Deprived of our annual week-long, leg-sapping jaunt to “find ourselves”, what better consolation than a weekend in Whitby? Iain from Vitty’s Cottages had sorted us a great deal although his general advice seemed to have a constant theme of “just a five-minute walk lads!”
I made the journey with Consult Chris, a mine of information, so much so the journey passed in a flash. I felt renewed seeking our cottage until Iain said “it’s just up the hill by the funeral directors.” Leapy was delivering Uncle Andy and Five Pints, freshly out of self-isolation, about to seek redemption.
Following on later were Patch, Big Al and our special guest, my 16-year-old godson Harry, here to learn about life, a coming of age of sorts. Entertainment had been booked for the Saturday in the form of a fishing trip although the only one of us who looked like a fisherman – Uncle Andy – was staying onshore. The weather forecast suggested a shrewd decision.
As Consult and I hiked up a one in five gradient, laden down like mules, past what I could only describe as a “downmarket Wetherspoons”, our holiday retreat came into view. As did Co-op Funeral Care; Iain really had covered all the bases. All we needed now was a teenager to torment.
Five Pints was stressed having learned he was due an “unconscious bias” test on his return to work fearing that a weekend with a bunch of old drunks might plant too many subliminal messages for comfort; at least Wetherspoons were recruiting. We decided to ask the teenager for appropriate woke guidance when he arrived.
Our first night followed type, back to The Ship, Whitby’s equivalent of The Scruffy; old habits for old men die hard. Soon we had harassed a couple from their cosy night and taken our usual corner.
Back in Bradford, Harry could only wait for his lift and a late arrival, unaware at this stage that we had condemned him to a first night the equivalent of sleeping in a zoo at what we had already termed Snorers Cottage.
Beers flowed and we needed food; Chinese it was before hopping to the Co-op like a bunch of winos. Most grabbed a six-pack but Leapy surveyed the whisky selection like a Sunday Times critic. Later, the first text I had from Harry was just having a whisky before bed. I needed to rescue him at first light.
I woke early searching for a mug before I spent the day with several on a fishing boat. The cupboards were empty until I found several in the otherwise empty dishwasher; If Greta found out we would be surrounded by smelly old people waving Insulate Britain banners wrapped in brand new North Face gear.
The winds had blown to postpone the Moby Dick sightseeing trip so we met at Snorers Cottage to collect our charge only to find he’d done a trade deal that Boris could barely dream of.
He had traded his mum’s M&S food hamper for whisky, plus occasional house boy duties; we’d been ditched. “You cool about this?” he asked “I am still in the will?” Yes, you are I thought Until Monday!
We opted for a coastal walk with a sick note from the resident cripple. Trouble with the bottom end. We left him to wallow as we set off into the headwinds. By the time we got to Robin Hood’s Bay we were cold and drenched as the co-habitants of Snorers Cottage applied for asylum to our haven.
The bus back was comedy gold with all the windows steamed up, it was like a blind joy ride. Four old ladies rode at the front upstairs as if on the Big Dipper, having obviously had a great afternoon on the sauce. There were “oohs” and “aahs” galore as they contemplated a night in watching Strictly. How they managed the stairs as we arrived was priceless.
Later, Just five minutes became twenty-five, down to our idiocy not the instructions but the eventual destination, Pizza West, was brilliant. It is a classy refurbishment of an old municipal building and the food is great.
Five Pints, still struggling with his taste and smell post-Covid, was offered a chance to move into Snorers Cottage to try kick start his senses. Perhaps we could exchange the kid? Point blank he refused the trade. “I may not be able to smell or taste but I’m not ****ing deaf!”
The next morning we parted company. Seven went to play crazy golf; I opted for a walk along the stunning beach to Sandsend, a place that oozes money. Even the dogs look well-heeled. What better way to watch the world go by, a flat shimmering sea, golden sand and a cake selection at Tides Café to die for. Unlike many resorts, Whitby still rises above Kiss-Me-Quick land.
The separation continued for the afternoon with Consult and myself in search of somewhere to eat for the evening whilst the rest went on the lash. After a tortuous circuit of Whitby with more knock-backs than the worst school disco, we found a pub barely a hundred yards from our cottage.
There was considerable satisfaction knowing the inhabitants of Snorers Cottage would have to hike it uphill, beer guts full to the brim. Job done, what to do next? I put the kettle on as Consult went to buy biscuits; truly, men behaving badly. He also bought nails, a hammer and several planks planning to barricade himself in, desperate to stay in his penthouse suite than return to reality.
Home sweet home; it was good to be back for another Thirsty Thursday. Idle’s Glamorous Granny 2021, Suntan Sally, arrived with her entourage bedecked in her winter furs. Mister Shifter was in attendance with his van full of options for a change midway through the soon to be necked bottle of Chateau Neuf De Scruffy.
In Nob Ed Korna, Malcolm X, our geriatric biker, proudly took his seat on the revered benches having recently been granted full Nob Ed status; it was an honour well deserved. On the front benches, debates ensued as to the pressing matters of the day including Superman’s recent decision to come out. The House declared this was an outrage and voted to grant asylum to Lois Lane, Captain America and Spiderman immediately. What was to become of Batman and Robin was unresolved.
With cheerful talk in the media of food shortages, Happy Days announced he would be stocking up on Spam. There then followed several motions as to how best serve Spam with Mr Dead sticking to the deep-fried version. Greenfingers advocated battered haggis as the “Scottish lasagne” to shared looks of horror. If all else failed, Happy Days suggested malt loaf – ”got to be Soreen” – a sure-fire bet for surviving the harsh winter months ahead – plus one of Suntan’s fur collection.
A local sat in the opposite corner quietly with his pint, crisps and paper, every now and then breaking out in a big wide smile to himself at the nonsense flowing close by. “God I love beer!” said Greenfingers, as he left for the allotment shed and one last nightcap.
The last word went to our long-suffering host Michael. Approached by a rather giddy customer, he was asked: “How come your wine is so crap?” Quick as a flash, cool as a chilled Sauvignon, he replied: “It must be crap, that’s your third bottle!” Touché!
Graham says
Bugger! Deana and l were therethis week…if only.