BLACKPOOL IN FEBRUARY! - "Well, You Stand More Chance Of A Deck Chair, Dont You!" - (Eddie Colinton 1986)

Heading for England´s west coast in the depths of winter midst some of coldest weather in 20 years isn´t everybody´s idea of a weekend away, but off I went anyway. My schedule was so tight (steady!) that I could only manage half an hour at my folk´s house in Guiseley, West Yorkshire before catching the next train to the Fylde Coast. The Leeds train from Manchester airport had been cancelled due to the fact they´d had a light smattering of sleet 3 days previously, so I´d had to divert to Manchester Picadilly station and board a grossly overloaded cattle truck whereby I spent the first half hour stood nose to nose with disgruntled red nosed commuters, before being the first to spot that an Indian woman was getting ready to get off at Huddersfield (I was already in her seat before she had chance to fully straighten).

I was greeted at Blackpool Station as I´d never been greeted before, at any station anywhere, by a police dog being encouraged to sniff at my nether regions by an officer who offered no explanation for this behaviour whatsoever. It seems that the dog approved of me and I was allowed to proceed from the platform with a slightly puzzled look and canine drool on my inside leg. Girlfriend Nikki was there to meet me bless her (that´s why I went there in the first place now I come to think of it), and as we approached the car park my teeth played a sort of tune as the ferocity of the cold air nearly bowled me over. That night we decided to partake of a couple at the local pub, which, since the tragic demise of “Uncle Tom´s cabin” is now a fairly substantial walk to “The Gynn”. They had a befuddled karaoke presenter in his 70´s who couldn´t sing a note so and so indulged himself with mock sword fights with drinking straws at the bar with startled customers while he waited for volunteer singers. We didn´t feel the urge to help him out.
Early next morning I decided upon a stiff walk before breakfast – it worked – it certainly stiffened me. I felt compelled toward the seafront, as the sky was clear and, as is most strange for these parts, there was not a hint of precipitation of any kind. I don´t know what the temperature was exactly but after about ten seconds of skirting foolishly with the gale off the Irish Sea, the wind whistled up my trouser leg, searched out my genitals and unceremoniously rammed them up somewhere between the tops of my lungs and my Adams apple. The muscles in the left hand side of my face contracted violently, shut one eye, opened the other and as I drew in my cheeks I had the very living breath sucked from within me which left me in a hideous pose something akin to Charles Lawton from The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Bracing, I think you´d call it.
That night I watched Nikki perform in the “North Shore Working Men´s Club”, where she gallantly went on, did three 30 minute spots and was basically treated like the intermission for the bingo. Apparently she´d appeared there a couple of times before and on the last occasion the concert chairman had brought her on stage thus – “And now we´ve got a female vocalist coming on, I´ve never heard her – but apparently she´s alright”. That must have whipped the locals up into a frenzy. It was a great concert room though, with a spacious dance floor and a great big stage leftover from the glory days in the 60´s, like so many clubs however, they have fallen victim to the recession, the smoking ban and pub happy hours. The handful of people that were in there came in clutching their “dabbers” and clipboards and were treated to the seasoned double act of “Jack and Harry” – the Con. Sec/bingo ticket seller combo going through their tried and trusted act. Just for the record, I thought they were better than Mike and Bernie winters.

I am now beginning the huge task of planning the “Gorilla Walk”, so far all I´ve got is a starting date – 22nd June from Berwick-upon-Tweed – the finishing date is a little trickier to work out. For more details on this and lots more go to – www.kevinholt.net

Snow Joke

Hearing reports back home of the sort of weather we had ´when I were a lad`– does this mean that kids up and down the land were, for the first time witness to - snow coming over the tops of your ´wellies`, sledges, (preferably the home made variety – me grandad made mine), the rusty old shovel being extricated from its home in the potting shed, and chilblains? – I hope so, it´s about time. Of course across Europe this weather is common place and life goes on as normal, not in England though, instead schools close, pipes burst, the buses skid to a halt, the gritting lorry drivers phone in sick, and the train drivers don´t even bother getting out of bed – hurray! – the RIGHT kind of snow! – Even the London Underground shut up shop! – what!?
Mind you, we´ve had it pretty wild over here of late; last week saw some winds of cyclonic proportions wreaking havoc. Bus stops were blown away, pensioners held on to lamp posts, and somebody sneezed, knocked over an electricity pylon and burnt half the mountain down in Finistrat village.
One heart warming story this week amongst the doom and gloom of the recession is that Pontins are creating 2000 new jobs and are on the up and up! I am genuinely pleased about this, we used to go when I was a nipper and me and my sister loved it. So did my mum and dad, they had “chalet patrol” so us kids could be safely dumped into bed whilst dad supped himself stupid on “Double Diamond”, hitched up his trousers for the “Knobbly Knees” contest and came a creditable third in the “Silly Walk” competition. I achieved my lifetime ambition in 1986 when I became a “Bluecoat” at St. Marys Bay, Brixham down Devon way. – You can “Read all abaart it” in my book “Are You Affiliated?” under the chapter “I´m off To The English Riviera – Has anybody Seen My Coat?” available as a free download from my website www.kevinholt.net
Finally, it seems I´m on first name terms with the local tramp – I was walking home from the fruit and veg shop when I hears this “Ow! – Kev – have you got a minute?” I looked around for a while before I sees this cross between Moses and Uncle Albert from Only Fools And Horses uprooting himself from his cardboard mat and looking for the price of a bottle of cider (sorry – “cuppa”), I´ve never set eyes on him before but it didn´t stop him talking to me as if we had met in that same spot every day for the last 10 years. God knows how he knows my name – does this mean I´ve hit the big time?

Two More Gud Uns Down

A sad week in many ways, as the deaths of TV artist Tony Hart and BBC sport´s Mr. Smooth, David Vine were announced. This on the back of the demise of Oliver Postgate, (the creater and voice of The Clangers, Pogles Wood, and Noggin the Nog) last month, wipes out half of my entire childhood.
From early toddlehood and into my teens these three engaging characters played a big part in my life. “Vision On” was presented with a woman with a severe nervous twitch, or so it seemed to me, - it was some time, (as it was never clearly explained), before I realized the programme was aimed at deaf children and the “twitch” was actually sign language. The main protagonists of this programme were a mad professor type chap with a performing ginger tache called Wilf Lunn and the convivial Mr. Hart. Whether he be constructing a 180ft picture of a tractor on the Sussex hillside with a wheelbarrow full of matt emulsion or making prints in the studio using nothing but a half of a potato dipped in carrot juice, I found it spellbinding – he was the greatest Blue Peter presenter they never had – though interestingly he designed the logo for the programme! (That blue galleon ship thing). Also, I think he came runner up to Nicholas Parsons for the “continual wearer of a cravat on British television” category on the BAFTA awards in the early nineties.
Being a sports nut, David Vine was in our front room most days of the week, I particularly remember A Question Of sport in the halcyon days before they turned it into the class B situation comedy of later years, also he presented Superstars whereby sporting heroes of the day performed in sports in which they were less adept. As much as I loved this programme, in subsequent conversations I´ve had with fellow admirers, the only events anybody can remember is Judo man Bryan Jacks doing the “bar-dips” in the gym, some pole vaulter whom nobody had previously heard called Brian Hooper, being good at everything and Kevin Keegan falling off his bike. There was also boxer Alan Minter rowing into the rhododendrons in his kayak, but actually it is only me who can recall this classic. David Vine also presented the snooker, another great love of mine. And I remember thinking that he was lucky not to get Steve Davis´s cue rammed up his trouser leg when he stuck a microphone under his nose about 3 seconds after he´d just missed a simple black and thus handed Dennis Taylor the title of 1985 World Champion. He seemed to crop up on everything I watched including Wimbledon, The Olympics and Miss World, although he made a bit of an arse of himself on that by not understanding anything the contestants were saying to him. Subsequently Michael Aspel took over the role and fared much better – probably by insisting that they spoke English.

The Magic Of The Three Kings

Well, the Christmas festivities just go on and on and on, and the shops are shut again. Today is ‘Three Kings Day’ the morning of which, so tradition dictates, all good children of Spain wake up to their presents as left by the gentlemen from the east. It must be great therefore to be a kid over here having it drag on for so long, it begs the question however just who do Spanish kids think Father Christmas is? I mean he crops up on every advert, film and festive song for at least a month, - so just who do they think he is?? When I posed this question to girlfriend Nikki, (who is half Spanish) a couple of years ago, without missing a beat she says ‘Just some fat bastard from the north’. So that ends that debate then.
As it happens I was listening to a programme on Radio 4 a couple of weeks ago and according to the bible there is no mention whatsoever of ‘Three Kings’ or even wise men. The only description of these three (it doesn’t even say that they are all men) is that they are ‘Magi’ which directly translated means ‘magician’. So that’s it then, they were three conjurors on their way to a ‘gig’ when they were way laid and diverted by a star to attend a children’s party. It makes sense to me.
It would appear that the modern story of the three kings as we know today was written some centuries later, and it wasn’t until then that the story, i.e. three blokes, two white and one black rolled into town on camels (something else that was never mentioned in the bible). It is this scene that the Spanish re-enacted up and down the country last night, and I know having watched the parade here last year they make a terrific job of it. Interestingly they find it impossible to find dark skinned men of the correct religious persuasion to fulfil the roll of third king, so they have to get a white chap and black him up! – You can just imagine the horror back home at the very mention of this can’t you, but thankfully over here we don’t have some trumped up little councillor tapping us on our shoulders telling us how to live our lives. Viva Espana!

It's In A Box Of "Smellies" - But It Doesn't Smell.

So there goes another Christmas in high definition clarity as opposed to the hazy alcoholic blur of the ones of my youth, but hey, that’s progress!?
I’ve realized though that’s it’s perhaps best to be a little hung over on Christmas morning, if only to engineer a lie in. I was up at 8am all bright eyed and bushy arsed and not really knowing what to do with myself, for one preposterous minute contemplated cleaning the windows but managed to snap myself out of it. I was under strict instructions not to open my presents until girlfriend Nikki had arrived from her folk’s place where she was spending the night, and knowing her sleeping patterns I knew I could quite easily be kicking my heels for hours on end around the front room before making an infuriated phone call on Boxing Day.
She eventually rolled up just before mid day by which time I’d had two breakfasts, done a white wash and listened to a whole programme of Christmas carols as played by the “Brighouse and Rastric brass band” with vocals provided by the “Hudderfield Choral society”. (I later used a joke as told by presenter Christopher Timothy at “Sinatras” in my show, but it didn’t get the laughs as afforded to it by the congregation of St. Peter and Pauls church unfortunately).
Have to say I did pretty well presents wise, two jumpers, three books, a couple of dvd’s, hip flask, some “Mr. Men” socks, a “Next” pack of smellies, a calendar, a hamper, and a hoody top so I can frighten the pensioners at work of an afternoon. Unfortunately I managed to smash a beaker before I had chance to open it, it was a special Leeds United one as well with my name on it and I looked on horrified as it lay in pieces on the ground at my feet, all a bit too symbolic for my liking, mirroring exactly our season up to press. One piece of equipment in the “Next” pack has got me beat mind. It came in a little cardboard box labelled “Muscle Bar”, is the shape of a tablet of soap but is black in colour and odourless. I’m not all together sure what I’m supposed to do with it to be honest, I’ve been holding it up to the light and sniffing at it for days now, I did wash my face with it a couple of times but my sink went a funny colour and I came out looking like Al Jolson,....anybody got any ideas?

Tidings of Comfort And Joy.

Well it’s full steam ahead with the credit crunch then, what with Woolworths going breasts north and MFI folding (see how they like it), it’s all getting a bit down in the mouth back home. The holiday makers over here are suffering too, what with the exchange rate being such that, by the time you’ve changed your money over to Euros, you’ve just got about enough to phone home and ask for some more money to be sent over, - these are trying times.
The other “turns” that I’ve spoken to are getting a bit jumpy and wondering if they’ll manage to feed the cat this Christmas, but I think that it’s a bit early to be reaching for the poisoned mushrooms just yet, must admit though to feeling a bit paranoid meself. Recently after a show in the last remaining venue where I haven’t been laid off, the sound and lighting man who had just returned after a trip back home says. “I thought about you the other day, I bumped into a Big Issue seller in Wakefield”. (!?!?) It turns out that this particular character was Polish and it reminded him of a couple of jokes I use in the act (all in the best possible taste of course, and anyway it isn’t me strictly speaking, it’s Billy Connolly).
I’ve spent most of the last couple of weeks writing a synopsis for my book “Chasing The Cheese – A Year In The Life Of A Benidorm class B Celeb”, but whichever way I write it, it makes me sound like some slightly twisted student out to make a nuisance of himself in his gap year, or some dozy old train spotter who’s finally fallen off the end of the platform, but there you go. I’ve trawled the internet looking for suitable publishers and literary agents who might be interested in my work, and come to the conclusion that, well,…. there aren’t any. Not helped by the fact that 99.87% (I’ve done the research), of them reside in London!! - no reason to stop trying though.
A couple of news stories that appealed this week are of the pilot who flew 80 passengers from Cardiff to Paris and then announced “I’m not qualified to land, - we’ll have to turn back”. It turns out that once they arrived in Paris it was a touch foggy and he hadn’t got the qualifications to land in overcast conditions would you believe. What about taking off in overcast conditions then? Presumably he’s fairly skilled in this procedure if he’s working out of Cardiff in the middle of winter?!
The other one concerns a 22 year old woman who was banned from buying a box of Christmas crackers because staff feared she was too young under the 1875 explosives act.
She had picked out a box of ten crackers at Marks & Spencer in York and was amazed to be asked by check-out staff if she was 16 or over. This is a direct quote from the paper -

Heather said: "The member of staff looked at me for a moment before asking for ID. She refused to believe that I was 22 even though I have nearly finished a degree course.
"As if that wasn't bad enough, she said that she was protecting me by not selling me them. It's as if she was suggesting that if I was left alone with the crackers I couldn't be trusted and might blow myself up."

Ten Years!!

It’s my anniversary today; I’ve been here in Benidorm for 10 years! That’s like a whole year, times by ten, hang on I’ll check, it can’t possibly be true can it, I mean 10 years, I should be retired by now. I lived in Blackpool for two and a half years before that and in my own mind I’ve lived in both places for exactly the same amount of time. I don’t even know why I remember it was the 10th of December when I landed here, but I do, I didn’t realize it then but I couldn’t have picked a worse time really, this little chunk between the November fiestas and Christmas is possibly the quietest time of the year. Just to underline this fact, I’ve been laid off from three of my four jobs this week.
But there I was just innocent middle aged bloke looking to break back into show business after taking a decade off due to the fact that I’d have been up on a manslaughter charge if I hadn’t taken time out, such was my relationship with my agents. I had subsequently worked as a postman, and then barman and every other job with “man” in the title until I felt confident enough to return to the fray.
To say I struggled when I first got here is putting it mildly, I didn’t have an act so I was basically unemployable, living in a freezing hostel in the Old Town with a bunch of surreal nutters in a room that your average psychiatric patient would turn his nose up at was a bit of an eye opener. The mattress had a lean of 45 degrees, weighed about 3 ounces and the window was so small I could only look out with one eye at a time. (I’d appreciate it if you’d hum the theme tune from the Hovis advert at this point), I would tip toe down to the beach bare foot at first light for a bracing run before breakfast, flicking loose stones from my heel and averting the stares from local cops as I frolicked on the sand. Oh, the innocence of it all.
My girlfriend, in a strange loop of fete now lives in Blackpool and we communicate on “Skype” whereby you can talk for an unlimited amount of time for free over the internet, you can also see each other. Not sure agree with that bit though, half of the fun of conversing on the phone is that you can pick at your toe nails or have a good scratch at your nether regions whilst discussing the price of washing powder.”How’s your day been?” I politely inquired last night.
“Oh, nothing special really, but I had to buy a pregnancy test from the chemist and then a packet of cigarettes” she mused matter-of-factly. After I’d matter-of-factly fallen out of my chair, I thought for a bit, pulled myself together and croaked, “Er,....what!!!??, ......but.......you don’t even smoke!” (Well, actually no I didn’t say that, I’ve only just thought of it now – but I was shocked).
“It’s for class” was supposed to allay my fears. I must point out at this point that she is taking a degree in acting, and the part she is playing today is that of a chain smoking nymphomaniac apparently. Whatever.