The Freak Box

I don’t hate Devon but I’ve really never liked it. It’s too twee for me and too crammed with second homers looking for the beauty and the thatching and the white picket fencing with the cream teas and the local pubs filled with gnarly fisher folk. I like Cornwall. Cornwall is rugid, dirtier, mistier and filled with pastries crammed with meat and potatoes. It’s also further from London. All these factors make it better.

Anyway, it’s irrelevant what I think as I’m just a bloke and so don’t get to choose stuff, I just get to deal with problems or smash stuff on orders from above. My role is not to question, my role is clear….Pack the car, secure the house, shut my piehole.

And so with those simple instructions in my head we went to Devon for 7 days….

With the car backed to the rafters with bags, a dog and two kids who didn’t actually want to come we set off for the sunlit ‘blue rinse’ uplands of the West where ‘diversity’ comes in the form of tourism or a dance troupe on Saturday night TV.

As usual we leave late. This is never my fault as I’m up mega early every day. When we finally get going I’m tightly wound as I’m forensically checking every lock in the house and have ensured on at least 10 occasions that no cooker, microwave or iron has been left on within explosion distance of a pile of petrol sodden kindling. There are no issues and so off we pop.

The first stop is always McDonalds. Calm down everyone, it’s a tradition and it’s also the Breakfast menu which is possibly one of the greatest packages of crud you will ever get in a muffin. Crammed with heart stopping flavour and plastic cheese I give you the apex of fast food… The Double Sausage and Egg McBastard. I have one of these once a month when I treat myself after listening to some hippy shit at the backcracker. As soon as my crumbling bones have been realigned I walk across the road, don a fake nose and wig and sit in a darkened corner chowing down on the McBastard….Good Times.

As we munch our way through the slop, what appears to be the manager slopes out of the entrance. He’s no more that 23 and appears to be rocking a style like something out of the early Floridian parts of ‘Scarface’ all greaseball pencil tache and skinny troos. He’s adorned with rings and jewellrey and many many badges and stuff like some kind of McDonalds Scout Camp Arkela.

Whatever these trinkets are and I can only assume they are McFryer, McBurger Wizard and McFlurry Stirer and he has the lot. He looks like a North Korean General who has never seen a theatre of War but has the badges of office. Impressive stuff if you wear crocs with the badges and toys stuck on them….these people exist..

Tony Montana then whips out the smokes and sparks up in full view of us punters.

I remember hearing a story years ago about how Gordon ‘Fucking’ Ramsey sacked a Sous chef on the spot who could be seen smoking within view of the customers and thought it was harsh. Now I’m fully in with the Jock. This bloke should be drummed out of the McHall of Fame and downgraded to Dixie Fried Chicken (Chalk Farm Branch) instantly. It’s totally off putting to see the hands that may have touched my vittles curled around a Marlboro Light in an industrial estate in North London. If this McBreakfast wasn’t so delicious I would have been forced to make a complaint…alas ‘No’…I simply continue metronomically chomping until it is gone and just imagine ways of hunting him and his family down over several decades to come. The McFuckers have us by the short and curlies…they know the breakfast menu fixes all.

Not long after we are back on the road and are heading to Devon.

The week we leave London has had record heat but as you would expect the minute I say I’m leaving the big smoke this rock is engulfed in sideways rain whcih appears to be concentrated on the South West.

The road to Devon is as torturous as ever due to the rubbernecking we all have to suffer as a million idiots use an A road to drive past a few rocks arranged in a circle. Stonehenge appears on the horizon after many hours and you barely get to see it before you are picking up speed beyond it and as marvellous a ‘wonder of the world’ it is no one really hangs about once the 15 second visual is complete because no one is paying a penny more for the experience.

As expected we enter Devon in pissing rain after weeks of drought in London. I could easily solve any global water crisis by simply booking a weekend away or a holiday anywhere in the world. The second I appear in your town rain it is guaranteed and this county is no different. Grim stuff indeed.

The car, a Qashqai shitwaggon is performing as brilliantly as ever with the radio and bluetooth dropping in and out of signal every time we pass a cow or sheep or village idiot. It has never worked properly and either has nothing, sporadic noise or sounds like Norman ‘one trick pony’ Collier doing his microphone routine so I turn it off and soak up the tinny backbeat from the kids headphones in the back. Glory Days.

It is with much joy that we reach to beautiful Devonian market town of Teignmouth where we will park ourselves for a week. We breeze through waving at toothless yokels and farmers but dissapointingly there is no ticker tape or band striking up to greet us which is worrying. We make our way through the town and park to the far end so we can check it out on foot in the first instance.

We exit the vehicle and are met with a low hum which none of us can pinpoint. I look about for a Electrical Substation or throbbing Nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown and can see nothing passed the rickerty fair ground on the sea front. And then it hits me. My line of sight it too high for this noise…I cast my gaze to a 45 degree angle and get it. I am the happy Dragon from ‘Chortlon and the Wheelies’ and so am surrounded by a horde of people on wheels and the hum is the low murmer of batteries ticking over. It would appear that this part of Devon is the epicentre of the mobility scooter for within one eyeful I can see at least six ‘riders’.

My old man is disabled and used to own a mobility scooter of his own. Not now though. Now he is simply propelled by Glenfiddich fumes rather than electrified wheels and due to his calamitous ability behind the wheel it was decided that he could no longer be trusted with it. This may sound harsh so I quickly relay a few instances so you get the picture.

On one occasion he insisted on some ‘freedom’ and left the house on it. After two hours there was no return and my Mum started to worry. Then a thunder storm broke, absolutely tanking it down but still no sign of the lunatic. As me Mum was about to head out to track him down a shape emerged through the rain haze.

He had risen!!

…but not through the power of Lord Jeebus Cripes, oh no, he was being pushed by a young immigrant child who had found him, stopped in the road with a flat battery and had kindly decided to engage with the freak in order to get him to his destination..didn’t have the range you see…cheap battery.

That poor child came to this country with a dream, a dream of a new life and that life did not involve being the engine for pissed up plastic paddy in a midrange, two tonne mobility scooter. Mum gave the kid a fiver (standard ‘get yourself a drink’ territory) and sent him on his way while resolutley continuing to vote Conservative…she probably reported him for theft as well.

Then there was the time when in a fit of pique he escape from the house and went to the local pub to get smashed with his favourite drinking companion, namely himself.

After a considerable missing where it would be evident to anyone in a five mile drinking arc of him that he would be trollied my older brother decided to track him down.

Bruv walked in the local and saw him imeadiately. He was like Mongo in ‘Blazing Saddles’ with all the locals cowering in a corner listening to the rants. Bruv approaches this mess and tells him it’s time to go and without hesitation and to the single shout of ‘BOLLOCKS TO YA!!” he bursts free on max poor battery power straight out of the pub doors with one dead fist trailing on the floor where he does the first right to the car park at ‘pace’ and tips the scooter over like he’s in ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’…

Bruv sighs and takes his time to assess the damage. He walks out to find the old man entangled in the twisted wrekage looking up at him.

“Well ?”the old man says, “pick me up then”. “Bollocks to ya” Bruv says and leaves him there for the ‘pit crew’ or barstaff who let him get smashed in the first place deal with him.

….This is a well aired story, apologies if you’ve suffered it before…

Basically I’m conversant in the ways of the mobility Scooter and their flock but there is an inordinate amount in this town.

We find the accomodation that Jen has studiously researched and its right in the middle of everything (when I say everything I mean some things, I mean this ain’t no Las Vegas or even Falmouth).

Once again she has deleiverd the goods with a 5 bedroom newly renovated Victorian ponce hole owned by some second homers from South East London. It’s got the lot except the view over Blackheath and a coffee shop filled with bored yummy mummies supping Choccamochalatte while petting a Cockerpoo called ‘Oatmeal’ or ‘Biscuits’ or some shit. Top stuff… A London dressed fortress in the heart of Devon.

The kids head to their rooms where they mostly stay for the remainder of the week as this was the bridge too far holiday which shouldn’t really have happened but Jen insisted. The upshot of this is that I am in a massive expensive rental with an 18 year old and a 16 year old with no real interest in being here. Great, but I’m determined to enjoy myself so I prepare to head out to conquer this town.

The customary trip to the shops to gather as much booze as the car will carry begins and for some reason and within 8 minutes I find myself in Lidl.

Lidl is like Aldi with the shit kicked out of it but we’re here now and so I make do. It’s your typical holiday supermarket filled with limpy locals and tourists in a state of bewilderment with faces that say ‘what the fuck is ‘appening here?’ and so easily identifiable. We mooch about buying stuff we’ve never seen before out of curiosity and I listen to simpletons trundling about and notice a rather overly nourished B&H enthusiast engaged in a conversation with one of her offspring.

The kid, who is no more than 8 years is all snot and trap and is demanding ‘juice’ with increasing insistance and so the Mum agrees as she ‘drank the last of it with me pills this morning’. Its only the opiates keeping her alive …that and the ‘Juice’.

We get through it and buy loads of shit we don’t normally eat as we are on holiday. German Ham, poor wine, lager in stumpy bottles, a home made pizza from the ‘deli’ which usually means it was in a packet last week but is now out of date and reinvented as ‘hand made’ by some £2.89 an hour spotty herbert behind the ramp with a hat and an apron on….. Continental me…right out there.

We head back and extract the kids from their devices and ship out as one lump with the dog to brashly snoop about as London filth does.

Teignmouth is a bit scruffy but from an initial stroll I like it. It has a Cornish feel to it rather than the Devonian whiff which is a a lot smoother and I like the grit, I like the mess here but that’s not to say it’s a shithouse but more to do with the realism.

It seems to have a few nice looking pubs a nice sea front walk and the obligatory two-bob fair ground plonked on an expanse of grass by a few municiple buildings.

This trip was never going to be like all the previous kid jaunts that had gone before. Previous holidays involved more planning than this as we had to cater for entertaining the kids on a daily basis but this one is a shorter trip and within a year they have all grown out of castles, and theme parks. This is a sad scenario as it brings an end to the kid years but it’s inevitable as they are now too old for that and a differnt kind of semi adult enjoyment awaits where you discuss rubbish in pubs or at moderately price retsuarants as we did here during the evenings and you independently relax and do what you like during the day. Y’know? dull stuff…

As a consequence this holiday blog is more about what the eyeballs saw rather than what the kids and we did as a collective.

After getting our bearings we head to the closest pub to the accomodation to gauge the clientel.

We burst into a harbour front pub bold as brass with wallets crammed with disposable while telling people to ‘get out the fuckin’ way’… well, not quite, in fact I politely wait my turn in a packed ‘too small’ bar while Jen tries to locate a seat outside by the small harbour.

The waiting gives me a chance to assess the barman who on an initial glance has got right on my tits as he’s too cocky for a bloke in charge of a mere four pumps dispensing the necessary. His mouth says Tom Cruise in ‘Cocktail’ but the face and body says Tom Good from ‘The Good Life’.

He catches my eye and instantly knows I’m not from around these parts and so the toothless grin evaporates and instead I get the face of a man who should realise without the likes of me he ain’t employed much. No matter…I can deal with this and so with added ‘London’ I order up some drinks in a slick way which blows his tiny mind. At the end of the order and with the beverages on the bar I do what all experienced pissheads do in an unfamiliar pub they might use for a limited period and offer him a drink and in that single moment I purchase his soul for the next 5 nights. The face changes and he’s all over me like his sister/cousin at a River Cottage Wassailing Barn dance. Job. Done.

There is only one further troubled moment on this vist when I try to order a bowl of chips and am confronted with the prospect that this would ‘take an hour at present’ which renders me momentarily speechless and chewing on my knuckle like Ross in ‘Friends’ when he found out ‘The moist maker’ Turkey sandwich had been partially eaten by a work collegue. An hour for chips …fucking lunatic…I’m not sure what kind of country we are running here but I could have been from France or some shit not simply London.

It’s a decent pub with good beer and a lovely seated area near a tiny beach/harbour but there ain’t many yokels in here to my eyes. The majority of the punters appear to be from Richmond and the like with dogs wearing bandanas and unruly kids called ‘Georgiepops’ and ‘Maud’ but we make it our go-to venue for the week as it’s so close to our base camp that it would be stupid not to.

The other nearest pub to us is a more gritty patriotic affair which appears to be wrapped in the Flag of St George. I take this in my stride as I happen to be in town for the Lionesses football assault on the European Championship and assume that the pub is well into supporting our girls.

The Boy and I decide that we will go to this pub for the semi final of the competion as it’s on a midweek night and it will give us the opportunity to check it out before a Man City versus Liverpool Friendly on the Saturday.

It’s a flat roofed type shopfront pub so my expectations are low but from a passing glance it looks like it specialises in Sport so as long as the beer isn’t like the kind of crud you’d find in a puddle we can get through it.

We bowl in and I find a seat for the Boy and I engage with the lumpy but friendly barman. There’s only three other punters in this boozer which suprises me given that it is bedecked in patriotism and an England side are in a semi final. No matter. I order up a G and the Boy goes for the obligatory ‘ finding my feet in the world of booze’ cider and we settle in for the match.

After the standard four pints and an England victory meaning a final on the Sunday we head back. It’s a decent enough pub in the way that the old O’Neill’s pubs used to be where they try to age the new stuff to look old in the belief that the trollied will fall for it and think they are transported back to the old country and at any moment a bar band will start playing long into the night. This is anything but Irish but the logic remains… Old school english boozer albeit flat fronted on a parade of shops.

I leave confused at the lack of punters celebrating this English victory but decide that it’s a dead Wednesday rather than a major issue and will return on the Saturday for the Community shield match.

It’s a nice chilled week with me walking the dog each day at 0700 amid the ruins of the fair ground the night before. On more than one occasion I witnessed a dodgems operative emerge from the cab of his lorry, dishevelled and reeking of an unfortunate cafe worker to piss up his own hubcaps. He waves as if this is fully acceptable and out of the fear that I will be bundled into the lorry to find myself on road with the fair I wave back to placate him. I’m far too old to finish my working life handing out two week lifespan Goldfish to small children who can operate a hook on a stick.

I go for a couple of runs along the seafront early in the morning and it is a joy to have all that fresh air in your mush. You can acheive this to a degree in London but you need to be running at about 0530 hours which is the exact point that my old body is trying to start the engine so It’s not really recommended.

Teignmouth has a similar feel to Hastings. Grubby Chic with enough old fashioned Great British seaside tat to keep anyone going but it aspires to be better. There’s enough places to eat and a modern part with some bohemian srtuctures chucked randonmly in. I like it but my bar is low as I spent my Yoot in Margate and Shoeburyness.

On the Thursday we take a trip. Whisper it….

Torquay….The English Riviera…..

Hopes were high. Hope gets you fuck all.

‘Star Wars: A New Hope’ after that….all shite… Hope….thats what we had when we instantly found the perfect parking space near some palm trees on a grey luke warm English Summers day. The buildings oozed France in a strange way. The initial view of the wide pedestrian area smacked on Cannes…and then….listen….The low murmer.. we’ve heard this before…

Scooters. Mobility Scooters. It was inevitable.

Torquay is as flat as a flounder with wide expanses of paving and ramps, ramps everywhere. I’m the tallest fucker here because I can stand up. This could be the point where I start to conquer this part of England. I now see myself as a modern day Boudica spear raised above my swead dominating a wagon being pulled by eight high powered mobility scooters manned by overly nourished Pot Noodle addicts while I scream:.

“…..TO LONDINIUM!!!!…..”

It’s all rather depressing after the palm tree promise.

Torquay is like someone took Southend-on-Sea and scrubbed it up a bit and chucked in a ‘Roly’s Fudge Pantry’ every 200 yards instead of a tattooists. It’s a shitshow masquarading as ‘elite’ English seaside but we’re here now so we give it a go and set off around the sea front.

It’s nuts. I’m not over exagerating when I say this is filled with mobility scooters. There are so many I’m convinced that some sort of rally is taking place but I can find no meeting point. At one point I see a ‘rider’ on a very flashy one (comedy number plate, whippy aerial etc) scooting along and notice that she has prosthetic legs which seems rather excessive given the lack of pedals on these things….it’s almost like she is deliberately taking the piss. Walking tall around Torquay I feel as though I’m in the worlds largest Scalextric as multiple scooters whoosh past me in a haze of lavender, biscuits, urine and the occasional whiff of Stella.

It would also appear that if you aren’t on wheels you will probably be massive and from up North. Don’t get me wrong I am neither thin nor special but the longer I visit parts of this country the more I realise we have an obesity crisis. Everyone I see is earing or queing to eat including myself who is gnawing on an ice cream with the old bollocks of ‘I’m on holiday’ ringing around my head.

The vast majority of the baloon people rolling about Torquay on this the day of days could withstand a full charge by heavy horse calvary. Its not a pretty sight and the lack of anything to do other than eat something coated in sugar or see a 70’s comic who has found the last Bastion of non wokeness underneath the palms is staggering.

We last 45 minutes walking around the quayside looking at a few boats (who don’t like a boat eh?) and watching some little kids doing a bit of old fashioned crabbing before we squeeze ourselves back into the car, leave Mordor to the incumbent Orc Army and head back to Shire or in this case Teignmouth.

After a quiet day where I watched ‘Homes under the Hammer’ a bizarre English Holiday day staple (‘Animal Park’ a close second) and walk the dog to dust over a 3 hour period we all slink out for the Teignmoiuth Carnival/ Parade thing. The air is ripe with anticipation and the promenade (concrete walkway next to the sea) is filled with excited faces as we await the ‘floats’.

Like with much on this holiday the expectation is replaced with the reality in the shape of a ‘float’ which appears to be a transit van with a couple of balloons on the wipers. I think this one is for the local butcher but it matters not. It aint no float and this ain’t the Lord Mayors Show. After a few tragic attempts to build up the crowd into a state of excitment (bloke dressed as a T-Rex, a few waifs with Pom Poms etc) the nominated town Mayor appears with a low hum….yes, you guessed it….chains, big hat.. wheels…

Holy shitballs. I look around for cameras and wonder if I’m in an episode of ‘Reeves and Mortimer’ but alas I’m not….this is real. When this country finally accepts that we need to invade France we best get the Royal Engineers over there to lays down some beach head paving otherwise our assault will falter at the first hurdle.

I take refuge in what can only be described as a Kon-tiki bar near the ‘not so grand’ parade. The only thing making this place exotic is the bamboo screening on the terrace and the cocktail menu. I have a Cornish Lager and watch the scragg end of the entertainment which includes a local dog walking group who appear to have joined the back of the convoy. Tails are ridgid, bags are out, shuddering dogs fill the streets….It’s like something out of a Faust Opera.

With only a couple of days left the boy and I head to the most patriotic boozer in the Town to watch the traditional football season opener of the Community Shield. Given my last visit I am confident that seats will be a plenty and I will be greeted like a long lost brother with a wink and a nod from ‘Lumpy’ behind the ramp.

I open the door and am faced with bedlam. The place is fuller than Jenna Haze doing a double shift (don’t google that) and the punters are all over the shop. There’s mobility scooters (naturally), crutches, kids, dogs, everything wih a pulse is tattoed… all kinds of lunacy.

As I am a stubborn London fucker I pretend I’m not phased by this as the Boy is with me but I am phased because he is with me so with the beliegerence of Jon Snow at the ‘Battle of the Bastards’ I burst towards the bar to obtain liquid refreshment.

It’s a bit fruity at the bar with a lot of jostling amongst all the big geezers standing at it but they all seem to know each other so it not a major issue unless you suddenly realise that you don’t know any of these monsters like I suddenly do.

‘Lumpy’ remembers me and so I buy him a drink. Always good to do this in a packed pub as they remember your extravagance and serve you quickly when ordering later. I take the drinks and head off to find the Boy who has found a good spot where we can see most of the screen.

Like a good soldier I assess the battleground before me. Hmm….not sure I’d last long here given the thickness of the necks and broadness of the backs visible which ooze HMP Wandsworth. To be fair no one is taking much notice of me and so I feel as it stands we could survive this so long as I don’t catch anyone’s eye.

It really is busy but the mobility scooter level is lower than I believed mainly because there is a group of blokes who have commandeered the one owned by their mate who is sitting on a pub seat. The other four are now taking it turns to drive to the kharzi on the scooter through the pub much to the hilarity of the assembled mob. It’s clearly a well used mode of transport in this place with everyone getting a go at some point.

While all this is going on the pub is getting uncomfortably full and I notice that most of the clientle are pretty much wearing clothing from the EDL range in Grattans catalogue. I also notice a lot of neck and hand tatts all with a logo which I recognise from some Louis Theroux documentary where he rocks up in a backwoods trailer park to meet the toothless who think ‘a real rain is gonna come one day to wash the scum from the streets’…

And then I get it.

The patriotism, the flags all over the pub are not to do with The Lionesses march on the European title hence the lack of punters for the semi final win. This pub is on the far right of the spectrum and although I ain’t no Comrade Corbyn I aint in their gang. This ain’t my disco man ..

I take stock. This isn’t my bag at all, but I’m here for the footy and so far my insulated action fleece appears to have made me invisible to the assembled oaffage. I enter alert mode and so move forward with one eye on an escape route for me and the Boy. On a quick look I reckon if I can tip that old lady over in her chair, slap that 14 year old while shouting ‘JUST STOP OIL!!” I might create enough of a distraction to get us both out alive.

If this is going to work I’m going to need the Boy on my page. I turn to him and as with all 17 year olds he is oblivious to the danger before him. He’s simply watching the football while glugging down Aspinall Cider (piss taker….my wedge… not a copper coin from him). I get in close and whisper:

“….We could be in a bit of a pickle here Son. This place is filled with danger. I have assessed our chances of escape and have come to the conclusion that it is possible but the only problem is that I reckon my old bones only have about 6 – 8 punches in me before I’ll be exhausted. If I start launching into anyone just calmly walk towards the door and don’t bump into anyone. Don’t look up, don’t try to save me, I’ve had a good run, think of me in a good way…

….Tell Gwyneth I love her…”

We embrace…..He looks confused and simply continues to sip on the hugely expensive apple based liquid he has stumbled across at my expense. He couldn’t care less, 6-8 life saving hatmakers or not. He’ll only notice my heroic defeat at the hands of these savages when his glass is empty and he sees the tattered remnants of my woman repelling garment held aloft and even then his main concern will be whether there’s any money in the pocket for another refreshing cider.

Needless to say there were no major issues in the boozer that I haven’t seen before in one of the many Camden leftie pubs I’ve drunk in over the years. If a pub is filled with a majority of like minded souls they will tend to get on regardless of the political position. Essentially this was a local boozer for local people….No one died and the G was excellent..

The day after is the Lionesses big day and they secure the title. I watch this from the comfort of our accomodation all the while ensuring that the barricades I have fashioned from various pieces of flea market furniture nailed across all entrances are secure and will repel any attack from the patrons of the venue across the road.

And so our brief trip to Devon draws to a close with a last visit to the harbour side pub. It was never going to be a funpacked kidcentric visit and was more focused on that transitional time between child and young adult. Luckily we all agree that it was worthwhile even if my daughter spent most of the time on facetime with her mates in London.

We had a few gastronomic trips out, went to few hostelries and relaxed which is essential when you live in London and regardless of my pisstaking in this epic I genuinely liked Teignmouth and would visit again with just Jen as it is an honest English seaside town with friendly locals who didn’t tear me to pieces.

Torquay however will never see my erect posture, perfect gait and working legs again…. liberty takers…

Next time: The upbeat yearly review…..gawd