Saigon.
I’ve been roped in to going on holidays with the family. Not my holiday, but theirs. I’ve already resigned myself to that.
I only discovered a few days ago our destination was Pontins, in sunny Somerset, England.
I’ll try to convey my thoughts on the place over the next few days, access permitting.
…
Registration wasn’t until 4, but fret not -there was plenty for us to do before then. We arrived at 3:15. A friendly staff member directed us to car park number 1 and then to The Fun Factory for induction, er, registration.
We slide-stepped and shimmied, we hip-hopped and moon-walked. Eventually we made our way through the thronging masses and the deafening hordes and flashy slot machines to The Fun Factory.
Induction, er, registration we discovered involved sitting at a table of our choosing, taking a six-barrel pistol from the centre, pointing it at our skulls and pulling the trigger. Later we discovered there was a bullet in only one chamber.
OK, not really.
Induction, er, registration had us listening to the well-practiced banter of a pleasant late-teens Pontins Vet. Then she released the crocodiles. Well, one crocodile. Captain Croc. He’s the camp mascot or something.
Children jumped for joy and ran to Captain Croc. They sang songs and danced in circles around him.
More or less. There’s nothing like a giant reptile to keep children happy.
OK Mr-A-Croc-is-not-a-reptile-Smartypants I have another one for you: This wasn’t even a real crocodile so who’s so smart now eh? EH!!??
Finally the gates were opened and 400 or more families were allowed check in. Orderly queues were formed in the large hall in alphabetical groupings and the fun began.
Of course I left Mrs. Rumm deal with it. She’s good at that kind of thing, I took a kid of my choosing for a walk to survey the damage.
Bodies were piled three deep on the lawn. Some of them half-naked. Fat men and over-ripe kids mostly. Flies licked sweat from their crevices and stomped on their ice cream, but these people were oblivious. It seems dreary faces are not allowed at Pontins. Clearly they put something in the water or the food. Or the air maybe.
That’s why I’m holed up, sitting on the bog as I type this. I asked Mrs. Rumm to bring me some tin foil from the shop so I can fashion a hat for myself. I don’t want anything around here rubbing off on me. But did she hell. Instead she came back with tea bags, milk and cream buns. CREAM BUNS!!
Oh the humanity!
The others have left for the beach, but I think I’ll just finish this before risking all in a bid to eke out some internet access. If you don’t read this it means I have failed. Please send one euro for my children.
The horror! The horror!
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