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We took a day trip to Woolacombe, a place that I remembered last going to in 2003, when I had a year off from the Fringe and met up with my sister’s family for a few days in this seaside resort. I played my nephew at backgammon on the beach for several hours, thinking I was safe under a thick veil of fog, but ended up with bad sunburn on my leg that then went all plasticised.
You can read about my youthful adventures here and for the couple of days after.
Then I went on to the Lake District to see my mum and dad, my brother and his daughter (who I cowered behind when we were nearly attacked by a small goat). And then on to a drunken and sad week at the Fringe as a punter.
But jump forward 13 years and I was back, again having a year off from the Fringe and back with the family united and all the kids now grown-ups, except for a new one that I have magically produced out of my ball-sack since then. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday in August and it turned out that we weren’t the only people to think of coming to this pretty bay. The cars snaked up the steep hill that leads down to the sea. We passed some guest houses on the way and I laughed at the poor idiots who were having to walk up and down that slope to get to the sea.
I guess Woolacombe’s income (it’s Woolincombe?) is largely seasonal and it was good to see the inhabitants were making the most of it today, with the massive overflow carpark in a field near the beach presumably taking in tens of thousands of pounds in a day. It wasn’t long before we were taking our place in the field, but we’d been separated from the other cars in our family group and there was no phone signal and when we saw home many people were on the beach we wondered if we might not be able to find them.
My nephew had headed over early in the hope of securing a beach hut. I now realised it was pretty unlikely he had got one. But I walked along them all looking for him to no avail as my wife, daughter and niece waited in the shade at the entrance to the beach. We knew that my parents were going to head for a coffee in a hotel, but they hadn’t said which hotel. We were about to try and find an internet cafe, when as luck would have it my nephew and his wife passed right by us. They knew the name of the hotel and we decided to head there in the hope of reuniting our scattered tribe.
As it happened, the hotel was initially largely empty and nice and cool. We sat down to get our daughter to sleep and have some lunch and then my parents showed up, deciding to have their coffee on the lawn. We joined them after we’d eaten to find a huge and beautiful expanse and grass, largely empty of people, a blue sky and access to a toilet and realised that this was a much better place to be than the overcrowded beach. It was an idyllic afternoon. I chased my daughter around the area, catching her and tumbling over as we laughed in each other’s faces. My mum played football with her youngest grandchild (Phoebe was pretty impressive both at kicking and dribbling and was not a bad throw either - I think she might play for England - or whatever our country is called in 17 years time). There was ice cream, some disappointing scones and cocktails (for some). And though Phoebe kept us busy it was an amazingly enjoyable afternoon. I hadn’t learned my lesson and put no suncream on myself (I did coat my daughter in the stuff though - wish I hadn’t chosen the ham hand now), but although I caught the sun there was no repeat of the plastication incident (I said plastication - oh you read it clearly).
As we drove back up the hill it suddenly struck me that I had been here more recently. Those guest houses we had passed earlier seemed familiar, as did the sloping field opposite. I was pretty sure I’d been here on a stag night with my school friends. Had I been one do the idiots staying on that hill? Well thanks to the magic of Warming Up, I can confirm that I was. Incredibly that was over nine years ago, so Maria Barnes child is hurtling towards its tenth birthday. We had got so drunk that day that I am not surprised that it took a jolt to remember it. Whoosh. That was your life mate. My memory is shot. Thank goodness I made copious notes so I might remind myself of what has come and gone!
Back at the hotel I was able to get back online. I checked Twitter and people were listing their first seven jobs. I doubted that I had had that many, but had a go anyway. I came up with Mushroom picker, archaeologist, cave guide, camp counsellor, barman, summer school supervisor, sheet metal bender #firstsevenjobs (in that final job I was helping to make some kind of machinery - I don’t know what the proper terminology would be). But I had forgotten that on my year off I put up cards in the newsagent offering my services as an odd job man and had ended up painting a young couple’s hallway and stair bannisters. It was incredibly bold of me to attempt most of these jobs as I was practically useless (in both senses) but I admire the young me for giving it a go and for doing well enough to get paid. The stair case was painted in grey and pink, very much placing that work in 1985/6. I didn’t even get on to the jobs of finding lost invoices for a lighthouse manufacturing company, writing the West London phone book, doing advertising sales for a brochure aimed at the Russian market (zero sales) or writing for the Macmillan Encyclopaedia of the Royal Family. But that would bring me up to being a stand up comedian, comedy writer, actor and “personality” and all the self-employed work that comes with that. Somehow I have managed to remain employed for all of my adult life, but it was fun to think back to those first jobs, which someone commented had the air of Frank Spencer about them in their variety and brevity.
