It's the time of year when everybody is having or has had holidays. I'm pretty rubbish at holidays, as I can't really sit still. I've no interest in lying in the sun, with a great book trying to catch the skin cancer. I can't abide resorts, with people in Union Flag swimming trunks swaying between the acres of plastic sunbeds and the bars and then back again. Not for me.
I'm also not a huge fan of flying, so getting to the Costa Bollocks can be something of a trauma. I'm well informed by a respected member of the mental health profession, and occasional heckler about the lack of updates on this blog, that the best way to beat such a phobia is to avoid it. "Hide under the bed if necessary", were her exact words.
I usually take three seperate single weeks. The first is to Scotland in May or June where I can faff about on my inflatable banana boat in the lake near the idyllic cottage I've bored about so many times before in these moronic pages.
The second is normally to Cornwall. We tend to favour the ruggedness of the north side of the Lizard Peninsula, where, if the sun does shine, and Mme Suicide wishes to sun herself, I can at least throw myself around on my bodyboard in the sea in Poldhu, Church or the stunning Kynance Cove(s)
The third week we will camp somewhere in September if the weather forecast looks reasonable, when the sites have emptied of kids.
Last year we paid a quick visit back to the preferred childhood destination of Newquay. I'm not sure what to make of it anymore. The whole upsurge in UK surfing, and it's place as 'the capital' seems to have turned it into something else. There seem to luxury apartments going up all over the place, for young single professional males who want to spend their weekends being Patrick Swayze in 'Point Break' instead of freelance IT consultants.
When we were between the ages of nine and fourteen, the sands at Watergate Bay and Fistral Bay were the ultimate playground for two weeks in August. My last memories are of staying at small hotel, aged fourteen, just outside Newquay centre. Days were spent running around with new best friends, who you forgot about, just after promising to write to to them forever. Nights were spent in the hotel bar, drinking soft 'Blood Transfusions' and mooning over the the unreachable eighteen year old barmaid who was so nice to me. Listening to the entertainment, a singing guitar player named Ian St Something or Other, wade through 'Streets of London', and wondering whether he'd be brave enough to sing the one about "Daniel Morgan, who had a tiny sexual organ..."
My sister had a couple of cassettes which she's taped much of the top twenty. This (and Daniel Morgan) formed the soundtrack to the holiday. I'm off now to try and download all the tracks below, so I can stick them on my iPod, and bridge a thirty year gap.
YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT -John Travolta And Olivia Newton-John
SUBSTITUTE - Clout
BOOGIE OOGIE OOGIE - A Taste Of Honey
THE SMURF SONG - Father Abraham And The Smurfs
THREE TIMES A LADY - Commodores
BROWN GIRL IN THE RING / RIVERS OF BABYLON - Boney M
FOREVER AUTUMN - Justin Hayward
DANCING IN THE CITY - Marshall Hain
IF THE KIDS ARE UNITED - Sham 69
WILD WEST HERO - Electric Light Orchestra
NORTHERN LIGHTS - Renaissance
5-7-0-5 - City Boy
STAY - Jackson Browne
A LITTLE BIT OF SOAP - Showaddywaddy
LIKE CLOCKWORK - Boomtown Rats
RUN FOR HOME - Lindisfarne
IT'S RAINING - Darts
COME BACK & FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED - Gladys Knight And The Pips
LIFE'S BEEN GOOD - Joe Walsh