Skegness and Beyond

                                           
                                              Skegness and Beyond

Skeggy. That single word sums up the town in its entirety. The land of the old and stupid. Where the retired go for a nice quiet escape from their ‘oh so busy’ lives, and the young go for a wild weekend. Personally speaking, I don’t understand how one place could possibly fulfil both of these functions, but apparently, it can.
Historically, Skegness is a town knee deep in culture. Sprouting from robust Viking roots in the 9th century and gradually evolving into a medieval harbour town, which in turn grew into the tourist paradise we enjoy today. The name Skegness itself derives from the Danish for nose and beard, as, geographically, it apparently resembles those features.
Out of everything, it appears that there is one common interest between all of its visitors. Tat. Hundreds of shops that all appear to sell precisely the same line of customized pencils, inflatable frogs or nodding dogs, at precisely the same extortionate prices.
Even the most intelligent of people seem to lose all sense of logic upon arrival. It’s almost as if they just drop it all into a storage locker, along with any pride and dignity, and proceed to wander aimlessly around the streets buying total rubbish and spending hundreds of pounds on arcades and greasy breakfasts.
I’m pretty sure people don’t normally act like this. People normally realise that a small plastic jellyfish should not cost £9.99, or that a couple of cans of drink and an ice cream shouldn’t put you in debt, but it would seem that in Skegness they don’t.
This is not to say I’m above this. Not at all. As soon as I enter the bracing haven that is Skegness I fall under the same mesmerising spell that everyone else does.

Some may tell us to think of the eclectic range of wildlife found on Skegness’ beaches and in the sea. I’m afraid to say that this is a sentiment that only repulses me further from exploring the Skeggy sands. One of my earliest recollections of the town’s nature is discovering a decapitated, semi-decomposed seal corpse washed up on the shore. Perhaps not something I’ll be looking for again.
It would seem that my description of the jolly fisherman’s home town is enough to make any level headed foreigner turn tail and run at the idea of a holiday on England’s eastern coast, so why is it that we, the great British people put up with it? Perhaps Skegness isn’t as bad as it looks? Perhaps there is more than meets the eye with this quaint little seaside establishment? Because beneath the dreadful weather, overcrowded beaches, tacky merchandise and poor cabaret shows beats the heart of a town drenched in memories and dirty salt water.
Practically everyone in the United Kingdom has visited one of this countries many seaside resorts at some point in their life, usually in their child hood as well, and who amongst us can say that they didn’t love sprinting up and down the water front with a bucket and spade, exploring the mystical maze of Butlins caravan park or feeding coin after coin into those insatiable 2p machines?
Sure the accommodation is bad, the prices are sky high and the other tourists make you want to projectile vomit all over them, but we all remember it as part and parcel of the great British holiday.
And isn’t that what this country is based on? Tightly held and often absurd traditions? There are so many that we think of as natural. Wearing knotted handkerchiefs on our heads for instance, or putting on shorts and sun cream at the slightest sign of summer.
Without all these things England would not be England, and we would not be ourselves, so however odd the things we do are, and however illogically we spend our time, we can never avoid it, and may as well make the most of the dreadful karaoke while we still can.