It rained a lot

Summer 1978, it rained a right lot.

I had travelled to the Devon Coast with a crowd of like minded lads for, erm, a lads holiday, a football team full, we stayed at the Devon Coast Country Club which wasn’t so much of a “country club” in the stylee of posh “country clubs” full of rich people but more like Butlins with rain.

The Devon Coast Country Club prided itself on its sporting facilities, but it was still a glorified Butlins, small its true, a small glorified Butlins then, it had two-tier chalets, a “club house” and mass dining, and the day, and the night, at the Devon Coast Country Club revolved around sporting activities, football on the bottom pitch, bowls on the bowling green at 10 am that sort of thing, all culminating in competitions in all activities at the end of the week.

Which would have been fine and dandy had the summer been one endless round of pavement slab cracking heat like it had been in 76 and 77, but 78 was payback time.

In 78 it pissed it down, all year.

We were ten in total, well nine actually as Russ backed out at the last minute after paying his fees so we got to sit at a table for ten at each of our three square meals a day and pretend that Russ had just gone to the toilet again when the waitress served us “leave his plate there” we said, “he’ll be along soon” and she did and we shared Russ’s food out at every mealtime and the stupid waitresses never twigged that there was no such person.

We paired up in our five chalets, Andy Graham got Steve Wizz, Steve who worked at John Smiths brewery at the time, Steve who had saved up his weekly beer allowance for months and months and then brought it all with him, what a good job I had taken the company van with me, I was Steve’s beer van and it took all nine of us a full hour to unload Steve’s beer into his chalet – think John Belushi in “Animal House” and you have the general idea.

We never asked what the pair of them had been up to but Steve and Andy emerged from their chalet on day one of the holiday to reveal that one of the legs had broken off Steve’s bed, but all was fine again as he’d propped it up with a can of John Smiths, oh how he suffered later on in the week after he’d finished his stash of beer, oh how he agonised over whether or not he could risk drinking the one that held his bed together, he did eventually, replacing the full can with an empty one – it collapsed on him that night.

Again we never asked what had gone on between the two of them but on the day we travelled down there it was Andy that had a very bad sore throat, by the Monday it was Steve who had the very bad sore throat, so bad that he went to see the camp doctor, yes they had a camp doctor, no, he wasn’t “camp” in the stylee of Charles Hawtry, he was the doctor for the holiday camp, very 1950′s Butlins don’t you think ?

So the camp doctor declared that Steve had tonsilitis and that he should drink as much liquid as possible which was the only excuse that Steve needed to retire to his chalet and make a start on his enormous beer stash, we didn’t see him again until the Thursday at which time he pronounced himself cured, and still very drunk – later that year we were invited to the unveiling ceremony of the new Boeing 747 that was made entirely from the recycled beer cans collected from outside the back window of Steve and Andy’s chalet after we’d gone home.

He didn’t stay in his chalet all of the time though, upon arriving at the holiday camp he had spotted a very nice piece of totty working in the camp hairdressers and he decided that as he was on holiday he should get his hair cut. He got his hair cut every day of that holiday and still didn’t pluck up the courage to ask her out, and if Mary his wife of twenty five years (this year) reads this she will kill him, for she is a fearsome woman of good Irish stock.

The rest of us spent the week trudging around the holiday camp trying to find an activity that we could excel at, I was knocked out of the first round of the snooker competition by a bloke who arrived at the table dressed in full dinner suit with his own cue and a man with white gloves to replace the balls back on their spots after he’d potted them – I think I got to play one shot at the table after which he cleared the lot, 147-0 I think it was.

Looking outside it was still raining so I entered myself into the billiards competition, my dad was All-Leeds billiard champion for decades, he had cups and everything, so I had high hopes for myself.

Shortly after taking the table to repeat my fathers success I realised that I had not the first idea how to play the game, not one clue, and the bloke who I was playing seemed to be an All-England champion, I sat down and watched him perform for half an hour before being informed that I’d lost again, two or three hundred to nil, or something like that.

It was still raining, it rained for seven days without pause, so I entered myself into the darts competition during which one of my darts actually hit the board and stuck in it, I lost in the first round in that competition too, 150-0 times three games, or something like that.

It was still raining, heavier now, so I entered the ping-pong, sorry, table tennis competition. we stood a chance at ping-pong because one of our lads, Howard, was good at it, indeed he was, I drew him in the first round and lost 150-0, or something like that, the scores were all merging into one by now, nil seemed to be a common denominator for me though.

It was still raining and so seeking for further amusement I wandered into the dining hall where tables had been re-arranged in a casino stylee and lots of people were sitting down playing cards. Now I admit to not knowing one single card game at all, not one, my wife and all of her family are real card sharps, but me, no siree bob, not one game do I know.

Well ok, I know “Snap !” and I seem to remember a game called “Old Maid” that my grandma used to play with us kids but I can’t tell you anything about it now, so I stood there in that room watching a hundred or so old people playing cards until someone asked if I’d like to sit in on a game, stupidly I agreed and was introduced to an old lady circa 80 years old who only needed to win one more rubber to progress to the final on Friday, her partner had a weak bladder and had gone for a much needed comfort break and would I sit in for him, just the one rubber to win then.

I had not the first idea of what they spoke of, but I smiled nicely at the old dear and her two opponents and sat at the table, it was a game of cards for gods sake, what could possibly go wrong ?

I admit that it would have helped if I’d known what the game of cards was called, or what the rules were, or even what you were supposed to do with the cards that they gave you, with hindsight I don’t think you play bridge by arranging the cards in your hand in numerical order and then playing them by number, I don’t think thats how you do it anyway, even now thirty years later I still haven’t the first clue.

I lost the game for the old lady of course, she was cursing like a sailor when I made my excuses and left the table, she and her husband glared at me for the rest of that holiday, its a serious game is bridge isn’t it ?

All over a rubber too.

We entered a water polo competition – in the rain – we sunk without trace.

We entered the cricket competition, it was rained off.

We entered the bowling competition – thats green bowling not ten pin, we were all beaten in the first round by old men in white caps who knew what they were doing.

And finally we entered a football competition as being as most of the nine of us were an actual football team (I do not include myself amongst their esteemed company) we thought we were in with a chance, we were, we got through to the final, the other team in the final were a team of waiters from the holiday camp, it was so “Dirty Dancing” we could have written the script.

All was going well, we were into the second half at 0-0, they hadn’t come near our goal all day which was fortunate for me and our goalie as we had stood chatting in the goal mouth for most of the game, when suddenly one of the waiters broke free with the ball, I was the last line of defence, it all happened so quickly, the shout went up for me to stop him, so I kicked him so hard between the legs as he ran towards me that he actually lifted off the ground before rolling for something like three quarters of a mile, screaming in agony all the time.

I pleaded insanity but for no avail, I was sent off and they scored from the resultant penalty, so that was another competition we lost, then it started raining again.

Its holidays like this that make us Brits what we are, holidays in the rain and cold showers.