What fire alarm ?

And so it came to pass that after spending August 1980 in Corfu I returned to the haven that was Whitley Bay, scene of numerous evenings sat chewing on the gristle of a rat pie, scene of the now fire blackened Maroo, and I made the momentous decision to live at The Queens.

The Queens was the pub at the end of the road where the two aforementioned luxurious guest houses were located, I knew The Queens as our local pub, I knew that the nightly rate to stay at The Queens was in excess of that which my company were prepared to pay, their limit of £7 a night covered the two dosshouse guest houses with cash to spare, but it fell short of what the landlord at The Queens wanted.

Which is a fair indicator of the huge gulf of quality that existed between those dosshouses and the proper Hotel that was The Queens – I negotiated a rate at £7 per night, my absolute limit in the petty cash tin, but for my £7 there would be no evening meal, just bed and breakfast.

But what a breakfast.

The Queens perched on a head land at the end of Whitley Bay’s promenade, the dining room bay windows faced out to sea, as did my bedroom window on the floor above, each morning I would fling open my bedroom curtains to view The North Sea in all her glory, a magnificent vista on either a summers day or during a winter storm, to the left the impressive dome of the Spanish City amusement park, to the right the coast stretched down to Tynemouth – it was a wonderful place to wake up and well worth the extra £2 a night above what had been on offer at the Per Mar.

I’d stroll casually down for breakfast where Jerry, a young lad of my years worked as breakfast chef and being a permanent resident I’d get the full works from him, racks and racks of toast, bowls full of cereal, a huge plate of English cooked breakfast incorporating every fried thing known to man and lashings of coffee then more toast. Breakfast would take a minimum of half an hour each morning and when I’d finally eaten everything in the fridge I’d wobble out of the front door to my car and off to the office.

Those breakfasts would last me all day and all night, I grew accustomed to eating just once a day and for my evening meal I relied on beer, perhaps not the healthiest of diets I admit, perhaps three years of this diet affected my eating habits to this day where I still often go all day without eating at all unless chocolate crosses my path, but still, it was fun and someone else was paying for it all.

Five years of living in contractors digs had formed an ability to sleep anywhere and on anything which also lasts to this day,  I do not have trouble sleeping, when I lay my head down I am asleep with seconds and I sleep through anything. When we go away on lads golfing trips I share rooms with the worst of the snorers, some even say that I am the worst of the snorers but that is hearsay and conjecture for I have never heard myself snore, not even once.

In short, a nuclear bomb could erupt outside my room and I’d sleep through it, its a skill that I have honed carefully and it was illustrated succinctly on two occasions at The Queens.

There I was one morning halfway through one of Jerry’s monster breakfasts when the landlady entered the room looking very sheepish, approached my table and apologised profusely for the incident during the night.

I let her babble on for some time and then, curiosity finally taking hold, asked her what on earth she was talking about.

“The fire alarm” she replied
“What fire alarm ?” I asked
“The fire alarm that went off at 3am this morning” she gasped
“What fire alarm ?” I asked again
“Oh my god” she replied

I’d slept through a (fortunately) false alarm but the fire brigade had been called out and a headcount of guests stood outside at 3am in their jimmy-jams had been made and a full search of the hotel carried out to establish that indeed it was a false alarm – none of them noticed that I was still fast asleep in my pit.

She got the electrician in during the day while I was at work and he quickly established that yes, the fire alarm bell on my landing was indeed working perfectly, and furthermore it was right outside my bedroom door – never heard a thing.

And then again six months later, there I sat eating another of Jerry’s hearty breakfasts when the land lady came into the room full of remorse again to do a tour of the tables and apologise again to all the guests for the fire alarm during the night.

And again she approached my table and as she did so I just shook my head,

“You didn’t hear the fire alarm again ?” she asked in shock
“What fire alarm ?” I asked again

They’d missed me again, out on the pavement at the 3am roll call while the fire brigade searched the hotel.

I just hope that I’m never in a hotel when a real fire breaks out.