I recently returned to the nation of my birth to make sure my 86-year-old mum was still alive. She was, so my next duty was to ensure she wasn't frivolously blowing through my inheritance on afternoon teas in Betty's and trips to fancy Victorian department stores in places like York and Harrogate. She has a penchant for comfy shoes and granny dresses with expensive labels!
Obviously, she has to go out sometimes, but while I'm in town, I much prefer these trips to be supervised. By me, obviously. I am her eldest and most beloved son, after all, and feel the need to take care of the old girl. For three weeks a year, anyway!
Usually, she chooses to go to Scotland. A place she's loved and visited for many, many years, but this year, she wanted a change.
I'd personally be happy stopping close to home, in Yorkshire. After all, my home county is without doubt the most beautiful and diverse region on Earth, but I'd already been warned by the wife.
"We are NOT going to Scarborough this year. I'm bored with it and it's shite."
Hmm, that put me in my place. So I asked my mum,
"Where do you fancy going for a few days this year, mum?"
"Somewhere down South", she said. That was a shocker.
"Where exactly down South?" I anxiously retorted, rather hoping for the rugged coastlines of Cornwall.
" Either Weston-Super-Mare or Torquay."
You need to remember that in England, this is the middle of the school summer holidays, and wherever we chose to go 'darn Sarf', it was going to be full of horrible scrawny kids scoffing bucket loads of ice cream and eating endless trays of chips and their dreadful parents all talking in that awful Cockney drawl. Mainly Londoners, but also a few of the poorer folks from the home counties who can't afford Lanzarote, so go down to Torbay, as it likes to call itself the 'English Riviera', making it less embarrassing to talk about at dinner parties!
These are all places we went on family holidays together when I was a kid, so it's probably understandable that, at 86, my mum is embarking on a farewell tour.
As the final decision was left to me, I chose 'The English Riviera'. Torquay, Paignton and Brixham, which, to be fair, did rekindle some happy childhood memories of summers in the seventies. Thoughts of steam trains and sailing boats were also an influence in this monumental decision.
Before all this driving, there was the not insignificant task of getting my little old car insured, taxed and MOTed. The insurance is a simple five-minute online process, but the tax is dependent on having an MOT, and an MOT is dependent on hoping the garage doesn't find too many problems. However, they did. Brakes, suspension bushes and a pair of tyres. Thankfully, they missed the little bandage I'd stuck over a tiny hole in the cat, but still, £676 later, and the cost of car hire suddenly began to seem like it would have been the sensible option. Two days later and with certificate in hand, I went back online to tax it, finding that the little car had moved from being tax exempt to costing £20. Thanks, Keir.
Out on the open road, and as the ~~designated~~ only driver, I was king of the car. I'd turfed them both out of bed at 5.30 am for a 6 am start, and after much grumbling about not having enough time to get ready, by 6.02 am they, and their small suitcases, were shoe-horned into the tiny Citroen and we were off. Heading South for 305 miles non-stop. Or at least until my Mother's bladder gave out. We did well, only three short stops, and 6 hours, two meal-deals and a big bag of mint humbugs later, we were pulling onto Paignton sea-front.
It looked exactly the way I'd remembered it the last time I was there, around 45 years ago, and I suddenly realised why I'd never been back in all that time. It was a complete dump, and on the once beautiful lawned promenade stood a huge travelling funfair and circus. Right across the road from our hotel and in full view of my wonderful sea-view room. To add insult to injury, the hot sunny weather that the Brits had been constantly moaning about for the previous 3 months had turned into cloudy, drizzling and generally mawkish. The grey skies adding to my growing feelings that the past is best left in the past, where it belongs.
I was actually in Woolworths in Paignton when I first heard the news that Elvis Presley had died in 1977 on one of their Binatone radio-cassette players I was fancying. My Aunty, who was with us on that particular holiday, was a massive Elvis fan, and anytime I had to travel in her car, I got bombarded with Elvis' 40 Greatest Hits on 8-track. She didn't stop bawling for the rest of the day. The bawling restarted when we went to see Tommy Steele doing his summer season at Paignton Festival Hall two days later. During his show, he paid tribute to Elvis, which set her off again, and half the theatre turned to look at her sobbing into her neatly embroidered handkerchief. I could have died! I remember my Mother being a bit pissed off, as she loved Tommy Steele and it was difficult to hear over the top of all that wailing, but the highlight of that show was him accidentally spitting out his false teeth when sitting on front of the stage singing 'Little White Bull'. If only we'd had smartphones back in the day.
It's also incredible how much shit is stored in your head that only comes to the fore when you accidentally or otherwise trigger it.
It seemed the old girl's memory had also been triggered as we flew down the M5, the motorway to the South-West, early doors, before it turned into its regular alternative daily role as a car park. "Do you think Tommy Steele will be doing a summer season again?" She said, as she ever-so-slightly began to dribble.
"Of course not, he must have been dead for 20 years"
Except the wife in the back, who was Googling who the hell Tommy Steele was, piped up.
"No, he's not, he's still alive and still singing at 88".
Thankfully, not in Paignton whilst we were there, for Paignton Festival Hall, in its majestic sea-front location, was now a multiplex cinema! Sadly, variety shows at seaside theatres are most definitely a thing of the past.
Of course, back then, I was the horrible scrawny kid scoffing bucket loads of ice cream and eating endless trays of chips (a bit like Elvis, I suppose!) and with an annoying Yorkshire accent, so in a way, I guess it was simply karma that close to 50 years later, I'd have to suffer the latest generation of annoying brats as retribution.
In case you're wondering...
Why not Weston-super-Mare?
I couldn't possibly answer that question without risk of being downvoted by a certain 150K+ Hivian who may pass this way....
Anyway, before this turns into even more of a monotonous, Peter Kaye-style trip down memory lane, I'll leave it there. It was a good couple of weeks, to be fair. Pictures and posts will undoubtedly follow, and I will try to be a little less irreverent and cynical. Try being the operative word.
Wishing everyone a wonderful weekend.
Martin
@nathen007