By Phil Creighton
NOSTALGIA ain’t as good as it used to be. At least that’s what my children keep telling me.
I’d regale them with tall tales of how things were better back in ye olden days of three television channels, when we took the bottles back for their deposit, and if you fell off a climbing frame it was straight on to concrete.
The idea that modern music is just noise and we got the real deal … well, I might as well be speaking to them in Swahili for all they care.
Except, the times they are a’changing.
A few weeks ago, some kind soul came past my desk, unshackled my chains and set me free. They muttered something about time off for good behaviour, but one couldn’t quite be sure.
Before they changed their minds, the family bundled me in a car so we could have a week at Butlin’s.
This was the holiday that we’d originally planned in 2019 for Christmas 2020, to see in new year 2021. But, you know, covid. The rearranged trip, seeing in new year 2022, also had to be cancelled because of that pesky virus.
Third time lucky, and a week of kiss-me-quick hats, knobbly knees contests and hi-de-hi awaited.
Any poor soul who follows me on Twitter knows that I unashamedly love Butlins. It’s family-friendly, features some big names and plenty of things to do. And the entertainment in the evenings is usually terrific.
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This time round, covid meant the programme wasn’t as full as it had been. So instead of spending our precious family time in one venue watching everything from a Paddington play to a Spice Girls tribute, we ended up playing bingo with the Redcoats.
The prize was an inflatable crocodile. Second prize should have been two of the blighters.
It was all a bit low-key, low-brow, low-budget, but goodness it was a laugh-and-a-half.
To the amusement of my children, I took the opportunity of winning the knobbly monster very seriously indeed. Very seriously. It became the talk of the week.
Strategies formed on how we could get additional bingo cards, how we’d sit close enough to be in with a chance of winning a bingo T-shirt, and recording Tok Tiks or whatever for the amusement of my daughter’s friends.
Sadly, it was all see you later alligator, for the crocodile didn’t come our way, not even in a while.
We were usually two or four numbers short of a full house – something that carries over to everyday life – and that meant no bright green blow-up animal.
That wasn’t the point though.
Some of you will have gone to Sunday School and sang songs like If I Were A Butterfly, complete with all the actions. Sadly, doing the fuzzy wuzzy bear’s hair is no longer an option for me, but there was something special about pretending to be a kangaroo or an octopus with my fine looks.
It might have been nearly 50 years ago – and goodness, that’s a sentence to make me feel even older than, ‘when I was growing up, there were only three television channels’ – but I can still remember, clear as day, where I sang it, who I was singing it with, the smell of the church hall and the feel of the fabric of the chairs.
A happy memory, a safe place, something that lingers long after said church hall was knocked down, and the lovely teachers gone to that great Sunday School in the sky.
And that, ultimately, is what the crocodile was about. Creating a happy memory that will hopefully linger long past the time I’ve been turned into a feedbag for the crocodiles.
Maybe my great grandchildren will be playing bingo at Butlin’s in years to come. No matter how space age the space age gets, happy memories are made to last.
Just as long as Butlin’s will be doing knobbly knee contests 50 years from now.
Phil Creighton is the editor of Reading Today and Wokingham Today
