Arriving two hours early seemed keen to me, however, after getting our booking in number, I discovered that some people were more then keen to get there. Already, the tree tier hall was filling up with dads on day release, mums on cider and kids on their first yard of coke. The hall, divided in half with Bargain Hunt red and blue synthetic furniture, set up, sat on and climbed over. A silver shower curtain was the back drop of things to come. A 60 second Countdown clock was on a board, poised for the little time the elderly had left, and they chose to spend it here. Adding to the intense energy of the room, Bradley Bear was lead out, head hanging in shame and embarrassment. Then, then music. The lights. The clock. Check in was about to commence. A purple shirt, black waistcoat, silver tie, high trousers passed by with his microphone and instructed people to keep on the laminate dance floor. The numbers were called in 40's, and one person with their number ran down the ramp and was rewarded with a pack of activity beer mat passes and pair of keys.
The static caravan slumped on quivering metal legs, resigned to stay there for along time. The broad window at the front frowned out at us as our lively vehicles mockingly manoeuvred around them, free to leave the field. The front door, scaled to the relative size of a cat flap, sagged open before the key turned in the door. Everything was plastic. A dali door was warped where a hair dryer had been left on too long, the walls moved as easily as sheets on a line, the rigidity was 10 degrees either side of a right angle. The kitchen; a drippy tap above a bucket, the oven; an oil lamp, the extractor fan; a hose, storage; a shoe box. Like all things which consume food, the fridge stayed close to the kitchen, but didn't like to be seen in the kitchen for it crouched next to the seat on the carpet. A small gas fire kept the damp of the floor, whist the windows showed the moisture. Looking outside the window, you can see other faces, looking out of theirs, looking into yours. Entertainment.
Sitting in a cold box for too long, far too close to people, then you should ever get, you forget what air that has not passed through someone else's lungs tastes like. This is why there is evening fun, to get people out of their caravans and into a hall spending money. To get the the hall, one must pass through the bright lights of the amusement arcade. It's perfectly healthy; a method to get fruit into your diet. The fruit machines give people that much. When pennies are gone and your fingers smell like metal, then pounds need to be spent behind the bar. Past the miniature golf course, closed, the toilets (where people piss everywhere apart from in the bowl) and bingo entertainment hall is waiting for you. The people are there too. Four pints of beer, in a jug for under £10. Drink is on the mind and the beer belly needs to earn its keep. The alcohol is needed, its essential to grasp the entertainment coming next. Only Haven holidays could have a game show based on ITV shows. Guess the theme tune to Corrie and Emmedale and win your family a bottle of Summerfield bucks fizz. Teams are divided into two, red and blue. Holiday reps are there to represent their team. The walk ways need to be kept clear for Tubby and Scummy to run to the stage and win a point for their side. Then, when the music comes on, all stand and sing along. When the game has been won and the disappointment has had time to set in, the show shall start. Four songs, sang at a high pace, by men with high voices preform aerobic dance routines. The court of king caractacus seemed to pass by most of the audience.
The audience, the people. Oh, they are a sort. The women and the men. Shameless. Each day, they will mostly be wearing synthetic nylon clothing, like a second skin, they wear it. The stripes too numerous to count, means that when they stand in a crowd, the police can not single one out, for they all blend into a mob with one identity. The tailoring is what consumers are told are stream lined, however, the seams are sealed with piping. Dressing up is a military affair for the women, they appear in similar uniforms, all managing to pull the same sad outfit on. Skin tight jeans tends to be the only skinny thing about them. Boots are suede, around the sole is the mess they picked up in the field which they have dragged in with them. Shoe Zone is the designer behind these atrocities. Colour on the body is important to these people, surprising seeing as their clothes always appear to be in mourning. Gold is the colour of wealth, however the gold in their ears or stretching their navels is turning their flesh green. Hair dye killed the volume from root to tip. Bleach blonde, as white as the sand on the brochure, lowlighted by beat red strips around the side of the face. Well, it brings out the lipstick anyway. The second and last choice of female hair is brown, with blonde highlights, scraped through into a pony tail, strangled by a black band. The gentlemen, have about as much hair on their heads as their grandmothers have on their legs. Shaved with one grade all over or, for a bit of variety, short back and sides. Fathers look like sons, kids look like the grandparents. They slur and squark at each other, omitting basic vocabulary, constantly trying to convince themselves they are having a good time.
The smart people however, know when it is time to leave.
