Paulclem

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W7aPp-4z-uw



Bridlington – or Brid as we referred to it – was the distant Mecca, the Shangri-La of our childhood – along with Whitby, Scarborough and Cleethorpes - on Yorkshire’s East coast. It seemed a long way from industrial Wakefield in the middle of the West Yorkshire coalfields, though it can’t have been more than 80 miles away.

It began at school towards the back end of the term when the kids started telling each other where they were going on holiday. The long, hot, balmy summer holidays of childhood were approaching. Where would we be going?
The holidays came, and to stop us being a pain in the neck, my Mum and dad wouldn’t tell us until we were getting ready to go. Imagine how we felt when one morning mum said – “We’re off to Brid” for the day.

We set off. It was 1974, and Y Viva Espana was number one. I was 11, my brother was 7 and my sister was 5. We sang along to the radio the first three times it was on. “Y Viva Bridlington!” The little blue “family” mini had been packed with sandwiches, crisps and pop. The excitement was infectious until we hit the traffic jam at Tadcaster.

Dad was never one for patience in traffic. They hadn’t built the dual carriageways that by-pass Tadcaster then, and I remember the mid-morning sun and fumes making us fractious. We found out that the ”family” mini meant you could be reached by a slapping parental hand anywhere in the back. The traffic all seemed to centre on one junction near the brewery. Anyway, nerves a little fraught, Mum and dad having had their first “words” and scowls of the day, we continued.



At last we could see the sea as we dropped into Brid. The streets seemed to be lined with amusement arcades, ice cream parlours and there was a fair! Our tongues were fairly lolling - candy floss and hot dogs. The North sea looked ...grey, but there was a beach.The mini cruised along the packed streets as my dad looked for a parking space or a car park. There! there! we would shout at no doubt unsuitable spaces, as my Dad repeatedly told us to “sit down!”.

At last we came to a car park. The attendant, in a white coat and a peaked cap, no doubt to enhance his authority, pointed up towards a space. We pulled in, and we were desperate to get out. Dad gave us a last withering look as he wound the window down.
“How much mate?” he said.
“50p” came the peaked capped reply.
“You can **** that ** **** ****!” said Dad, and angrily reversed out of the space, nearly knocking the bloke over.

A feeling of anxiety overcame us as we sped back the way we had come. “There’s a space there!” shouted my sister, brother and myself in what must have been an annoyingly helpful way. We didn’t stop. We gradually shut up as the stony silence from the two front seats betokened the frosty auspices of a row.

“Are we going anywhere else?” piped up my sister, as we passed the signs to anywhere desirable. We didn’t. We zoomed out of Brid back towards Tadcaster.

“Y Viva Wakefield!”