking at whimpering children, mums were growling at everything, small babies tucked away under pram hoods were the lucky ones.
Across the prom a seagull was guarding the empty paddling pool. Vacancy signs were in most hotel windows. Our daughter, Amanda and friend were thrilled to bits – bad weather meant no delaying their visit to the Pleasure Beach. Pleasure? Flailing arms and bloodcurdling screams surrounded us and this was only mums threatening dissident toddlers.
Then there was something called ‘Loop the Loop,’ where a train shoots backwards then swings full circle, my stomach heaved horribly at the thought; which is why I probably stuff myself every visit.
My husband gets his kicks watching the various ways that frightened ladies express their suffering – while I nip off for a hot dog, with onions served by a student reading physics – from a book propped against the ketchup.
Then while husband waits for another trainful of masochists to descend, I tackle 35p worth of mussels. There were several empty seats in the Pancake House where I had coffee while the children topped up the slot machines. I could have enjoyed a pancake, there was one almost untouched by my husband’s elbow, but he would have seen me.
Holidaymakers who had braved the rain were doing their best to make up the day’s takings. Children were queuing to be daubed with clown make-up, a photographic gimmick was to pose in Victorian gear, gent seated, lady resting delicate palm on his shoulder, costumes provided.
The rain tippled steadily on the empty saddles of the hoses, while the merry monarch rolled about in raucous laughter outside the fun house. This year his mirth did not seem quite as infectious.
Later, a stroll down the prom revealed multi-scurrilous messages to man-kind scrawled everywhere – on walls, T-shirts and hats. It used to be ‘Kiss me Quick,’ now anything connected with JR is a best seller. One large pile of T-shirts no-one seemed to be buying carried the inscription: ‘O Lord help me to keep my mouth shut until I know what I am talking about.’ Badges carried obscene invitations. ‘I am a virgin,’ one boasted, with small print underneath which read ‘This is a very old badge.’
Buxom belles of all ages in disco garb, stiletto heels, blouses cut low, skirts slashed high, paraded the prom – pausing under the awnings now and then to protect their mascara.
After tea the clouds miraculously rolled away and we enjoyed an hour or two of sunshine. Things perked up on the sands. Donkey bells were jingling again, a couple of pensioners soaked their bunions in salt water, and some broad shouldered hairy chests were soon bouncing in the briney. But, for once, I was more interested in tracking down that fish and chip aroma – and we didn’t have to queue. When you don’t have to queue at Blackpool, believe me business is bad!
