Beware The Spaceman
a spaceship above the world with title

  • Butlins at 90: Mind the Cracks

    a spaceship above the world with title

    Long‑term readers may recall my very biased feelings about this place in Skegness. Butlins is hallowed ground for this family. Butlins can do no wrong.

    Yes, the rose tint is real — but that’s coming from a guy who writes more about the past than the present. Today’s version is nothing like the place I loved in the 90s: the monorail, the outdoor pool, and of course the kids’ clubs we all adored.

    I’ve witnessed the magic this place holds myself, and I’ve seen that same magic spark in the nephews.

    During a performance of Rock Theatre, one nephew had already left, worn out after the day’s activities. Then a message came over the speakers: “We need to pause this show due to technical difficulties.” Common enough, but the kids had seen it — the crack in the Butlins experience. And once you see one crack, you start spotting more. The queue wrapped around the whole shop, and then for swimming, and then the bar. That’s three. The splash fountains not starting on time, half the fairground rides closed. The cracks are there.

    Butlins isn’t alone in having them. But unlike, say, the mighty Disney, it’s not quite as good at hiding them. Some of those cracks were more obvious because of the heatwave — an unusual stretch of good weather. Others, I suspect, were down to being understaffed. And you have to wonder if that’s a choice… and if it is, whether it needs a rethink.

    But for this year, the kids had a great time. The place remains special, largely untarnished, and I’ll be doing everything I can not to see the cracks. I’m rooting for you, Butlins — even though I know that’s an uphill battle once the kids get older.

    The Butlins magic belongs to childhood. There will always be a last dance with the Skyline Gang — we just don’t know when. Don’t look for those cracks, kids. Not yet.

  • Bob the Last Real Car: A Love Story Written in Rust

    a spaceship above the world with title
    cartoon rusty honda

    I have quite a history with driving. One I’m sure we’ll delve into in the future, but to spoil things a little: I think I must have failed a driving test on nearly every road in Scunthorpe.

    Driving comes easy to some people, and I’ve always been a little jealous of that. The compromise that seems to work? Using an automatic car to simplify the controls, and Google Maps to prompt each direction.

    The moment I saw Bob’s advert on Auto Trader, I was thrilled to see he ticked all the boxes. My previous cars had all died with some kind of electrical failure, usually in the manual hybrid gearboxes. Bob has an old CVT gearbox. The controls are so simple he could be a go‑kart. A true old automatic.

    Right here is where I probably made my mistake. Bob is old — sixteen years old at this point. He has one red mirror and one black. His paintwork has gone a little dull with time. His last MOT revealed his aches and pains with the amount of rust cautions on there.

    The first trip to see my dad in the new car got a few comments… ones like “How much did you pay for that!”, the shake of the head, and “They saw you coming.”

    Bob was giving a bit of a groan when pulling off, so I took him to my local mechanic for a gear‑oil change. He too had a similar viewpoint to my dad: “I’m just saying, don’t throw a load of money at him.”

    The consensus seems to be that Bob is terminal. But aren’t we all?

    The two previous cars (one much newer than Bob) let me down with those electrical failures I mentioned. I’m not precious about him getting a knock when parked up. Above all, I don’t like many cars — but I like Bob.

    So come MOT time next year, will it be time to say goodbye? Or am I likely to be looking for some welding for Bob to dodge the car grim reaper for another year?

    I know which one my heart is saying. But for now: keep going, Bob. Please keep going.

  • Wake up — it’s time to leave Dreamland

    Mario alarm clock
    a spaceship above the world with title

    Last week, my brother finally got bitten by the nostalgia bug. He was about to buy a PlayStation on eBay.
    “Why?” I asked. “Yours is still in my attic.”

    So it was — though it took some finding. Eventually I unearthed it in a travel case, alongside an artifact that genuinely shook me.

    The artifact in question? A Super Mario Bros. alarm clock from 1992. Mario looks like he’s been at the mushrooms a little more than usual, and somehow, despite not seeing this thing for at least 20 years, the LED display was still lit.

    Back in the day, this clock came with an instruction manual printed in size‑zero font. You practically needed a PhD to set the alarm correctly. More than once, at 2am, it would wake my entire family with the theme from SMB3 and the yell of:
    “Wake up — it’s time to leave Dreamland!”

    This clock had sat in the attic for two decades, quietly ticking away the seconds, minutes, hours, and days of my life. Once, when that alarm went off, I was at school — and had mistakenly stolen the line guides. (Still sorry, Mr Welton.)

    For now, Mario sits in my spare room, perched on top of the Nintendo. Waiting.

    Because you never know when it’ll be time to leave Dreamland.