The Beach 2000
Fresh from digging up
a perfectly good Thai beach for some blockbuster movie
with - coincidentally - the same name as this piece, Cappuccino
Del Monte goes on another titanic search for the perfect
beach.
Any similarity with a
certain book and film is a complete fluke, dudes!
_____________________
The first I heard about
the beach was up in Scarborough. In the Brunswick
Centre. Suitcase-packer land. Three generations of bed
and breakfast landladies, tea room waiters and arcade
change jockeys had long turned the place into a haven
for sad West Yorkshire transient labourers looking for
culture. It has long been a decompression chamber for
the 'real' east- coaster, looking for true enlightenment,
the caravan site of destiny. But most never make it past
the Spa Bridge fountain and remain there comatose in a
weather-beaten deck chair, waiting for the ghost of Max
Jaffa, mumbling into their chips.
I'd hooked up with a Wessie couple from
Leeds, had been to a townie night-spot and hung with a
gnarly skateboard dude who talked of grindy ledges and
mini-ramps all night. He finally drifted away and left
them a badly drawn map on a beermat. It took us a while
to decipher it. It dawned on us that it was of the unknown
coast line out beyond Southcliffe towards the wild uncharted
stretches of Filey caravan parks. Only hard-core tow-bar
freaks went there. The Roof-Rack Daddies. The Dome Tent
Domestic Goddesses who could feed a family of five on
a petrol-driven Sportster stove and still be up for frizzbee
throwing. True Happy Campers.
Now I'd heard of a legendary
place called Primrose Valley from a harassed
househusband in a petrol station on the York by-pass.
I could tell by the stickers on the back of his beat up
Escort Estate that they weren't going to just any holiday
resort. His kids were fighting over Pokemon cards and
WWF figures. I could definitely smell what the Rock was
cookin'. Pikachu was most certainly OK with these dudes.
Hollywood Daredevils. Jesters. Listen to these magical
names. Young Winstons Family Room. Spencers Nite Spot.
Good nights out for all the family. I just knew that this
roof-racked rustbucket was bound for glory. His kids would
soon be gorging themselves at Sizzlers and be introduced
to hard-core extreme sports like Mini Golf and Motorball.
The Tiger Club would have three more members, and the
rest of us could just wait in vain for our brochure to
arrive like the losers we are.
But the beermat talked
of a beach beyond even the wildest dreams of
the man who drives the Primrose Puffer. You won't find
this in the brochures or in the Lonely Planet guides.
This was special. This was paradise. The Leeds couple
were veterans of many years of travelling up and down
the Yorkshire coast looking for the perfect spot to park
the VW Camper but even they were nervous. The saucy postcard
was about to come to life. A true Hi-Di-High.
Think of a beach hidden from sightseeing
coaches by a high curving wall of Leylandii. Imagine a
wide expanse of newly polluted sand, free of windbreakers
and toy windmills. Donkeyrides on real donkeys. Where
the slot machines only take old money. Strangely coloured
birds tottering on huge high-heels. Rock in a thousand
shapes and colours. Knotted-hankied crinklies snoozing
on the stripey deckchairs every day into infinity. Candyfloss
like clouds, stuck to eager children. Beachhuts unchanged-in
for a thousand years. A select band of travellers pass
the fortnight. They leave on the fridays to be replaced
by other identical travellers. Word of mouth passes on
the location to a lucky few.
After what seemed like hours we caught the
Bridlington bus and bribed the driver to let us off somewhere
near Gristhorpe far from civilisation. The journey passed
in a blur. After three days of travelling the bus finally
made it and we were left far from the cashpoints in a
strange land where even cellphone signals can't penetrate.
The bus driver grinned, promised to be back in a week,
ground his gears and left us. Alone. Well me and the Wessie
couple clutching their scribbled on beermat like it was
a winning lottery ticket.
I stopped here for a
stick of gum. I don't know why but this was
the last time I remember being me. Normal. A Wessie on
holiday with a pocket full of cash and a guest-house key.
Because from now on things get complicated. Sometimes
it feels to me like I climbed onto that old broken bus
and someone else hopped off again. I spat out the gum.
I just threw it in the bushes. Radical, dude! The old
me would have done something different. Wrapped it in
paper, maybe, and thrown it in a litterbin. But now I
was different. Chewed bigger. Longer. Like some sort of
movie star. Its hard to explain.
We looked out to the east. Down a long road
that snaked on and on into the future without a bus-stop
in sight. Without a taxi-rank., Without so much as a pavement.
This was serious. There was no way out. We were going
to have to walk. I hadn't walked further than the corner
shop since the eighties. I hoped that I could last the
distance. The Wessie couple seemed keen, even though this
would mean seriously messing up their matching Reebok
Winter Runner DMX's with what looked like real mud. The
black pudding fields stretched on for miles. The sun blazed
down from a Simpsons sky as we got onto Shank's Pony.
To be continued_______________
In the meantime here's some vintage seaside
sauce....
Nowt to do with the story, but you wouldn't
have a perfect beach without being able to titter at this
sort of thing on the seafront. It's still funny...
Kes
2000 
Great
Gatsby 2000
