The Seaside
We went to Bridlington last week, our first family outing since lockdown measures were loosened. Now the shops have reopened, we thought locals might be less inclined to want us to piss off, although having seen the madness on Bournemouth beach a couple of days later, I imagine seasiders are now keener than ever for interlopers to piss off. Shops reopening was supposed to be a joyous day for the country but the news footage of people camping outside Primark in Leeds was possibly the most depressing thing I’ve seen since all of this began. I mean, I am an advocator for the £3 plimsols but come on?
After a reasonable car journey in which the children were good (i.e., relatively quiet and didn’t poo themselves), we arrived in high spirits. Within 10 minutes, though, I’d remembered why the thought of going to the seaside is almost always considerably better than the reality. Jacob’s all-terrain pram remained so for all of 30 seconds before I pushed it over some broken glass in the car park and flattened a tyre. I tried to pretend this hadn’t happened but heaving the now-defective pram across sand was gruelling and Jacob, understandably miffed about the bumpy ride, started bawling. I would have experienced some vicarious joy through Joshua, who was screaming with glee and chucking seaweed in the air, but a crying baby doesn’t allow for such things. A crying baby is all-encompassing.
Louise eyed up a golden patch of sand a few hundred metres away but, when we finally got there, it was disappointingly much the same. We agreed that she would take Joshua paddling while I tried to feed Jacob. This represented a wretched deal for me. By the time Joshua and Louise had got to the sea, I’d dropped Jacob’s bottle and, despite attempts to clean it with a splash of Volvic, he showed little interest in a milk and sand cocktail and the crying intensified. It was also windy and his sunhat flew off at least six times. Top tip: beaches are wildly impractical for babies.
A few feet behind us, a group of 16–17-year-olds had set up camp and put on Stormzy, in my opinion, a bit too loud. While I was holding a squirming Jacob, pleading with him to stop crying and wiping sand from his mouth with a used tissue, “Do Better” was playing.
After a long twenty minutes, Louise and Joshua returned with tales of sandcastles and big waves having evidently had a blast. Louise’s smile soon faded when she saw Jacob’s sunhat was blowing down the beach and learned that, as yet, I hadn’t managed to feed him at all.
“Give him here, you go and play with Joshua.”
So, with Stormzy’s apt words ringing in my ears, I tried to be a good dad to at least one of my sons and we headed off with a bucket and spade. In contrast to his brother, Joshua seemed well up for consuming sand and rolled around, smashing it in his face. We then went to splash in the water which was fun until I picked him up to jump a wave and he absolutely booted me in the balls.
“For fuck’s sake,” I spluttered, earning a dirty look from a mother with her daughter who, for the record, hadn’t just assaulted her. Gladly, Joshua didn’t repeat my profanities as he was too busy giggling. I picked him up and hobbled back up the beach, feeling faint. Jacob was still unhappy and refusing to drink milk, so Louise concluded a nap was the only solution. He was, though, unlikely to sleep in the flat-tyred pram.
“You might want to go back to the car and get his baby carrier?”
You might want to = I’ll be annoyed if you don’t.
“Fine,” I said and walked off quite quickly to prove I wasn’t having a great time. At this point, a teenage girl in the group behind us was doing what appeared to be a choreographed striptease to one of the boys to Amy Winehouse’s version of “Valerie”. To me, this seemed dubious behaviour on a family beach pre-midday but what do I know? Perhaps I’m getting prudish in my old age? The rest of her friends didn’t seem bothered one bit and I got the impression this wasn’t the first time she’d done the dance.
In my mild storm-off, I’d forgotten to put my trainers back on but only realized this when I was halfway back to the car so returning to get them was out of the question. As a result, after getting off the beach, I walked for five minutes along a heaving pavement, then negotiated a car park peppered with broken glass, entirely barefoot. Party time.
After I’d returned, we went for a walk (with shoes on) and things improved. Jacob gladly fell straight asleep in the carrier and we bought ice creams on the promenade. We strolled past a Slush Puppy stand where the proprietor was ferociously glugging a multi-coloured drink from the largest available cup and I pointed out the hotel we came to every summer throughout my childhood to a visibly uninterested Joshua. I looked down at Jacob who was sleeping soundly and, for the first time since we’d arrived, not extremely pissed off. Ah, this isn’t so bad? I thought. A shirtless man with a gold chain on had other ideas though. Despite the funfair being closed, he climbed into the booth by the Waltzer and I just knew this meant bad news. He pressed a button and Fatman Scoop started playing. Unfathomably loud.
“SINGLE LADIES! I CAN’T HEAR YA! SINGLE LADIES! MAKE NOISE!”
Why? For god’s sake, man. Nobody is coming on your Waltzer today. Jacob woke up, started bawling. Joshua dropped his ice cream on his lap, started bawling. A woman with pink hair walked past puffing on an enormous joint, blowing a cloud of smoke straight towards us. The car seemed an awfully long way away. Home even further. Our first family outing in four months had arguably been the hardest day since lockdown began. How on earth do people cope with more than two children? Hopefully, that kick in the balls has done me a favour and I’ll never have to find out.
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