Notes from an English Seaside Break
Class treachery, sewage, Mulhern.
You almost forgot they existed but here they are in all their bawdy, tattooed magnificence. The English.
A few days among working class people puts me at ease. Respite from the slight tension I almost forget about in my Zone 2 suburban day-to-day. I also know that in two days time, I'll be galloping back towards the indifference of the gentry, begging to be patronised again.
The sight and smell of the sea from a balcony. It's all I need. That ineffable freshness. The irrefutable horizon and the possibility of France.
You'd never guess that they pumped raw sewage into it a week ago. Windsurf sails pattern blue ripples. Forgiving our trespasses.
At the swimming pool, a fat Batman sign on a man's forearm turns out to be a Batman Vs Superman logo that he's had tattoed over with black ink. I wonder if he saw it at the cinema, loved it, got the tattoo, then watched it again on video and realised he'd made a terrible mistake? Either way, this is culture.
The circus veers from genuine spectacle to full-on Phoenix Nights without the irony. The Cuban acrobats that made me gasp in delight exit the stage to make way for four scantily dressed white women in tribal chief head dresses with their "tribute to Native American culture".
At the main stage a five minute video reminds us how much of a big deal Stephen Mulhern is and then the stage dividers slide open to reveal Stephen Mulhern.
Nobody here asked to be born and most of them are knackered. It's been a while since I felt that particular strain of fatigue within my bones. I quit the blue collar graft when I was still young enough to charge for the coast some weekends to get proper bladdered. In another life, would blue collar Daddy Niall be plonked on plastic chair with his brawn and his bones, blinking at the sea? Would he down his pint or take it slow? Would he still feel the itch of poetry?
Stephen Mulhern steps off stage to be followed by a video of Stephen Mulhern telling us that his magic sets will be available at the concession stand and you can get them signed by Stephen Mulhern.
I take a photo of my wife taking a photo of a helter skelter. Beautiful things require no real effort.
My youngest is completely enraptured by Stephen Mulhern and I begin to regret my cynical ambivalence towards Stephen Mulhern.
Occasional doomscrolls. A last hurrah for leisure before the energy companies start shaking their collection tins.
I go on Wikipedia to see if Stephen Mulhern is married.
My eldest loves to daydream. She keeps returning to the carousel, not for the ride itself but for the gentle spinning and the visions it conjures.
I've been intermittent fasting for five months but have decided to keep my eating window open throughout the holiday. Now I can't get to sleep because my stomach is still digesting food. That and I'm terrified that I will dream of Stephen Mulhern.
Every time I get a hankering to live by the coast I remind myself that I'd have to swap squirrels for seagulls.
Here comes the candle to light you to bed. Here comes the Mulhern to chop off your head.
The sign at the bar says there is no Costa Coffee. I'm filled with hope before I realise that "Costa Coffee" is functioning as a metonym for all coffee.
The last thing I see in the town centre before the train station is a poster for an Elvis tribute act. My first thought is that he’s a bit advanced in age and girth to be attempting the all-leather ‘68 look. My second thought is why the hell not, you go for it mate.
I'm wise enough to know that misanthropy is just another form of suffering and not the empowerment it presents itself to be. It burns out soon enough and a gentle empathy follows. Not unlike a sea breeze.
