Day 3 of one father’s continuing reluctant adventures at Pontins. If you haven’t already, check out Day 1 here. Day 2 here.

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The family were out. I was sweltering in the bedroom, typing this non-blog when there came a knock on the door.

Knock knock knock.

I knew at once who it was and shouted to my brother-in-law, Richard, not to let them in.

Richard, being Richard, obliged the other, “proper” side and opened the door. He began to explain how we didn’t want to join in the festivities and organised family fun but he was knocked over the head by a burly female bluecoat and dragged outside to the crazy golf and abseiling, unconscious. Later there would be photographs confirming he enjoyed these events.

By now I had barricaded the bedroom and dug myself in under the bed, but they soon broke through. Two bluecoats stood before my protruding feet now as a third explained how it was for my own good.

“You’ll love it!” she assured me in a sweet, sympathetic voice. This was the same one who knocked out Richard without a word. Dear Richard. Dear, dear Richard.

“We have bicycle rides around the park,” she informed me, “and we even provide a child to cycle with if you can’t find your own.” A fat kid with a limp and runny nose was presented to my heels. My feet pretended they didn’t hear or see.

“We have face-painting for adults and candy-floss parties!” she enthused, but when she saw it wasn’t working she immediately changed tack..

“You can sit in the bar and just _pretend_ to join in!” she told me, but I knew at once it was a lie. Token partipation is not an option. She was willing to say whatever it took to coax me out from under the bed. It would look better for the records. I could hear the approaching sounds of a nearby Aga-Doo singing conga-line and knew at once her aim was for me to head it.

“You’re only making it worse on yourself you know,” the bluecoat was now telling me and sure enough, when I didn’t answer right away, she nodded silently to her accomplices, who began to pull at my feet.

By now I had dug in with my fingernails, but even that was no use. Two long trails of five were ploughed through the multicoloured polyester carpet as I was dragged to rights and to “FUN” with a capital-F.

Right before the chloraform-soaked rag was placed over my mouth I looked up to see
the face of one of my assailants: NOOOOoooooo!
“Thomas, how could you!” I cried. “I thought you were my friend! You fixed the TV for my Wii!”

How unfair is this place? It comes for me even in my dreams, reaches out and drags me in.

Addendum:
We failed to make the Pig & Donkey Races last night you’ll be saddened to hear. It was being held at the back of a nearby fair (we call them “Merries” where I come from).
By the time we made it through it had already started and they wanted a tenner from each adult and a fiver for each kid. For pig and donkey racing! Did we get to eat the winners afterwards for that price I wondered? Perhaps they were aiming for authentic fast food? No matter, we had already easily dropped a hundred in the preceding half hour. There was no way I was allowing anyone I knew pay for pork n’ ass. This _IS_ a family holiday after all you know.

Check out Day 4

There was something I left out in my previous post…

As soon as we made it to the room (here in Pontins) I unpacked the Nintendo Wii. Well you don’t think I’d go away for five days with mad children unarmed do you?

After setting up I turned the telly around, only to find a single coaxial ariel-type port at the back -not the required composite yellow/red/white or scart.

There was weeping, gnashing of teeth, floor-kicking, head banging and general non-specific tantrum behaviour. Luckily the children weren’t around to witness it.

Once I recovered I came up with a cunning plan!
“Quick -check the telly next door for a scart connector!” I called to my obliging wife. Her sister was late arriving you see. She missed the induction, er, I mean registration and we had their room key.

Sure enough their TV did indeed have the necessary port. Pontins’ upbeat air was beginning to rub off because I must admit it gave me great delight swapping those televisions.

But my joy was short-lived.

The Wii did connect, but there was no remote control in the room. The buttons on the front of the set allowed volume control and channel switching, but there was no way to switch to the AV channel. Gah!

Though fear not, for help was at hand… Mrs. Rumm stopped a member of staff outside the door and asked if there was a remote control for the TV. Alas, no was the reply, but the staff member promised she would see if there was anything to be done before slinking off. We all know what that means don’t we?

Imagine then my surprise when she slinked back five minutes later with another staff member who knew his onions.
“Which TV do you have?” He enquired as he stepped into the house, “I might be able to…” but once he spotted the non-brand brand he groaned. “We probably could’ve done something if it had been anything other than a LINSAR model…” he consoled me like a doctor delivering unsavoury news to a relative.

By the time he left the roles had been reversed. He was that upset at not being able to help I was consoling him.

Five minutes later he was back with a Thomson TV in his arms.
“I know it’s possible to switch to AV on this model” he beamed.
And he was right.

Another problem presented itself -brightness was very dim on the AV channel -something I was prepared to live with, but ‘Thomas’ was now taking it personally. He set off once more, this time in search of a Thomson remote from his own accommodation. Fortunately by the time he returned the problem had rectified
itself. Don’t ask me how.

Chalk one up for the Pontins staff -for Thomas in particular of course, but from what I’ve seen, everyone seems helpful around here.

Last night, as we watched TV, afraid of going to bed (I didn’t yet mention the kip that is the bedrooms), my daughter snuggled up next to me and smiled. “This is a nice holiday isn’t it daddy? Tomorrow I’m going swimming and I’m going to go down that slide!”
I had to join in her glee and return the smile.

I still hate the place of course, but don’t tell the kids that. They might… nah I suppose it wouldn’t matter one jot if I did or not.

…Reminds me of something unrelated. Or probably not that it reminds me, but what I mean is something else just popped into my mind…
On the ferry yesterday we traipsed the two available levels in search of seats for two adults, two children. Everywhere was full. People barricaded themselves behind bags, parents juggled up to three children in the air at once,

It was like being at a football stadium in the buildup to a hurricaine. Or like being at Pontins I was yet to discover at the time.

Then I spotted it: One young fella upstairs, in a corner, sprawled across a table, surrounded by five empty seats, with his back to the chaos. He felt my presence and looked up (immediately regretting it I could tell).
“Are these seats taken?” I enquired, moving into place with the two kids and wife in tow.”

“Yeah” he stammered.

I looked around at the empty seats with no bags.

“All of them?” I pushed.

He cowed into his arms (still spread across the table) “er, ‘cept one” he mumbled.

It would have given me untold pleasure to call his bluff, but Mrs. Rumm would never have taken it. Instead we shared some space with her sister’s family.

Later I saw that sprawled guy queuing at the Bureau De Change. I suddenly had a deep-seated urge to run up and sit in the corner seat upstairs. It pains me to admit I didn’t.

Later still, my sister-in-law’s child began to wander around the stairs and I felt it my duty to accompany him. We made it to the top and my suspicions were confirmed: Mr. “Er, ‘cept one” was once again sprawled across the table, surrounded by six empty seats. I had missed my chance at the Bureau De Change. I have now designated him my nemesis. He may have won the first battle, but our paths will cross again one day. Of that I am certain!

Meanwhile, back at Pontins, my sister in law is anxious to check out the pig & donkey race this evening (my money’s on the pig -never bet against a pig), my children are adament I’m to accompany them swimming and my wife just relieved me of the one pleasure I was having all day (cherry beer from the not-so-local Morrisons -she drank it!)
I haven’t bumped into Captain Croc yet, or any of the other camp mascots. In fact I’ve managed to keep low most of the day. With any luck I can get through this. Only three more days to go.

At least nobody mentioned Bingo yet.

Continue to Day 3.

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!

.

On to Day 2

I’ve been having something of a creative block recently. It’s not that I’ve been sitting at my desk banging the keyboard with my head in a bid to see if something falls out. It’s more like I’ve been doing other things and haven’t attempted much in the creative sphere. I can’t say I’ve been overly busy doing those other things, but for whatever reason I haven’t felt the urge lately to write or to think or to do other somewhat-creative things.

To me that’s a terrible thing to admit. Others would find it silly to be that way in the first place, I know, but I’ve always had a kind of need to “create”. Not being endowed with any drawing skill and not being able to play a musical instrument, this yearn has mostly manifested itself in writing form. For the past few weeks/ months(?) this yearn is not there.

I don’t know why, but it hasn’t really bothered me. And that bothers me.

It bothers me that I’m not bothered that I haven’t been creative. Most things I’ve written here (especially those in the category A Digression or books or music lyrics) have come from this need. It’s as basic to me as breathing or eating. I’ve never forced it or wondered “what should I write about?” Recently I’ve just not had that need and that’s why I haven’t posted here much or done some of the other things I might have been doing.

I wish I had the need. It’s like losing a kidney. It can’t be seen or quantified with the eye in normal day-to-day interactions, but I know it’s not there and I’d rather have it back. (Thankfully I do still have two kidneys at time of writing bythewaythankyouverymuch.)

It’s not that I think that need will never come back again, but I suppose I believe the time has come for me to give it a little kick. I hope this post somehow helps re-start the engine, which is why I felt the need to make it.

I hope you haven’t suffered through reading this only to find it’s pointless. Perhaps you can give me some pointers on what I should do?

“Get a life!” I hear you cry. Alas, we all can’t be as good and upstanding as you.