Tag: Holiday Camp

The Voice Hits Pontin’s

Back at base camp, we donned our glad rags and pirouetted down to the Stardust Cabaret Bar (think swirly carpets and swirly ceilings) to watch the permanently smiling bluecoats strut their amateur stuff. We were greeted by pissed-up pensioners and sprightly sprogs. As far as we could tell, we were the only wooly-woofters in wonderland (apart from a light fairy dusting from one or two of the bluecoats, obviously). We’d arrived at the tail end of a line dancing hour and sat back to marvel at a small company of wrinklies giving their pacemakers a welcome workout. The dosey doe harmonies were supplied by one woman and her magnificent organ. I ordered a couple of drinks from a barmaid called Richard. She’d mislaid her badge, apparently. Taking a table next to a couple of senior citizens, we nodded a polite (if slightly nervous) hello. We needn’t have bothered. Mr Senior had already nodded off into his half-pint of ‘mild’. Mrs Senior made no attempt to check for a pulse so we guessed he hadn’t yet expired. “That’ll be us in twenty years,” whispered. Liam. “You’re kidding,” I replied. “That’s us now.”

The headline act was local lass Toni Warne, a finalist from the BBC show The Voice. Liam could hardly contain his excitement. As he shivered in anticipation, the dressing room door inexplicably blew open to reveal a startled MC sucking on an illicit fag. Once recomposed, the camp compere minced out onto the floor to introduce the star turn. “Please give it up for Toni Ward.” Ms Warne didn’t let his faux pas get her down and belted out a string of old standards and modern classics from Doris Day and Barbra Streisand to Adele and Jessie J, all bang in tune. Mrs Senior turned down her hearing aid I suspect she and the rest of the audience would have preferred a spot of Vera Lynn. Liam thought Ms Warne had a great voice for musical theatre. I felt rather sorry for her. I thought aspiring stars gigged at Pontin’s before making it big, not after.

Despite the so-so weather and jaded Seventies social club ambience, we rather enjoyed our windswept blast from the past. Thank you, Pontin’s. You perked up these weary travelling pansies and provided a quiet place to rest and write.

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Pontin’s Happy Campers

Windy City

Devil Gate Drive

We made our great escape from Stalag 17 and dashed to Morrison’s Supermarket to stock up on cheap plonk, check prices and observe the local Suffolk wildlife in its natural habitat. The place was packed. It may have been a Sunday but Brits have long since abandoned praying for paying on the Sabbath. Despite many protestations to the contrary, we found prices more than comparable with Turkey, particularly meat, staples and non-food essentials. While Liam stalked the aisles for bargains, I went in search of a decent newspaper. Morrison’s sold neither the Guardian nor the Independent so I made do with the murky Murdoch’s Times. The queue was fronted by a Suzi Quatro looky-likey, all feather cut, tight ribbed vest and rock-chick tattoos. Suzi was in a heated debate with the check-out assistant, something about a pot plant. I didn’t intrude. I didn’t fancy a volley of expletives from the girl from Devil Gate Drive. We fled back to our bunker to get drunk.

Hit it Suzi…

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Next: The Voice Hits Pontins

Pontin’s Happy Campers

The final leg of our budget trip was four nights at Pontin’s, Pakefield  – seventy quid each, half board. Both Liam and I are well-acquainted with the holiday camp experience from our proletarian childhoods and, more recently, from my mother’s 80th birthday bash at Butlin’s. Whereas Butlin’s has raised its game to compete with the costas, Pontin’s has remained faithful to its Hi-Di-Hi roots. There have been some concessions to the modern era – our bunker in Pirouette Park came with hot water and electricity – but the rest of the offer was distinctly old hat. Accommodation came in terraced rows of jerry-built chalets reminiscent of a prisoner of war camp or a sleazy middle America motel. We felt like fugitives on the run from the Feds. Higgledy-piggledy pebble-dashed facilities were battered and tattered. Canteen times were fixed and uncompromising. Food was hearty rather than wholesome with a strong whiff of time-honoured old school dinners. There was a floppy salad bar and a sign warning the punters that “these trays may contain traces of food.” Or was that nuts? We avoided the healthy option and headed straight for the stodge slopped up onto mini plates by fiercesome-looking dinner ladies. On day two, I was unceremoniously ram-raided by a blue rinse armed with a killer Zimmer trying to get to the jelly before anyone else. In the interests of personal safety, we didn’t dare go for seconds. Oh, happy days.

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