The Old Boys' Jolly
We went back in time and I can prove it (featuring audio accompaniment)
Note: This story makes extensive use of Burtdad’s special lingo. In order to make sense of it, you may like to refer to my companion, “The Little Book Of Lingo”, which you can find here:
“Burtman To Burtdad”
I’ve been at the Burtdad-Cave for a couple of days, and the time has come to hit the road for our first jolly. It’s going to be a long drive and we’ll be taking two vans. Why? Because Burtdad’s very particular about his space, and apart from that, I happen to know he’s a night groper, and I’m not about to be subjected to that, again.
The kettle has boiled for the last time, and we sip our brews in the way we do when we’re antsy to get out on the road, but trying to be casual about it. In other words, we don’t really enjoy the drinks, as we’re just trying to get through them as quickly as possible, so we can begin our jolly. No sooner do we put our chipped mugs down for someone else to wash up, we’re out the door, heading to our respective motors.
As part of trip prep, it’s important to spend a lot of time going back and forth between each others’ motors, commenting on playlist choices, making sarcastic comments about the vans and generally being a bit too excited to actually get on with anything. When that subsides, we get comfy, make various agreements about the journey (such as how often we should stop for a broo), and then run back into the house a few times, to check things are turned off and just make sure that they are, indeed, still turned off. It’s a ritual.
And then comes the moment of truth.
BD’s wagon is finally running. He’s closed the toilet door, turned off the gas, arranged his cushions and swept the toast crumbs off the counter. He’s finally ready to go. I start up and taxi out onto the road behind him, waiting for flight clearance, which he shall issue via the radio I’ve dropped on his passenger seat. Let the fun begin!
I wait a moment for the last bit of fiddling to occur, and then his lights come on and I hear a quick rev. Finally satisfied with his playlist and comfy in his seat, he issues the launch command and takes off. I follow at a safe distance, in case anything falls off his van (it’s happened before).
With a grin, I follow the Sleepmaster XL around the familiar roads and out towards the industrial estates That’s when the first call comes in on the radio. “Shall we stop for a broo?” We’ve been on the road almost four minutes, by this point. At this rate, we will never get anywhere. I decline and we head towards the city limit. Once we reach the highway, Burtdad opens up and lets the camper fly. I stomp on the gas and initiate the metal playlist. It’s on.
Some Time Passes
The sky begins to darken and the mind turns to grub and brootane. The radio sits on my dashboard and I scoop it up to initiate comms.
“Burtman to Burtdad. Come in, Burtdad.”
Showing off that he, too, has seen a few episodes of The Rockford Files, BD responds.
“Go ahead, Burtman.”
“Pull over in the next lay-by for snacks and a broo. Over.”
“Roger.”
Neither of us know who Roger is, but it’s a thing you say when you speak over the radio, and it seems weird not to include it.
Soon enough, a lay-by presents itself, and Burtdad slows for approach, sliding neatly into it and coming to a standstill. For the sake of it, he tells me by radio, despite the fact that he can see I’m right behind him.
“Standing by for brootane.”
It’d be rude not to acknowledge. But how?
“Roger.”
Of course.
I pull up behind him and kill the engine, before slipping out of my seat and walking around to the side door, behind which, lies the promise of refreshments. BD strolls over with a big smile on his face, and soon enough, we’re cooking up tea and buttering sandwiches, while looking out of the viewer’s lounge at the setting sun and the field it colors orange.
“Luxo”, Burtdad announces.
It’s at times like these that I really enjoy being out on the road - times when all the boxes are ticked:
Nice view, nice broo, sarnies, beats and Burtdad, plus somewhere to get to.
This Is A Long Way
It’s after ten, now, and we finally see the sign we’ve been waiting for. We’d left around four, and most of that has been highway. We’re both pooped. I watch, eagerly, for something familiar, and when it comes, it carries some serious weight; A poster I’d seen almost twenty years ago, still plastered up on a billboard, advertising the great someone-or-other from the circus that never left town (but it was always a one-night-only affair). That dude must be in his seventies, by now, but he’s still forty-something on this poster. Already, I’m seeing evidence that this town really hasn’t moved a muscle, since I was last here.
We follow known paths to the seafront and carry on until we reach the far end, near the static caravans, where we’ll be living for the next few days. The sky is dark, now, and the sea breeze blows strong against the vans and the sand dunes and the reeds that grow from them. I haven’t smelled that sea air in so long, or seen this view. It’s a little overwhelming.
Parked up, I grab some food, a cup, and a pack of cards, and head over to the Sleepmaster, to chat about the journey and play rummy. Sooner or later, Burtbro will show up, and it’ll be the first time in decades that we will be here, together. The sea breeze blows and I grab at the door handle, already excited about the coziness that the Sleepmaster proposes, with its warm light and soft curtains. The door opens and Burtdad’s already at the tea station, taking care of duties.
“Evening, Gaylord”, I offer.
“Evening, Bender. Broo?”
“Obvo.” I step up into the camper and the tone changes, quite suddenly.
He fixes me with a serious look.
No hint of humor.
Something needs to be said.
His words are unambiguous and uncompromising.
There’s no underestimating their importance.
“I’m going to say this once and once only, so listen up.”
He points to the door behind him, without turning his attention from me, and spells it out.
“No. Clags. In my bog. Got it?”
Burtdad’s words sink in, deeply, thanks to the extra moment he spends staring at me.
“Got it”, I say, unsure whether I should let myself laugh.
And just like that, the mood returns to normal. The dramatic color of the moment has gone and the vignette has disappeared. As if nothing has happened, Burtdad continues making the tea and asks if I want my “special milk”.
And Then, We Are Complete
An hour has passed. We’ve played enough cards and drunk enough tea. I’m thinking about bed, but I can’t go, yet, ‘cos Burtbro’s still not here. We joke about him turning up at six in the morning, but hope it’s not going to be true (according to Burtdad, he is always at least a few hours late, if he even shows up).
The wind makes the van sway, slightly, and I love the feeling of the night air on my skin. For that reason, the window has been open the whole time, which is convenient, as Burtbro has just pulled up, and I haven’t yet noticed. I’ll notice now, because nobody else would greet me by grabbing my head through the window and accompanying the act with gongfu sound effects. I turn to see him, but the night doesn’t permit me a good look. He fades back into the darkness, reappearing in the kitchen, a moment later.
“Lad!”, I exclaim.
“Burtbro!”, he counters.
“No, see.. You’re Burtbro. I’m Burtman. You see?”
I can’t believe I have to explain this again.
Burtbro grins again, as I stand to give him a big hug, and he and Burtdad throw the all-important question at each other, in unison.
“Broo?”
Roll Before You Read
This audio was recorded on location, in Great Yarmouth.
Roll it in the background for a more immersive read!
When you’re as young as us Burtsters, you start to think about ‘the old days’ quite a lot. You know, those days before things like gray hair and beer guts existed, when every day was guaranteed to be followed by another of equal length and excitement, and you never had to pay for anything. The good days.
So, during this trip to England, us Burtsters have headed for some of the old time standard locations. Great Yarmouth being chief among them. That’s where we are, now, and our story continues...
Day Breaks
Over our lifetimes, many a day out was had in Yarmouth, and it’s one of the very last places on Earth where time has forgotten to intervene. Since the last time I was there, around 2009 - nothing has changed. Nothing. And even then. it hadn’t changed since the first time I was there, way back in the 80s. Yarmouth is a wondrous place, filled with stinky fast food, noisy arcade games and fatties on shop mobility carts (comprising something like 50% of the visible population).
At the end of the beach, a quiet holiday park that looks out over the wilder part of the beach, where dogs love to play and where we, as youthful lads, used to run about as cowboys and indians, before heading to the water to lose footballs and get our ankles wet (we sure were adventurous, even then).
The quiet end of town, as viewed from the Sleepmaster XL.
The town is a postcard of itself, featuring the same posters I remember from decades earlier, and the same seaside stores, packed with tacky plastic junk, sticks of hard candy and the feeling of stalemate leeching from every brick. Truly marvelous. And speaking of postcards, check this badboy.
Truth is, I’d missed Yarmouth, for its fond memories (crazy golf, go karts, the Pleasure Beach, and a range of greasy spoon cafes we never failed to visit. Its tackiness is its strongest merit and the reason we can never leave it behind.
At the other end of the beach, knackered old caravans and campers line up near the shipping yards, stuck in limbo for years, and revealing a sad side that so many places hide well. Here, plain as day and without pretense. I remember coming to this part of town so many times before, just to see what was down the road from all the noise and lights. And there’s a peace in the skid row section that I can relate to. A kind of forgetfulness and melancholy that doesn’t upset too deeply - just kind of makes you thoughtful and curious.
The forgotten few.
Over the few days we camped waited (no camping allowed on that road), so many memories came back and so many silly things were said and done. The magic only grows, in Yarmouth. We visited the old music store that’s still there, under the cover of the bus station. We walked the same path, down by the bowling green, where we were famously awoken, one early ‘90s morning, by the timeless words, announced on the bowling green’s PA;
“Morning, George.”
It was in this very parking spot that those famous words were heard, some thirty years ago.
And, of course, we located (and dominated) the air hockey table - a non-negotiable at any seaside resort. At one point, once we’d located the table that releases all 20 pucks at the same time, we had a cinematic moment that I already remember in slo-mo, where incoming pucks were literally flying past my face, as I battled with both hands, to keep them from the goal I defended. The result was undeniable. Czech Republic smashed England to a pulp, five games in a row, and took the title.
Thank you, lads, and thank you, Great Yarmouth, for not changing a bit.
I really felt like I was a kid again.
An excellent few days.
Iconic.