IMS_Blog

I suppose the first clue that things weren’t going to be quite a normal day were when one of the train stops on route (Berney Arms I think) was declared request only, and passengers told to move to the front of the train for it. The train did actually stop there and the tiny platform did indeed appear to be the middle of nowhere (popular with walkers we guessed). Got to Great Yarmouth itself in the end.

Coming out of Great Yarmouth station we were struck by the number of taxis. Turns out this may have something to do with the fact that despite billing itself as a convenient seaside resort the station is actually quite a walk from the sea. Not knowing this though we headed off, through the delightful industrial estate. Quite a few of the units around there don’t seem to want to quite say what they are either, leaving us playing a game of Norman’s Blank.

Finally civilisation appeared in the form of a market. This was actually quite normal and seemed pretty decent. We didn’t linger though, being eager to head on to the sea. We did get tempted into a pub though, and that’s where it began…

Wetherspoons

The Troll Cart. Oh my (note, this may be one of those you had to be there things, but still. Oh my). I barely know where to begin. Shall we start with those, including staff, who looked like they’d been trapped in the 1970s? We could but perhaps we should start with taking a window seat and seeing the taxi rank outside. With the taxi driver who looked so much like a serial killer I’d have had to be pretty desperate to get in his cab. He had the look, the eyes. At one point he brought out a drink; had it been a can of special brew, I wouldn’t have been that surprised (if you want the general feel, think Royston Vasey style here).

There was a woman wandering around collecting what looked like those colouring in paper things or were maybe just menus, over and over. There was the guy with shirt open to hairy chest in true ’70s porn star style. And passed the window went an old lady pushing a wheeled shopping bag ahead of her—which would have been unremarkable except she was sprinting.

The Shops

We had to get out, for the sake of our sanity. So we headed down the long pedestrian street with the sea at the bottom. And I have never in a long time been surrounded by such tack. I understand that it was pretty much the off season but still there was an eerie emptiness to shop after shop of crap with virtually no one in them. The “House of Wax” with unidentifiable figures outside, and the bizarre “statue” of someone vomiting into a bucket outside the “joke” shop justed added to the atmosphere. We did buy a mushroom garden ornament from one of the shops though, which was damn cheap, so there you go. It was really quite a relief to reach the beach and pier, at least briefly.

The Pier and Beach

Janet was getting quite excited at the thought of the pier and “rides”; I think she was thinking Brighton, or Blackpool (or other seaside resorts beginning with B?). Had the rides here actually been open they would have been, er, disappointing, unless a carousel and the excitement of the giant slide is your thing. And through the still emptiness played awful music. To escape we headed down to the beach, which it must be said is actually nice enough. Still, strangeness. As we paused to look at sand and sea we noted a man stood, holding his shoes, staring at the horizon. It may have been the influence of what we’d already seen but he looked for all the world like he was contemplating if he should simply walk into the waves until they claimed him.

For some reason this inspired the pixie to go for a splodge. So off came shoes and tights and away paddling she went. Once in the water though she begin to sink into the ground, and came screaming out. I’m not that silly but that was enough of the beach, and time for lunch.

Lunch

Having walked along the beach a bit and then back up to the main road we found the Marina pub. After the experience of the Troll Cart this was relatively normal. All they did was produce a can of Strongbow when Jan asked if they served it. The menu seemed pretty good and when the food arrived the portions were pretty damned hearty, and tasty. Refreshed and filled we decided not to build sandcastles but head along the beachside road and then back up away from the sea. And of course, back to the Troll Cart…

An Old Man and The Return of the Troll Cart

First though, I should mention the old man outside the shopping centre just across from the Troll Cart. I say old, I would have though 70–80, but it could be the sea air. He had a speaker and microphone and a little portable radio/CD player. And on one hand some sort of strange, furry puppet (I presume a puppet; it looked more like a furry mess). He proceeded to “sing” Abba, and “dance” in a jerking, strings broken kind of way. Everyone carried on normally around him, like nothing was out the ordinary. This is normal for Great Yarmouth.

Anyway, on our return to the most entertaining of pubs, there was another serial killer; a Charles Bronson look-a-like at a table further down. At another table a man not talking but singing to himself. And the man with the strange way of gulping at his pint, seemingly from half way across the opening of the glass, possibly to keep his tash dry. And then there were the characters. One put me in mind of Boss Hogg, though he wasn’t in white. As he passed down the not inconsiderable length of the pub, he stopped and paused, making what looked like a shushing gesture to no-one in particular, before continuing.

Then there was Duke Nukem who, well, looked like the character. He must have had bubble gum though, because he wasn’t kicking ass. And the woman with bright red hair. And the social club scene by the windows. As we’d secured another window seat we were also able to look out, and see the school girls waving to traffic. The whole thing was obviously affecting Jan, who asked why people were queuing outside—at the bus station. There may even have been some sort of speed dating at the tables outside the windows.

We couldn’t stay any longer; we bolted for that station. The train home had more giggling teenage girls, flirting with some boys they’d met, but at least the madness was being left behind

So Great Yarmouth. It’s a day out all right.

Edit: Some pretty poor proof reading corrected.