Hi-Di-Hi

I was convinced that they had died, much like the Dodo they were no more, extinct, gone, dead, departed, no more of this earth.
But I was wrong...
Still living today, scattered throughout the dark corners of this fine isle are holiday camps. A great British retreat born in the 30's by Mr Billy Butlin, holiday camps spread like gossip in a ladies toilet. Sprouting up around the country family's would find chalet accommodation, entertainment, food and drink and if we are to believe so many Carry On film's their own fair share of naughtiness.
Staff members adorned in brightly coloured coats took care of our ever growing needs and entertained us with cabaret shows dragging the only too willing audience onto stage to participate. Knobbly knee competitions, cutest babies and unadulterated shenanigans were the order of every day.
Many of today's comics started their life in red, blue and green coats. Joe Pasquale, Shane Richie and Michael Barrymore to name but a few. TV shows even took hold of this new found holiday and in the 80's the little box in the corner of the room of every house would spill the vocal talent's of Gladys Pugh into our lounges.
"HI-DE-HI Campers" in her finest Welsh tongue

But as over seas travel became more accessible to us all, with package holidays and cheaper flights we fled in our droves to sunnier climates and far flung destinations. Holiday camps became a thing of embarrassment and comical remembrance of by-gone years and a better time. Why spend your days in British drizzle and cold wooden chalets when you can be wooed by Sun, Sand and Sangria?

I believed these fine establishments had faded away into the history books and only ever remembered by your great nan who would occasionally point to the telly and exclaim "I saw him as a red coat back in 1956 at Skegness. He was never funny then either"
But how wrong I was. They are alive and well.
A good friend of mine who once adorned the famed coloured coats has recently come out of the Hi-De-Hi retirement back catalogue and dusted of his moth eaten coat and is now proclaiming seniority on the holiday camp entertainment stage. In a somewhat curious and supportive fashion I joined him on a trip to an evening show the other night.
As we drove into the grounds on a late weekday evening, mobile homes and chalets appeared through the sea mist into living communities of brightly coloured retreats. Families were busying themselves to get ready for the evenings entertainment. Children ran through the grassed lanes between the mobile homes and played whilst mum and dad dressed for the night out, or is that in? Gaudy flags blew in the breeze from numerous flagpoles, the distant sound of music and a bad DJ drooling into the microphone could just be heard, coloured bikes, shop windows filled with every sweet you could ever want, Red coats hurrying themselves stopping to smile and chat with every holiday maker they passed, a permanent grin super glued to their face that would make The Joker envious.
We parked our car and made our way into the main showroom. Flashing lights and noise assaulted my senses at every step. It was like walking into a rainbow production factory. We entered the main stage area and were treated to even more flashing lights and music, a DJ speaking so closely into the microphone you can only understand every other word. Mums and dads sat around at various tables slowly consuming their own weight in brightly coloured alcoholic beverages whilst the children, without fear of embarrassment or ridicule danced and pranced on the ever so slippery wooden dance floor at the front. Enjoying themselves with the freedom we once knew but have long since forgotten and buried under piles of paperwork and bills. Buzzing with excitement as the lights danced around them and the mirror ball spun precariously above filling the room with a starry spectacular, lost in a world of cartoon proportions and fantasy that will one day come back to haunt them as Mum brings out the family photo album to show your new prospective girlfriend.
Somewhere in a locked closet within my mind I recall doing much the same as a young boy, 8 years old and on holiday. The world could never get better than that moment. There were lights, sweets and loud music, adults behaving like children and permission from my mother to stay up past nine o'clock.
Then later in life, loosed from the chains of parents, a school holiday to Butlins. Marvellous. Disco's, rival schools, teachers desperate to escape, suicide attempts (strange I know but this did happen and resulted in said disturbed child being sent home early leaving me and my best mate with the biggest chalet. This was later even better as my best mate also got sent home early with the pox. My chalet became the place to be...It was the party chalet) all of this and now also... GIRLS. Oh the mystery. If only I knew then what I know now.

We purchase a couple of drinks and stand near the back of the auditorium to watch the nights entertainment. Word of warning, never sit too close to the front at this kind of affair or you will be dragged kicking and screaming into some ridiculous spectacle you wish you were too drunk to remember.
The evening kicks off with a round or two of BINGO. Cuddly toys are the order of the day as far as prizes go. This is not a big budget do. You just know the minute you get your prized plush toy home the stitching will have ripped, stuffing spilling from it's sides like some bizarre toy road kill and you will see the same said toy on the next episode of Watchdog. The Red coat in charge of the game sits at her table and with the enthusiasm of a puppy with a new bone calls out the various numbers. Although now things have gone all politically correct. Two fat ladies are no more. Instead we are treated to, "two ladies, perfectly happy with their size but attending weight watchers in order to fit into their new jeans... Eighty eight."
And so it goes on...
Eventually the torture ends and we are treated to more disco but this time a red coat is forced into some costume of a young lad with an absurdly large head and takes the children on what would have been a conga when I was a lad around the chairs. Photos are taken with forced smiles and children bursting into uncontrollable tears as the poor sugar induced hallucinating youngster is forced to stand next to the big headed goon.
The main act of the evening is then introduced, a singing comic. HORAH...
With jokes and acts stolen from numerous TV comics the man with the absurd bleached hair bursts into life. Ever so slowly killing once great songs his act begins. Had Simon Cowell been in the audience the first note would have sent him into desperate vocal convulsions to stop him and make him leave... His jokes were, on occasion funny, sometimes raising more than just groans from the audience and obtaining something that resembled a laugh.
He was... Awful. BUT he was so awful he was good. Intentional or not I actually enjoyed his act albeit one or two songs too many. He made me laugh and more often cringe, somewhere inside me I had the feeling he had watered down his act somewhat to make it children friendly. To give him his due he had the courage to get up there in the first place and do something my body just wouldn't let me do. I would have been a quivering wreck backstage clinging desperately onto any solid structure I could find. But he is the kind of act that would make that holiday memorable. I can still remember acts from my holidays and I'm sure you can too.
Holiday camps are alive and well, with a bit of a makeover from my day but they are still there creating the childhood memories I'm certain we all have.
Long may they continue, a British tradition yet to be completely whitewashed from our ever quickening fall into a mixed pool of worlds traditions and ideas.

HI-DI-HI?

HO-DI-HO...