When I was a lad, Rhyl was exotic

AN interesting thought struck me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. I was sharing a pint with my friend Brian — a cheerful soul, much influenced by his ever-smiling father.

We have got to that age now where we often look back and compare today’s life with the one we knew as youngsters. In short, we have become a couple of old fogeys.

Anyway, we started talking about holidays, and I commented that, as children, our summer break would have been something like a week in Rhyl while now, we would not bat an eyelid if someone told us that they had been to Hawaii.

“That’s right,” said Brian. “But you’d be absolutely amazed if they came in and told you they’d been to Rhyl.”

And, much as it pains me to agree with the miserable old buffer, he’s right. Who would dream of spending a week or two in a British seaside boarding house?

Yet when I was nobbut a lad, in the Sixties, hardly anyone had flown and my Aunty Florrie had never even been to London.

In fact, she died without going there, and she would never have dreamed of going abroad.

She only had a telly for the last 18 months of her life. It used to be a treat for her to come into our house to watch something like “Miss World”, or to take a bath (post 1968).

Actually, my family was a bit posh because my dad had a friend in South Wales and we would stay with him occasionally. What’s more, the man owned a toffee shop, and it sold hot peanuts.

But we did holiday in Blackpool, staying in a self-catering flat.

I can’t imagine going there now. For one thing, I don’t think I could afford it. New York would be cheaper.

Two years ago I took my son to see the lights and struggled to understand what I had ever seen in the place.

My younger son, who was nine, absolutely loved it but I kept thinking: “What a dump”. Is it Blackpool that has changed, or me? Even th’illuminations failed to impress.

I’m told that once upon a time you had to take your own food to Blackpool, which you put in a personal locker and the landlady would prepare.

Certainly, I could never convince my mother that you didn’t need to take towels and coat hangers on holiday. She even took them with her when we stayed at the Kowloon Holiday Inn in Hong Kong.

Now that last comment should really impress you, but I bet it doesn’t.