Butlins

It’s holiday time, we’re going to Butlins
Only fifteen sleeps ‘til our only break
From this grimy, shitty council estate
This holiday made of fine gold plate
It’s going to be great, it’s a break from depressing
It’s going to be bloody great!

Two little girls in the dodgy hood
Council kids but our manners are good
Journey to heaven in the clapped out car
Two cheery fingers to our neighbourhood.

Holiday paradise in concrete banality
Chalets which challenge your standards and sanity
But fun filled, paradise days ahead
Contests that challenge your dignity and head
Wrecking your arse at the donkey derby
Saddle sore, bum sore, wallet sore, pride sore

And how lovely are your lanky legs?
Will you win a cheap prize for your nice shaved pegs?
Lusting red coats drooling, sexist society dregs.
Wanting some sex action, wanting to beg.
Deluded kids paraded along in a beauty frenzy
Back in the day when our clothes weren’t trendy
Forced to look ‘pretty’ with fake smiles plastered on
Along with mascara that weighed a ton
With spider lash eyes and blood stained lips
And a quirky walk with swaying hips.

But my favourite was the knobbly knees competition
Half of those blokes should’ve seen a physician
With their bones sticking out like a medical condition
And we laughed and we mocked, making cruelty our mission.

And the treats and the candyfloss, toffee apples and junk
And the swimming pool after, we should really have sunk
Feel the water around us, not council land concrete
As the happiness choked us, to smile was a treat
And the fun of the fair, the lofty big wheel
Bravely swinging the carriage, nerves made of steel
And to some it was nothing, but for us a big deal.

And the beach and the beach and the beach and the beach
Feeling the sand beneath our working class feet
Thermos flask ready, not warm council pop
(when there was no money to go to the shop)
And sandwiches gritty with traces of sand
Which stuck to your fingers, wouldn’t wash off your hands

Lunches in dinner halls, military precision
Lukewarm and beige, with no varied decision
Warm, canned fruit cocktail with a smidgen of cream
Or pink, firm blamanche like a traumatic dream!

Whiling away hours in cash hungry arcades
Pennies to spend, simple games to be played
50p limit, we’re not made of money
While the rich kids scoffed and thought it was funny

The memories, the memories, the Butlins of old
They were my best times, my moments of gold
And the council kids were jealous no holidays for them
I wished I could take them, the great Northern gem.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Published by Sarah Drury

Poet, Mother and general crazy person. Literally.

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