Enjoying the View in Scarborough
Whoopie!”
“What is it Grandpa?”
“My number’s come up.”
“Oh…..I’m so sorry……I thought you were as fit as a flea for you age and glad to be alive.”
“No. No, Sally. I mean my lottery numbers have come up. I’m rich, rich, rich!”
“Well, Richard is a good stout English name, but I’ll still call you grandpa.”
* * *
Six weeks later, Grandpa had done what most lottery winners do. He’d gone back to work, bought more lottery tickets and lost 90% of his cash to golden-tongued financial leeches. But the few thousand he wisely kept hidden in the allotment shed still enabled him to purchase some new mud flaps for the car, replace his yellowing underpants with silk state-of-the-fart thongs and treat the whole family to a day out in Scarborough.
The sun shone rather shiftily on the agreed day, but grandpa was optimistic as he admired his new mud flaps and waited for the others to join him. The car was always parked outside so it had a cream and black songbird finish, no wing mirrors and a windscreen wallpapered in parking tickets.
“That daft lad’s still pretending to be a policeman” murmured Grandpa to himself, as he raked the windows clear.
“They’re lovely mud flaps grandpa” said Sally. “Why did you choose orange, though?”
“Why, to match the edges of the wheel arches of course.”
“Oh.”
“Now. Where have grandma and the others got to?”
“They’re coming now.”
“Hey! None of your internet porn filth here if you don’t mind young lady.”
Eventually grandma, Dad, Toby and the dog appeared. Mum was going to relax with a long thin neighbour who shared her interests in Russian literature, phallic symbology and four-poster beds. Even so, it was a bit of a squeeze in the 1961 Fiat 500 and Grandma didn’t look too happy in the middle rear seat, her face filling the mirror like a pie in an eggcup, eyes of stone fixed on grandpa’s hairy neck.
“Hello playmates!” chortled grandpa.
“Let’s burn rubber, grandpa” said Toby
“Hey! None of your internet porn filth here young man.”
The eyes of stone turned obsidian.
Blistering sunshine quickly turned the car into an oven as they creaked down the street towards the motorway, poisonous deodorant fumes rapidly giving way to armpit ambiance, while Rufus the dog raced around like a dervish in a wall of death show, bouncing off the dashboard, rear window and armrests at the rate of one revolution every two seconds.
“Can’t someone control that dog?” barked grandpa.
“Did you know DOG is GOD in reverse” said Sally.
“And vice versa” said grandma, looking older than her ninety-two years, eyes still fixed on the hairy red neck.
“Nice to see you……” cackled grandpa, looking in the mirror.
Suddenly his false teeth were in the open glove compartment. The car had hit a minefield of sleeping policemen, rumble strips, chicanes and bottomless potholes.
“My Lord! Hold on tight. We’ve hit some turbulence.”
“Didn’t you see the signs grandpa?”
“No, sorry love. I need a telescope on one eye and a microscope on the other to see normally these days.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“No not really. That’s why the roads are fitted with these Braille systems so we older drivers can tell when things are unsafe by all the bumps and shakes.”
“Ooooh. That’s clever.”
Because Rufus had run about a hundred miles by now and was beginning to tire, his judgement was a little faulty. One leg hit the open window and, with a parting grin, he was swept out of the car and into oblivion.
“Stop the car, grandpa!” shrieked Sally.
“Too late, we’re on the motorway now” said Dad.
“I’ll miss him” sobbed Sally.
“Well, the following cars haven’t'” announced Toby, with the forensic interest of a boy at the insect-torturing stage of development.
“All’s well that ends well” said grandma.
Thirty minutes after setting off they hit the twenty-five mile traffic jam approaching Scarborough. This was a difficult time for Grandpa because the ten m.p.h. rate of progress was a good deal faster than his usual pace on the open road. The sun beat down like a Martian death ray and his usual bonhomie slowly gave way to a mumbling delirium.
“No, no! Not the cooler again…… I’ll talk you bastards…… You’ve broken me at last….”
“The heat’s got to him” said Dad.
“He thinks he’s back in the war” said Sally.
“No, he had flat feet and a lots of silk stockings for sale in those days. I think he’s remembering when he was shop steward in the frozen pea factory.”
“He needs some air anyhow.”
“Come on grandpa! Park in the lay-by.”
“What?….oh…..yes….er…….just a minute.”
From the safety of the lay-by they ate a three course meal, urinated in the undergrowth and listened to grandpa playing his trumpet..
“That little road over there looks clear antway” said grandpa.
“But that’s the cycle path, grandpa.”
“Rubbish! You’ve been filling your head with all that internet porn filth, young man.”
“Although” he added “Shagtube and those weird bandage sites with whips and tassels can be quite useful for research purposes.”
“Research?”
“Oh, yes. I always make sure of my theory, before I apply it” said Grandpa, winking at the mirror.
The obsidian eyes bulged with menace.
“I’ve got a strange ringing sound in my ears” complained grandpa.
“Its the the twenty cyclists behind, trying to get past” said Toby.
“Bang, crash!”
“Lord Sugar! What was that?”
The purple-faced guy with the mountain bike decided to overtake across the roof.”
“I’m going to try second gear in a minute.”
“Crash!”
“That was reverse, grandpa.”
“Well, it seems to have slowed them down a bit. I hope they’re all right in the middle of that mountain of twisted metal. Young fools ought to be more careful.”
Stopping at the first set of 32 traffic lights in Scarborough, the family breathed in the familiar seaside scent of road works. They’d read about this new ‘intelligent’ road management system in the ‘Sunday Morning Spurt’. Apparently, each set of lights delayed the traffic by five minutes and after four minutes a camouflaged traffic warden emerged from the bushes writing parking tickets.
“The lights are on green, grandpa! And that man with the black uniform, red spidery armband and a geranium on his head is coming across.”
“Don’t be daft, Toby. Everyone knows that cars don’t move any quicker on green than they do on red. Only amber gets people weaving.”
“It’s amber now! And he’s almost here!”
“Oh! …..Well….er….which is it….maybe if I….better check the mirror…er…still plenty of time to scratch my arse…..er…..1932, that was a good year…. “
“Bang!”
“We’re off. We’re off” grandpa laughed.
“It might be something to do with the irate truck driver behind pushing us down the street at 60 m.p.h” said Dad.
“It’s the best way to save petrol” remarked grandpa, tapping the side of his nose.
The obsidian eyes had an eerie glow.
“Well, here we are at last.”
“Let’s start on the sandwiches.”
“Good idea, Sally. We’ve got chicken, ham, tomato, cheese, Marmite, egg, black pudding, kangaroo and jam. All mixed together, actually.”
“What about the cakes and pies?”
“Drinks and nibbles?”
“Wipes and pipes?”
“Flasks and tarts?.”
“Litter and titter?”
“It’s all here. No need to rush. We’ve got all day.”
“But it’s five p.m. Now.”
They’d parked on a dingy side street to save the new 50p a microsecond car park charges recently introduced by the town council, but there was still plenty to see. A normal looking bloke with clean jeans, polo shirt and white trainers came ambling down the path with a plastic shopping bag.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Can you see that?”
The others just gaped, their jaws dropping, mouths opening, food spilling and anuses involuntarily rasping. Heads were cranked around 180 degrees in one instinctive, united movement, following the man’s progress with vital concentration, the feeding frenzy momentarily suspended by sheer shock.
“Ha ha ha”
“Would you believe it?”
“Huh!”
“A man with a plastic bag in town.”
“There was another one near the traffic lights, grandpa.”
“Was there? You should have said Sally. We could have all looked.”
The street was getting busier now, as people made their way up from the seafront. A large party of overweight, spotty youths in toddlers’ clothing meandered around, their tattoos and piercings mingling like Medieval armies while their tongues darting out at flies.
“It’s hard to tell the difference between normal people and those that are a bit slow” said Grandpa, diplomatically.
“Yes. I think those are the ones who’ve come thousands of miles for IVF treatment on the NHS”
“A grand idea! It’s every idiot’s human right to have five kids on benefits. No wonder the EC have insisted on it.”
“Hear, here.”
“Hurrah for us.”
“We’re nice people, we are.”
“They call it ‘I.Q. Challenged syndrome’ now grandpa” said Toby.
“Oh. We just used to call them thick bastards when I was at school. But of course we know better these days.”
“In the olden times people used to think intelligence was inherited through genetics.”
“Ha ha. Well, Toby, the I.Q challenged people are having twice as many children as any other group, so it’s lucky for us those old ideas are totally wrong.”
“Yes. In three generations the UK would be overrun with morons otherwise.”
“Ha ha ha.”
The obsidian eyes sparked and flashed with venom.
“Hey! Look at that weird guy.”
Oh, yes. I think it’s it’s that long lost Japanese soldier. You know, the one that’s been occasionally spotted living in the overgrown South Cliff gardens. He’s been there since 1941 waiting for orders.”
“He doesn’t look too happy.”
“No, his armoured car’s got a ticket or two by the look of it.”
“Hey! Look at the size of that.”
“I’ve told you before young man. No more of your internet porno filth.”
“No grandpa. I mean the the size of that black limo coming down the street.”
“Ooooooh.”
“It’s Annie Lummox and Bonehead!” cried Toby.
“Is it true that they were secretly married last week?”
“Yes” said Dad. “They’ve decided to arrange the Second Coming biologically.”
“And Simon’s going to be the baby’s manager.” added Sally.
The sun was going down behind the Gothic gables now and the family were getting restless.
“Shall we go for a walk grandpa?”
“No, Sally, there isn’t really enough time I’m afraid. But I’m sure we’ve all enjoyed our day out anyway. We’d better make a start. But before that, I wanna tell you a story…..”
“No, no, no thanks…..”
“It was in 1790 when Monty and Churchill and I were sailing in ‘The Beagle’….”
The obsidian eyes lit up. The hands were white and cold.
“Can you hear me mother?” laughed grandpa, looking in the mirror.
* * *
At a quarter to midnight the car finally rattled into life, but stalled as soon as grandpa let the handbrake off
“That’s funny. I wonder if we threw too much rubbish out of the windows. The car can’t get over it. I’ll have to dig the front wheels out”
Levering himself out, grandpa slowly straightened up and then assumed his beloved 1960′s trade union posture; thumbs behind his braces, head shaking, each knee lifted up to his chin as he circled the car with clicking tongue and large boots.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”
Unexpectedly, a primordial scream erupted from the car. The engine was gunned, the clutch dropped and………
“Splat.”
Grandpa lay under the car, only his khaki shorts, varicose veins and ankle suspenders visible, as Dad rushed to his assistance.
“Why did you do it grandma?” sobbed Sally.
“Yes, why?” said Toby with cheerful interest.
“It was…..”
“Yes?”
“It was a mercy killing.”
* * *
Later, at the police station, Toby asked Dad what grandpa’s last words were.
“This car needs under-sealing.” said Dad.
A Weekend Away
Petra was an interior designer and sometimes she had to go away for a couple of days to visit clients. This time she had to travel to Scarborough, but the firm’s van driver, Bill, had kindly offered to take her there, as part of his delivery round.
“Isn’t it a bit out of your way Bill?” she enquired.
“Only a hundred miles or so, love, but I enjoy taking people for a ride.”
She was mildly surprised when he turned up in his own car the following morning, dressed in an all white three piece suit, polka dot cravat, gold fob watch and chunky silver rings.
“You look wonderful Bill.”
“Yes.” he said.
The car was quite a sight too, resplendent in wide wheels, England F.C. Flags, 12” diameter exhaust and flashy white paintwork which perfectly matched Bill’s teeth.
“Ooooh! What a fantastic car. It must have cost a packet.”
“Well, they were full strength Woodbines” he replied, looking a little put out.
“Is it a Ferrari?”
“Er…of course….. It’s a rare Ferrari Reliant actually.”
“Oh. Why has it only got one wheel at the front?”
“Ah! A modern design feature to aid streamlining, Petra. Formula One cars will probably have it next year.”
“You are clever. And so rich.”
“Well, yes, but I’ll be even richer when I move into F1 myself. The offer’s on the table. Mummy says it’s a good idea.”
“I’m surprised you’re still living at home Bill.”
“Oh, it’s only temporary while the old girl’s poorly. I’m a family man at heart.”
“I wish Chris was a family man…..”
“That insufferable, odious, obnoxious fiend!” he interrupted. “Although it’s not my place to say” he added mildly, looking like an endearing teddy bear.
“Well..er…he’s not quite that bad. Er…..shall we get off now?”
“Indeed” he winked. “Would you like to go all the way?”
“Perhaps we can stop at Whitby for a break?”
For a second, Bill’s perfect grinning mouth seemed to include a pair of two inch canines and his widow’s peak appeared to move just a little closer to his nose. A classic double-take from Petra instantly dispersed this illusion, however, and the car roared into life.
“Will I have to push it every time?” panted Petra.
“Just a minor technical glitch. These thoroughbred vehicles are a touch temperamental at times. Mummy says it’s the sign of a good car.”
“Oh. I’ve never met your mum have I?”
“She very rarely moves from her rocking chair at the Motel. But being a family man. I’m hoping to meet a woman who’ll appreciate her taciturn nature and encourage her to eat again….er…..more.”
The moors whipped by as Bill topped forty downhill, leaving his pursuers behind in a cloud of dense blue-black smoke. Petra sank down into the luxurious plywood bucket seats and contemplated her prospects. Bill was so long and thin, he was hard to resist and, of course, Jack the Ripper would be far preferable to Chris, so what was holding her back?
It was Bill’s left arm, slowly going through the alphabet on her spine.
“Just a chaste and platonic massage, my dear” he leered.
Yes, he was very attractive and obviously trustworthy. Perhaps this was her chance for the big time; seven Oxbridge children, malaria guaranteed foreign holidays, a cosy twenty bedroomed chateau in Times Square, more exotic motors, and the indescribable joy of Bill’s perfumed crutch every day of her life. Yes! Yes! She would go for it, given half a chance.
And that gear stick looked so phallic.
After a quick stop for refreshments at Whitby, during which Bill donned oversized. impenetrable sunglasses and sipped red wine, they resumed their journey at a more sedate pace. The radio gave up after a large spring burst through the dashboard, but Bill proved himself an excellent conversationalist and travelling companion, as Petra knew he would.
“The sun’s dazzling me Bill.”
“Yes, I’m a candidate for the UK space programme. Mummy says I’ll be brilliant at it.”
“Oh, look at those lovely cows.”
“You’re right. I might be better off running several farms in Wales. Mummy would love it.”
“What do you think of the spending cuts?”
“Well. If I’m elected next year, I’ll definitely consider the question…….or mummy will anyway.”
“Ummmm.” sighed Petra. He was perfect.
And so long and thin.
Petra had booked into a hotel overlooking The North Bay and Bill didn’t need a second invitation when she invited him up to her room for a coffee. Expecting a degree of token resistance he gently cupped her innocent face and murmured a litany of well-rehearsed endearments.
“Crash!”
Petra hurled the door shut and bounded across the room. Leaping like a professional wrestler, she pinned Bill to the bed and ripped his waistcoat apart with two savage jerks.
“I’m mad for it Bill, wild, lewd and desperate. I want to slobber and slurp all over your quivering body. I want to suck the nipples clean off your chest and devour your…..”
“Steady on, old girl!”
“But first ……I’m going to give you a massive, throbbing erection.”
“I’ve already got one. Can’t you see?”
“What? Oh…..well size isn’t everything, Bill. Chris has an absolute tree trunk, but it’s you I want. You’re so long and thin.”
“Chris! That miserable, vile, inhuman bag of shite!” he shrieked “Although it’s not really my place to say.”
“Take me! Take me!”
“Oh very well. I’ll just check with mummy to make sure it’s all right.”
The Scarborough Weather Forecast
The family gathered in their lounge to watch the weather forecast. It was a big event these days and people tended to arrange their commitments around it, often serving turkish delight, sherry and brandy snaps. The latest HD, digital, wide screen, slimline TV took longer to warm up than their old valve driven Bush, but this didn’t prevent a rising tide of euphoria filling the room.
“It’s starting love!” cried Dad.
“I’ll be there in a minute” replied Mum.
“Hey! There’s supposed to be two presenters tonight” said young Ben.
“Two? What for?”
“Well, it’s like reading the news and presenting children’s telly. The job’s too hard for one person and what with all the spare money we’ve got these days the bosses thought it best.”
“Right”.
First came the sponsorship ads; Rainy Day Umbrellas, Cool Cat Sunglasses, Percy Pig Pork Pate and One-a-Day Vitamin Bricks. For fifteen minutes Mum carefully made notes for the following day’s shopping and then a trumpet fanfare, followed by two drum solos and a thirty-second recorded firework display, heralded the main event.
“Whoopy!” yelled young Betty.
“Quiet in the cheap seats” growled Grandpa, in his corner.
Two searchlights picked out the drawling American impresario.
“Ladies and Gentlemen-n-n-n-n-n-n-n. We now come to the highlight of the evening, a super-middleweight forecast for the United Kingdom-m-m-m-m-m-m. Introducing in the blue corner, with five correct predictions out of one hundred attempts – William……(Wet and Windy)……. Wallis-s-s-s-s-s-s. “Hooray! Hooray!” “Poor bloke’s got a speech impediment” said Grandpa “Shush Grandpa!” And in the red corner, challenging for the UK title and already European performing prima donna of the year, having a perfect record of no correct predictions in a professional career spanning fifteen glorious years – Jessy…… (Jolly Jumpers)…… James-s-s-s-s-s-s.
“Hooray! Hooray!”
Then the preliminaries began, the two forecasters twirling and preening for the cameras, their hair extensions shining with good health and their make up applied with Punch and Judy precision. Jessy cleverly attracted the attention of the director to her new engagement ring (why didn’t those pesky viewers hurry up with her presents?), while William subtly lifted the tails of his morning suit and wiggled his ‘buns’ at the audience.
“That bird’s got a fat arse” said Grandpa.
“You need your glasses changing” observed Mum.
“Aye. Another Brown Ale would go down very nicely”.
It was time for the news presenters to get involved now, and Cheshire Cat #1 soon had everyone laughing hysterically about his last perfect score on ‘Strictly Come Prancing’, while Cheshire Cat #2 reminisced tearfully about her failure to reach the televised rounds of ‘Celebrity Hex Factor’. Unfortunately, viewing figures were finally going down for these shows, because most of the UK population were now starring in reality TV themselves. There were very few ordinary people left to watch. Everybody was a genius (went to university), a celebrity (had their pubic hair shaved off for charity) or a hero (they were too ‘challenged’ to do anything but procreate).
“I remember these two newsreaders. It’s Mork and Mindy isn’t it?”
“Be quiet Grandpa”.
“Or is it Dork and Windy?”
“Shut up!”
“Laurel and …..”
By this time there was so much badinage and merriment in the studio that the director had to step in with buckets of cold water to separate the orgiastic foursome before one of them soiled themselves. The grinning Cheshire cats were joined by a tiny sports presenter who leered madly at the cameras, whilst trying to draw attention to his latest c.v., cleverly typed in 26pt Ariel Bold.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. You are a wit William.
“Tee hee hee hee hee. But not as funny as you Jessy.
“You were so good on ‘Strictly’ Micky.
“I’m such a liberal too”.
“I love you”.
“I love me”.
“We love everybody (as long as somebody else is paying for it)”
A tall man in white flannels then came in with some orange juice and bananas on a tray and the forecast took a commercial break.
* * *
By the following morning the commercial break had finished and it was time for the family to climb out of their sleeping bags to find out what the weather had in store. It was well established meteorological practice by this time to wait for the weather to actually occur before predicting it – the cutting edge conclusion of a three million pound computer technology investment programme, begun in 2011.
“For those of you interested in the indoor snooker tournament in Hong Kong we have bravely flown out to give you the most accurate information possible” said Jessy in her new sequinned bikini.” This will be followed by further self-sacrificial flights around the world to ensure we meet our broadcasting obligations to you – the paying public. We will pause only to pick up twenty well known but declining TV celebrities who are currently in need of well deserved free holidays…er….I mean who are currently filming travelogues.”
“What’s the weather going to be like?” said Grandpa, wafting away the overnight fart gas.
“Stop distracting us Grandpa” said young Betty.
After Jessy had thoroughly discussed yesterday’s weather in Portugal, South Africa, Mexico and the South of France with appropriate personal anecdotes, the forecast moved on to the popular ‘records’ section. If a new weather record had not been broken, this would in itself be a record event.
“Upper Nether Thornton in Wessex had the most rainfall over a ten minute period since records began last month” announced William.
“Lower Nether Thornton had more wind from a North by North-West direction since the Middle Ages” trumped Jessy.
“I’m making a record with Simon Cowell” gloated William.
Then came the viewers’ photographs, including a wonderful shot of the South Downs in Winter.
“But it’s August, William” said Jessy.
“I know, but my house is on this one” replied William.
“What’s happened to ‘Emmerdale Farm’?” said Grandpa
“They’ve moved it down to London” advised Mum.
“Oh. I was quite enjoying that storyline about the ethnic, dyslexic, gay lovers who’d just had a car crash.”
“They’re getting married in hospital with matching duvets”.
“Touching”.
“Plenty of that, naturally”.
The dramatic conclusion of the forecast was drawing near and the family shuffled forward onto the edge of their seats. The studio lights dimmed and William moved to centre stage looking a bit like Al Jolson singing ‘Mammy’.
“Well, as for the UK forecast, viewers can get an update on my new blog……..”
“What!?” bellowed Grandpa.
“’Bye for now. We’ll see you again for the next show…er….forecast in half an hour”.
The presenters joined hands in a recreation of the famous Tiller Girls Palladium routine and the station went on to it’s default setting.
The Simpsons.
Grandpa went into the kitchen and practised drawing the carving knife across his throat.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Scarborough Characters (Continued)
Our next-door neighbour was a very interesting man, and also a member of a dying breed. He had a domed head which towered above a horseshoe of wispy white hair, a time-worn wrinkled face, ill-fitting clothes and big army boots. Handicapped by a hideous curvature of the spine and a pronounced limp, he had a grotesque appearance, yet he was a kindly, tolerant man who would always help anybody out. He was nearing retirement age, but still worked at a college, 50 miles away, where even his colleagues knew him as ‘the mad professor’.
The professor had a keen sense of duty, and never missed a day at college, always climbing the hill to the railway station at 6.30 a.m., in good time for his train which departed twenty minutes later. His limp was the product of an old war wound coupled with latter day arthritis, and as the pain gradually worsened, his daily climb became a grim struggle.
One winter morning he found the hill covered in snow and ice. He was weak and very unsteady on his feet, so he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the top of the hill, where an astonished stranger showed pity and helped him to the station. The professor was lathered in sweat, and deeply distressed. For the first time in thirty years, he was going to be late.
It was 6.55a.m. when he finally limped onto platform 3.
Yet, the train was still there.
The guards had delayed its departure, for the man who was more reliable than a clock.
The man who was a proper standard……..
Scarborough Views
Scarborough is said to enjoy one of the best views in Europe, as the bay sweeps around golden sands, fading Victoriana and a colourful harbour, towards the most magnificent, towering headland. There are many vantage points to the south, including dozens of oak benches dedicated by past visitors, and a variety of shelters with strange oriental embellishments.
But as the years have passed by, we’ve noticed how quickly people turn away from the wonderful view, and revert to observing each other. They rest their backs on the cast iron railings or perch at right angles on the ends of seats, and watch ordinary human beings walking by. They watch and they watch, and they watch. In fact, one day a middle-aged couple hauled a heavy steel bench completely around, so that they could ignore the annual regatta, and monitor the patrons of a nearby café.
People were unnaturally sociable, Jack said……
Scarborough Characters
In the 1970’s, every cowboy film (or series) seemed to have a resident mad Mexican.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!. You are my special friend gringo” the Mexican would laugh “And tomorrow I shoot your balls off.”
We knew exactly how the gringo felt, because one of our friends was a bit like that. He was a good chess player, but whenever he started losing he would embark on a whole series of distracting manoeuvres, including cracking his knuckles, humming inane tunes loudly, and releasing his six pet budgerigars into the room, where they would proceed to chirp, fly and crap. If all else failed, he would somehow contrive to nudge the board onto the floor while he was dunking his ginger biscuits. He had absolutely no shame.
Like some people haven’t.
One day Jack left his prized racing bike in his friend’s garden shed, and when he returned he found that the bike had been burnt to a crisp (along with the shed itself and half the garden). A rubbish fire had got out of hand his friend announced apologetically, and there was absolutely nothing he could have done about it. It was a year later, when Jack saw his friend coaxing their family cat into the oven, that he could finally see the truth.
Scarborough Drop-in Centre
This place was so popular that a long queue always formed outside the front door before it opened at 9.00 a.m. The patrons were a liquorice allsorts brigade of red-faced, middle-aged men, young mothers, sullen youths with dirty university t-shirts, and those best described as Star Wars extras. The red-faced men generally congregated around the centre of the main room, discussing Iraq, sport and the Irish question in extremely loud voices, while the less red-faced read newspapers on the periphery. One man always selected the ‘Daily Mirror’, and then walked out with it through the side door. The youths sat in a purple room, posting CD’s and DVD’s into the various slots which surrounded them, ready for an hour or two of electronic oblivion, while the young mothers quickly unloaded their offspring into the nearby nursery, and headed for the shops.
Today, a man who looked like an amoebic Charles Manson opened a brief case full of computer games and booked himself onto work station number 7 for five hours, as a harassed member of staff tried to explain to an itinerant, wild-eyed psychopath that the world wasn’t perfect, and he might have to take no for an answer.
This place used to be called the public library…….
The Scarborough Scatology Society
Like most elderly people in Scarborough, we love dogs. We always give our six Pekinese-Bull Terrier cross-breds pride of place at the dining table, plumped up cushions on the double bed and lashings of strawberry cheesecake for breakfast. They have lace edged hankies for their slaver, double-strength bog rolls for their bums and bespoke shooting jackets for cold days. We old pair gave up talking to each other in 1969, but the dogs are wonderful surrogate conversationalists. We could talk to them all day.
In fact we do.
Having said this, there are approximately ten million dogs in the UK and nine million of them seem to live in Scarborough. The paths are like Californian wagon trails of pure excrement, many turds still recognisable from their initial deposit during the first world war, while others are baked into the pavement like an antique patina. Expert scatologists travel from the four corners of the world to see our Scarborough stool strata and tough bikers are often seen eating prized specimens to prove ‘class’ in front of their mates.
Of course, every dog owner these days is ‘responsible’, looking right and left before leaving stinking piles for posterity. Some even have bags to collect the mess, which they then kindly throw into the hedges for recycling. Yet many are so gossipy when they meet fellow enthusiasts that they don’t seem to notice a quiet defecation or two, admiring instead the frenzy of biting, copulating and human genital sniffing which frequently accompanies these social events.
A heavenly tableau indeed.
But like most elderly people in Scarborough, we love dogs. They provide wonderful substitutes for human relationships, allow otherwise powerless people to boss something about, and they make unemployable thugs look so manly in front of their pregnant girlfriends……
Scarborough Parks and Public Gardens
Once upon a time, Scarborough could be justifiably proud of its pleasure parks and classic public gardens. Established by farsighted town planners and wealthy local businessmen, these oases of beauty and recreation sprang up all around the borough, becoming havens for visitors and residents alike. But nowadays the places which were once the strolling grounds of Edwardian ladies have become the nocturnal haunts of ghoulish addicts and strange work-phobic tramps, huddled together in Chinese shelters and under bridges like an alien tribe, waiting to inherit the earth. Shelters are dismantled to provide fuel for fires lit on the tarmac paths, rocks are rolled down the tiered gardens to give amusement, and large piles of cider bottles and beer cans are left out for recycling. Some individuals stare into the sea for hours on end like bereft stars of a 1930’s melodrama, while others kick the fences to pieces or shout at the tops of their voices (to the person sitting next to them).
Of course, the sea has disappeared, obscured by a hundred years of tree growth, and many of the pathways have been allowed to grow over – the silent victims of many a council cost-cutting exercise. In some places the bushes are so dense that Victorian missionaries occasionally struggle out, blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight. Nearby residents have been known to fell the trees themselves, to reinstate their sea views. They are liable to prosecution if discovered.
The nocturnal ghouls, on the other hand, appear to be welcome……
Scarborough Theme Parks
But how could such a tall building be called ‘flats’ they wonder?
Jackandnellie
