Snakes, Plains & Automobiles

 

 Southport’s most famous export is probably golf. Heading two miles south from the Town Centre on the A565 is England’s golfing home, plus a multitude of other pleasant courses. The Royal Birkdale has hosted the Open Championship on no less than nine occasions. Such legends as Arnold Palmer, Tom Watson, Padraig Harrington, Lee Trevino and Peter Thompson (twice) have lifted the famous Claret Jug at this venue; the oldest golfing trophy in the world. Also two Ryder Cups have been held here, along with five women’s opens, not to mention the Walker and Curtis Cups.

 

Founded in 1889, Royal Birkdale did not receive its Royal status until 1951, and if that were not enough, it also held the 100th open in 1971. The adjoining course of Ainsdale (built in 1925) also has the prestige of hosting two Ryder Cups in 1933 & 1937, and is still today one of the main Open Qualifying venues. So they really have good reason to boast about something here in Southport.

 

My partner Pam and I left Birmingham for a weekend break to Southport on the 25th March 2010, which happened to my 49th birthday (oh don’t). I hadn’t even buckled myself in when Pam alerted me of the desperate need for petrol. Checking the fuel gage on the dashboard I estimated that there was sufficient unleaded cream to complete a round trip of the Earth’s globe. But once the needle hits the halfway point Pam must have it topped up - period.

 

Studying the AA Road Atlas of Britain showed it unnecessary to relieve one’s vehicle of no more than three roads. Leave the M6 at junction 26, hit Skelmesdale, and then onto the A570 directly into Southport. What on earth could possibly go wrong? Hey!

 

It has become somewhat of a tradition to dine at one of the motorway services that are legally bound to rifle as much dosh from your spending kitty as possible. Charnock & Richard have taken the best part of a year’s salary from my wad alone. But on this particular trip they will receive zero sterling from thee, because we are not going that far. Instead I had the common sense to pack a lunch in which we would pull up at some lay-by after leaving the motorway. This we did, and how thoroughly therapeutic it was (and cheap). I made a promise to visit one of the services on the way back, so long as Pam pays. Now there is a magnanimous offer.

 

With celerity we reached Southport in subsonic fashion. I smiled at Pam, and she mirrored me. I pulled into another lay-by, only this time it was to ask Pam in which direction the holiday camp was.

 

“So, which way is it?" I asked, quite innocently.

 

With a look of genuine surprise, she replied, “which ways what?"

 

“The holiday camp of course”.

 

Now this is the moment when you study one and other to see who the dumbo is, and at the moment it is pretty even. I lit a ready rolled cigarette, electronically wound the window down and released poison fumes from nostril and mouth collect. After an intermediate pause, I continued my end of the squabble.

 

“Didn’t you bring the map?"

 

Her face lit up as red as a traffic light, before declaring, “You said that you didn’t need a map.”

 

“No”, I retorted. “I said that I did not need a map to get into Southport, that was easy. It was only two roads for crying out loud”.

 

I left her to argue amongst herself whilst I daydreamt about stabbing her to death. When I peered in her direction some time later, she was still arguing, accompanied by fraying arms.

 

It was at last decided that bickering was not the way forward for a weekend break. So with no map and clearly little idea in which direction to head I elected to hit the town.

 

I kept parallel with the coast, as in most cases these holiday resorts are situated near a beach. A careful and carefree drive left me ample room and time to enjoy the odd peek into the calm Irish Sea.

 

“Lovely beach isn’t it?" I said to Pam, in the hope it would dampen any worries she may now be experiencing.

 

She shrugged her shoulders.

 

From left to right - the sea, the promenade and the bed & breakfast hotels, all mirrored every other pleasure beaches up and down the country. I stated this observation to Pam, who once again shrugged her shoulders.

 

Roughly three miles of driving north with the coastline, I thought it best that I make an illegal motoring manoeuvre. A U-turn in the middle of an A road when the traffic is flowing freely is not on the theory test menu, but it is hardly going to affect my driving licence, as I do not have one. When it comes to me being behind the steering wheel of a vehicle I become as legal as Marijuana, but there is no other choice, as Pam is actually scared of her own driving. Mind you it bothers me a little too.

 

From right to left - the bed & breakfast hotels, the promenade and the sea, all mirrored every other pleasure beach down and up the country (Yes, I am going in the opposite direction now). But I chickened out on repeating these observations to Pam, as her sense of humour may well have dwindled away right now.

 

Alas I gave in. I sliced through a crowd of horrified holidaymakers and into a car park, causing only minor injuries to the innocent stroller.

 

“What are you doing?" Screamed Pam.

 

I just looked straight ahead and informed her that - “I will get us to this holiday park, even if it kills someone”.

 

At the car park entrance, a short chap in a blue uniform and brandishing one of those milkman type money bags, raised his left hand for me to halt prompt. Also by his side read a mini-billboard stating that parking was £3 per hour or £5 all day. With the window ajar I explained our dilemma, also enquiring for directions to the nearest holiday park. With a true scouse accent he kindly put us out of our misery (No he did not shoot us dead, as you would not be reading this) and merely pointed us in the correct direction.

 

“If ya take dat road for two miles, yell cum to a roundabouse and Pont’ns is on yer rice”.

 

I raised a thumb of appreciation and replied, “Tanks-a-loss”.

 

A ten minute drive indeed leads us to a roundabout.

 

“Which way did he say Pam?", I asked.

 

She pointed left, so I went left. A mile later it occurred to me that we were going the wrong way.

 

“We’re going the wrong way”, I said, choosing a few rude expletives in between.

 

I re-failed my driving test and headed back towards the roundabout. Directly ahead of us was a complex that must have been of equal size to the Taj Mahal. Draping above its zenith were about sixteen giant flags spelling the name PONTINS.

 

“How the hell did we miss that?", I said, “It’s massive”.

 

Pam laughed out loud, and I laughed loudly too.... Oh how we laughed unison.

 

So after an inadvertent tour of Southport and its environs we at last met the gates to Ainsdale Penitentiary.

 

Now, why on Earth would Pontin’s go to all the trouble of erecting a 20ft wired perimeter around the Holiday Park? Surely featheredge fence boards, supported by concrete posts would have been a lot cheaper and far prettier. Also, how do I get out for my early morning walk, as this looks like the only way in and out? I guess the answer will be found soon enough.

 

The sight of a Security Guard calling me on sent a few jitters around my bowel area. I had observed prior vehicles being given the full Checkpoint Charlie treatment. The only worry to us was that we had brought along our dear pet Rabbit, and as there were no pets aloud, the fear of us being rejected entrance was a real possibility. But that worry subsided when Pam had the good sense to throw her coat over the portable hutch. With a good gander through each window, the guard released his finger from the trigger and waved us through – Phew!

 

Now that we were on site I suddenly came down with a case of dipsomania. Also after the checkpoint scenario my mouth became as dry as an Arab’s sandal. I asked Pam if she would kindly book us in while I test the lager theory. I studied the line of casks that were on offer at the bar, but just as I was about to order a soothing pint of lager, Pam rattled the keys in my face.

 

“That was quick”, I said. “We usually have to wait for about an hour”.

 

As you can imagine, this rocked my boat somewhat, not to mention my thirst. Pam broke the news gently. “You’ll have to leave the drink for now; we need to get the Rabbit sorted and she’s been in the car for four hours. Well I suppose there was no argument there. Besides, she is after all, the love of my life, the furry little beggar.

 

We sat in the car and Pam buckled herself in and pointed straight ahead and announced, “It’s that way”.

 

I answered with a little sarcasm. “I know Pam, it’s a one way system”.

 

I pulled away slowly; as the speed limit indicated that one should not exceed 5MPH. Pam noticed that my seatbelt was dangling free.

 

“Aren’t you going to put your seatbelt on?" she asked.

 

 I said nothing.

 

“Where about is our caravan?" I asked.

 

She put her right hand in front of my face and announced that it was on the left. At 54 years of age (suspect), you would have thought by now that Pam would have learnt the difference between left and right. It can be quite useful at times, and also highly dangerous. It’s a good job she wasn’t my acting co-driver in giving directions on a main road, as we could have easily ended up in Northampton, which was in the opposite direction. Or even worse, the Mosside Council Estate in Manchester.

 

All I was concerned with right now was to get settled in and then get my feet on the beach, and also get a bottle of Budweiser inside me.

 

“So what number is it?" enquired I.

 

“184, opposite the bin house”, she replied.

 

I pulled up opposite the bin house on the right, just has her left hand had instructed. Alighting the car I noticed a sign that read 176-182. I entered then exited a passage and found another sign which read 192-198. 183 to 191 were nowhere to be seen. I returned to the vehicle where Pam was still sitting in the passenger seat having zero intention of helping me find our home.

 

Peering through the window, I explained, “I can’t find 183 to 191?"

 

She looked at me as if I was some sort of Wally, before amazingly answering, “We want 184”.

 

My mouth froze as if I had just been given a dentist’s anaesthetic jab.

 

“I know what number we want, I just can’t find it”.

 

 I attempted the chin stroking routine to see if that would help my thinking. It did not. I scratched my head as another ploy, which seemed to have done the trick. Above me read a sign declaring the numbers 183-191.

 

Bingo! “I’ve found it”, I boasted. “It’s upstairs. I‘ll run up and take a butcher’s”.

 

Pam must have been mightily impressed at my navigational prowess, as the look on her face told a unique story.

 

It had taken me only five minutes to unload the car. My first act was to collapse in a heap on the most comfortable piece of apparatus available. The kitchen sink looked the best option, but I elected to use a piece of hardcore furniture that resembled a sofa.

 

I find it strange at the fact that I had been sitting down for two hours or so in the driver’s seat of a Vauxhall Corsa, yet the first thing I need right now was to sit down. Very strange.

 

Spread-eagled along this sofa type thingamajig, I couldn’t help but notice that we were not in a caravan.

 

“Pam”.

 

“Yeh”.

 

“I thought we were having a caravan?"

 

“I didn’t know what we were having”.

 

“You stupid get”

 

I hoped that my consistant phewing would attract the attention of Pam, but it was ignored. I re-phewed, and this time it attracted attention.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Pam. “Go out for a walk for goodness sake, and let me unpack everything. Besides you’ll only get in the way”.

 

I thanked God for his kindness and prepared myself for a walk along the beach. Now let’s get some sightseeing done.

 

While Pam carries out diligent necessities I will take a walk along the beach. But before I continue, you may think that I am being spiteful in not inviting Pam out for a walk with me. We have been on many vacations, and on no occasion has Pam ever wanted to accompany me for an evening walk. I did actually offer, but she is only here for the shopping. So with the subsonic speed of a Jack Russell who has just been shot up the arse with a 2.2 Air Rifle I was out of the apartment and making my way towards the compound exit. As I looked about this complex, it dawned on me that these apartment blocks resemble army barracks, but I left those thoughts for later. As I reached the exit I asked a member of the Gestapo if it were possible for me to take a walk. The kind man handed me a blue piece of card that read in very large letters - PASS.

 

As he handed me the card he warned, “Do not lose it, or you will not be able to get back in”.

 

Was he kidding me or what?

 

I left the gates and headed for a saunter along the coast (What a lovely beach by the way). The sand disappeared both north & south as far as the eye could see. The wind blew with intent to disturb my evening wander, but I would not be deterred by such trivial matters. I dared my legs to further towards the Irish Sea; each step bringing me closer to the Emerald fatherland. About turning, I hadn’t realised just how far I had ventured out. I do love the sea, but I am really a hardened landlubber. A contingent of nosey parkers stared in unison at this dopey fool from the city. Did they know something that I didn’t? Was the tide about to come in subsonically and beat me to shore, cutting my holiday short with a severe case of death? Were they in prognostication of when I will reach quicksand? All this piffle was soon left behind as they made their way to wherever they were going, and I was left with a beach almost to myself.

 

Once settled in scenic ocean splendour I unzipped my holdall and pulled out a bottle of Uncle Bud (Budweiser). I made sure that I had brought my Santa Claus bottle opener with me. De-clipping the top, the smell of hops and whatever chemicals are added, hit my nostrils. The poison flushed into my lungs, releasing a cold-flow of liquid. I looked into the empty ocean, looked at my top opener and wished the world a Merry Christmas.

 

 

I was unwilling to leave until Uncle Bud II had emptied. Blackpool Tower was within comfortable reach of my eyesight, and an oil rig stood not a mile into sea with its out of sort’s ugliness hampering an otherwise pleasant view, but at the same time holding a featured acceptance. I made my way towards safer land as the sun dipped itself into the Irish Sea, slowly exchanging the day with night.

 

 

With little light left to travel yonder and beyond I made my way to the gates of Gulag XIII, where I flashed my pass to the security guard.

 

 “I need the pass back”, demanded a large blonde woman who looked as if she had recently lost her position in a German porn franchise, and was also quite capable of beating the shit out me.

 

I enquired if this (you give me a pass to exit, and I return it for re-entry) is the procedure at all times.

 

“Yes it is”, she said, with an authoritive grimace that would clatter the knees of Jack Bauer.

 

So with a lash of her whip she ordered me to make haste into the relative safety of the compound, where I shall be held overnight.

 

Now dehydrated from the willies being put up me from frauline fantasteeeshh, I needed a beer. Fortunately the bar was at arm’s length, so I took the three steps that lead to the door of The Queen Victoria. It was thankfully quite the opposite of what 'Eastenders' Albert Square provides. There was no shouting for unapparent reasons, the bar staff lacked any mutton features, nobody had been glassed within the last week, and Barbara Windsor wasn’t on active duty ordering patrons to....“Go on, geerout ma pab”.

 

Once again the line of tempting beverages lined the bar, and once again I chose the Guinness. A very pretty girl of, I would say, 18 years old and brandishing multitudinous colours in her hair, waited patiently until I ordered the damned thing.

 

“A pint of Guinness please”, I said.

 

“Cold or normal?"

 

“Normal”.

 

She turned to register the damage that would be inflicted upon my person before declaring...“That'll be £2.70p please?

 

All I had on my person was a fiver, leaving me short for another drink if required. With my two elbows resting on the bar to keep me upright I gorped at my pint of Irish stout until the head was completely inch white, leaving a magnificent black liquid that looks too good to drink. One almighty gulp left me halfway to home time, and I know I shall want another after this one has vanished, - a night cap, let’s say.

 

A fruit machine to my right, warns me that I must leave this establishment skint, so I must relinquish any monetary inhabitants that my pocket may hold. I stared down at my now quarter pint of Guinness and then glanced to the flashing lights of the mechanical bandit and checked the coinage in my pocket. Another glimpse at beer and machine transfixed my thoughts to Clint Eastwood in one of those spaghetti western comings together. Grabbing my almost redundant glass I stealthily made my way towards the lights.

 

“This is it you miserly armless bandit. It’s payback time”.

 

I fed the whole £2.30 in the made to measure slots, had nine spins, won zilch and went home.

 

Pam was happy in her evenings helping of soap operas when I returned. She looked up at me from one of the knocked up chairs and I told her of my late afternoon - early evening stroll. I lied as much as I thought necessary and then deleted another bottle of Bud from the fridge. Rather than interrupt the trash she was viewing I sat down at the dining table and read a little of the history of Southport. Of course the golf took centre stage, but after that it struggled somewhat for a compulsive read. Nevertheless it did give a little history that at least may raise half an eyebrow (okay a lash).

 

It says here that Southport’s second greatest bragging right is the exportation of moulding sand to Saudi Arabia. What! You don’t know what moulding sand is. Tut-tut. It also brags the most senior of garden shows in the country that attracts green fingered enthusiasts from all over the UK. (No, I have never heard of it either). The famous chef Marcus Wareing was born here (nor him). Marc Almond and Miranda Richardson at least bring to the table, names that we may have heard of. I swear that I will find something useful belonging to Southport, rather than manmade instalments.

 

The long drive and the pleasant walks have taken its toll on me today so I shall have an early night, as I must be up early for morning walking. I said my goodnights to Pam and the rabbit and headed towards the bedroom door. Pam asked how the beach was as I opened the sleeping quarter’s door.

 

“Lovely”, I replied.

 

Whatever my dream entailed that night, I have not the foggiest. It no doubt ended incomplete, as I woke up with an unnecessary erection. To calm matters, so to speak, I opened the front door to cool things down. I lit a cigarette and looked at the view. Although it was 3.00am and dark, I could still make out the view of circled apartments, which is convincing me more that this used to be an army barrack. I closed the door and tiptoed to the loo, as I do not want to wake Pam up now, do I?

 

The bathroom door creaked in the sound of a screeching car and the toilet seat needed a spot of WD/40 too. I flushed the toilet which vibrated violently. I swore plenty as I tiptoed back to the bedroom and then banged my foot on the base of the door, forcing me to swear some more. Surely with the entire racket that I am dishing out at this pathetic time of the morning, half the complex must be awake.

 

Thankfully I fell asleep for an hour or so before I awoke about 5.00am, and thankfully without any genitalia worries. I did more tip-toeing towards the kitchen area, boiled a kettle for my flask, and then headed out into the crisp dark morning for a spot of adventure.

 

Devoid of city life the coast and country bring a little cheer to the mind. Pam is safely tucked away in bed while I saunter the morning in unilateral pose. The coastline and the countryside belong to me for the whole of this morning. I mean, who will be out walking at this unearthly time, and in this wind too? Yes it is windy and bloody cold.

 

As we approached Pontin’s yesterday I noticed some delicious walks of exhausted beauty. There were sand dunes to the right and a tempting pine forest on the left. My aim is to hit the pines, which I would say were about two miles away. But first I must tunnel out of the camp.

 

5.30am and the gate is heavily guarded. This time a pretty blonde girl in her early thirties smiled as I reached the hovelled hut where she sat, probably all night without a solitary visitor.

 

“Good morning”, she said, clearly happy to see me. After all, who wouldn’t be?

 

“You’re out early this morning”, she said, popping her head through the makeshift window.

 

“Yes, I need a bit of morning air to wake me up”.

 

Rummaging around under a desk, she pulled out a wad of passes. Handing one over to me, she warned that if I mislay or lose it I would be kept in a dungeon for ten hours where an interrogation of unimaginable horrors would take place until my true identity could be confirmed.

 

“Do you understand swinehunde?” 

 

I bowed to her authority,

 

“Unequivocally”.

 

I made haste towards the beach where gales not far short of life threatening speeds blew my cap back to whence I came. Verbal fouling and a little keystone cap chasing, eventually led me into the heart of the dunes. The beach would have to wait for another time.

 

A gap between two dune humps entered me into another world. The howling and whistling wind had now ceased, as the mounds of sandy hills created a perfect windbreaks. I managed to retrieved my cap, giving it an almighty rollicking for wandering off before resting my butt on the warm sand to take an early cup of tea and a smoothing cigarette.

 

Dead ahead of me was an old building that looked as if it may have at some time been a mansion. It is now derelict and under heavy repairs. Even though the area looks ASBO free, there is heavy graffiti plastered about the makeshift fencing. Someone held passion and time

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.02.2014
ISBN: 978-3-7368-4224-3

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
I would like to thank Pam for accepting herself as a target for my micky-taking of her (Truth is, she doesn't actually know). Also to my Brother Rion, who I get to have a good time when it comes to drinking as much as we like, and have nobody to moan at us when we go home totally inebriated. Also to the folk of all rural areas of Britain, of whom ignore us tourists with waving arms.