LIFE WAS NEVER NORMAL. THANK GOD.

Aug 1st 2002 

Total madness! That's what I think when I look back on the last 15 years of my life. And the nineteen years I spent before that were as far removed from 'normal' as you could get. 

But what the heck is normal? Is there such a thing as a normal life? I don’t think so, and if there is I'm bloody certain I wouldn't want to be living it. 

No chance, give me total unadulterated loop-the-loop bonkers any day of the week. If I was forced to put people into shoe boxes, that would be the one for me. The bonkers box. That's where I belong. 

As I sit here now at 34 years of age, with a bit more wisdom, a tad more grey and a few more laughter lines, I feel the urgent need to log certain experiences and occasions in my life, both good and bad, some funny and yeah even some sad bits. But all of it real. I dunno why I feel so compelled to do this. Just in case I guess. 



My Father was the Entertainment Manager of a Holiday Camp, and so I spent the first 8 years of my life actually living on the site. My life was one huge holiday. From the moment I woke up I was entertained and amused until it was time to go to sleep. We travelled a lot too, during the early years. My Fathers company would move him from one camp to another, so there was never any sense stability or routine. But, I wouldn't have had it any other way. I didn’t know it any other way. We lived a similar existence to the traveling showmen from the big fair grounds and circuses. 



Imagine if you can, my Dad was the boss of a small custom built village really. Filled with fun-fairs, swimming pools, machine arcades, ice cream parlors, chair lifts, games rooms, bingo, crazy golf, roller skating, donkey derby’s (you get the picture) and it was all geared up for one thing. FUN. And then there was the evenings, the variety show's, the bands, the discos, the bars, the competitions!! 

I'll tell you about some of those later. Anyway, here we are living in this purpose built Entertainment Village filled with people who were naturally very excited at being on holiday. Spending money that would take six months to save up, then after a week they’d returned home to their ‘normal’ homes, ‘steady’ jobs, and ‘routine’ way of life. Not me though. 



I didn’t mind moving around so much, even though I was an only child and at times it was quite lonely. I adapted, and as any ‘only children’ will tell you, you learn to entertain yourself when you haven’t got any siblings to fight with. Whenever we moved, dad would take me up on to the site and make sure I knew the camp and all it’s amenities it like that back of my hand. He’d test me on it too. Honestly! He’d bloody blind fold me, drop me off somewhere with a walkie-talkie and bugger off. 

I used to shit myself, the camps looked so bleak and gloomy in the winter months. I’d then hear my dads voice crackling through the dodgy speakers telling me to remove my blindfold (which I had done as soon as he’d gone!) and issue instructions for me to make my way from one venue to another. As much of a pain in the arse I found it, the security it brought me when we did at last open the camp to ‘the punters’ goes without saying. 

Assured I knew my way around the camp and could never get lost he would drum one more rule into me. If ever anyone offered me money, sweets or anything I might find attractive, I had to run straight round to his office and tell him, and he would give me twice as much for not taking anything off a stranger. True to his word, he did as well. Life seemed so much safer then, there didn’t appear to be the same dangers you find now-a-days. 

Anyway, I always had the Redcoats to look out for me. An army of about 50 up-for-it thrill seeking entertainers hormonally unbalanced and ready to spread their love juice on anything that stool still long enough. And that was just the girlie's! 

The camp would open, the season would begin and the next six months would be totally acceptable, affiliated debauchery. And we loved it! 

My Mother was an ex-beauty queen, and also a Redcoat! She would glide around the camp teasing the other managers and flirting with the visiting cabaret artists in a micro mini skirt that could easily be mistaken for belt. She looked good though. And she knew it. Her raven hair would spill down her back with the help of a few clip on ‘pieces’, then back combed, lacquered and teased into the latest ‘Quantesk’ style of the moment. Her huge, piercing blue eyes, heavily made up and framed with thick black false lashes (tops and bottoms!) gave her that rather stunned look.

 Stunning though. Stunningly stunned. Even though I was probably only 4 or 5 years old I remember appreciating her beauty and the air of decorum with which she carried herself. She loved being the governors wife, and he loved having a gorgeous missus he could trolley out to the many showbiz bashes that went along with his job. It was all so bloody glamorous. 

Feather bowers, sequined costumes, diamante jewelery and exaggerated make-up. And the women were just as bad. 

Long before the words political and correctness were ever used in the same sentence, Butlins thrived. I mean, where else could you go on holiday where you could enter your hubby for the Knobbly Knees competition, yourself for the Miss Lovely Legs (of course), your mother in law for the Glamorous Grannies, and to cap that, chuck your snotty nosed kid on the back of a donkey, bet a couple a bob that he’s the winner, before sending the poor little bastard racing around a track against 7 other poor little bastards clinging on for dear life. 

Health and safety? Who gave a toss as long as he bloody won! You got a certificate for that you know. In fact there was a 1st, 2nd and 3rd certificate up for grabs in every competition. And prizes, not to mention the much sought after, fought and died for trophies that would take pride of place on many a mantle piece back home. All to be handed out during the presentation afternoon on Fridays in the main ballroom. 

It was a chief hostesses nightmare. She was the Redcoat who organized all the competitions, and dished out of all the prizes to the correct winners at the end of the week. Needless to say her nervous breakdown come the end of season was long over-due, and bloody well earned. I always got on well with the Chief Hostess, they used to give me loads of freebies, and I could always be pacified with a green glass bottle containing a yellow concoction called ‘Snowballs’. I used to drink loads of the stuff. It made me feel all woozy and giggly. 

I now realize that I was getting pissed on pretty much a daily basis from the age of 6 or so. Nope, not what you’d call normal at all.