Oh I do like to beside the seaside

A day at a British seaside resort is one of my favourite ways to while away an afternoon. As a child, I always enjoyed my annual visit to Southend-on-Sea, every eastender’s favourite ‘resort’. A walk along the Golden Mile, putting a few coppers in a penny-falls machine in the Kursaal arcade, a stroll to the end of the pier (it’s the longest in the world, dontcha know?) and back while munching on a stick of candy floss, and half an hour in Peter Pan’s Playground. What more could an eight-year-old want out of life?

I returned about five years ago after an absence of almost two decades and my rose-tinted memories were given a given sharp dose of reality. The quaint Peter Pan’s Playground had evolved into a behemoth now known as Adventure Island, with ear-splitting Europap and hordes of marauding Vicky Pollard look-alikes. The Kursaal had been redeveloped for housing. Even the name of the town suddenly seemed a laughable misnomer. Southend-on-Sea? Shouldn’t it be Southend-on-the-polluted-Thames-estuary?

But for some reason, my trip rekindled my affection for traditional seaside resorts, and I decided to visit more of these quintessentially English anachronisms. Last year, I made my first trips to Whitby and Scarborough. The former was more of a fishing village (and quite an upmarket one at that), but Scarborough was everything that I had hoped it would be. In fact, I got so caught up in the atmosphere of the place, that I spent four hours in an amusement arcade playing a penny-falls machine (in some ways, I’m still the same as I was during those annual visits to the Essex riviera), having somehow convinced myself that the mobile-phone handsets sitting on top of the rows of coins were real. Seven plastic phones and £18 later (yes, that’s a lot of 2p pieces), I realised the folly of my ways.

So last month, when my parents, brother, sister-in-law, nephew and niece headed up to Caister-on-Sea (not the Thames) for their annual holiday, their caravan park’s proximity to Great Yarmouth persuaded me to join them for the last couple of days.

My last visit to Great Yarmouth had been in 1981, when we had stayed at the same holiday park. All I remember about the resort was that I had bought a Madness trilby (which I’ve still got). Twenty-eight years is a long while, but from the moment I arrived in the town until the moment I left, I had an absolute ball.

The first thing that I saw as I walked towards the sea-front were several crown-green bowls lawns, populated by scores of immaculately attired elderly me (and a few women) enjoying the late-summer sunshine and some competitive sport. After a few minutes enthralled by the action (it’s a strangely addictive activity), I started walking along the promenade. And to my delight, I was soon ticking off every cliché with gay abandon. Donkey rides on the beach. Tick. Multi-generational families of sun-reddened, tattoo-covered chavs with rolls of flab bulging out of their obscenely scanty clothes. Tick. Bouncy caste populated by overexcited toddlers. Tick. Two piers (anything Southend can do…). Tick. Pensioners with tartan rugs over their knees, drinking flasks of tea. Tick. Overpriced funfair with a haunted house and various sick-inducing rides. Tick. Gaggles of underdressed girls tottering around in inappropriate footwear. Tick. A high street dominated by tattoo parlours and rock shops. Tick. Countless amusement arcades with grandiose, Las Vegas-style names. Tick.

If they ever produce one of those yellow spotters’ guide books to tacky (and I use that word in an affectionate way) seaside resorts – and they used to make them about the most boring subjects, such as ‘trees’ – I’ll be the first to buy one. The only thing missing was someone rolling up their trousers and swapping their ‘kiss me quick’ hat for a knotted handkerchief, before going for a paddle in the sea.

I feasted on a tray of chips drenched in salt and vinegar while walking along the promenade, followed by a huge Mr Whippy, all washed down with an 85p cappuccino sitting in a plastic garden seat (who needs Starbucks?). And I was so enchanted by the whole experience that I totally forgot that West Ham were playing Spurs (I had timed my return from China to coincide with the start of the football season), one of our biggest matches of the season, live on Sky.

It was one of the most enjoyable days I’ve had for a long time. Even if I didn’t find the shop where I had bought that Madness trilby.