An hour and a bit later, all bearings scattered across page 46 of the Somerset mapped countryside, the sci-fi marquee that will no doubt trigger horrific imagery in the minds of a fair few this weekend arises from the shoreline. Its magnificence is tremendous but in the loosest possible sense of the word. Minehead is certainly a sight to behold; the magnates of commercialism man the fort on the outskirts and taboos are broken left, right and centre with not one visit to the dreaded McDonalds but three. Tesco, for its part, drags us out of a tight spot (personified our rescuer would be sporting a Britney Spears-esque wrap-around microphone and a customer services badge alongside 'Barry Gregson' or something of equal west-country backwardness) as we roll into Butlins armed to the teeth with dry pasta coils, jarred pesto and bread. The expected 'self-catering' kitchen and entailed crockery are nowhere to be found. In their place? A kettle and 3 mugs. And there I was raining on Butlins' parade a mere matter of weeks ago harder than Duffy inside a hurricane on Dusty's grave.The town of Minehead itself truly is a blast from the past. Painted by numbers with the same tweed sleeve and washy watercolours as the delightful Isle of Wight quite how such a village survives is testament to the decadence esteemed on these fair isles. Gimmickry and tackiness run hand in hand on the authoritarian sands towards the sunset, perhaps in an attempt to find some sort of time portal and fast-forward 30 years or so into the present day. Over the course of the twisted weekend, Minehead does offer the ideal respite from the glitching minimal electronica that's about as dark as the inside of Richard D. James' mind scrambled on Soreen and covered in Lea & Perrins. Red Hot Chili Peppers' rambles on 'Stadium Arcadium' seemed irrelevant and pastiche. If they were after 'Arcadium' worthy of stadium-presence, they've obviously never delved into Merlin's Amusements. Never a believer in the Harry Potter phenomenon, Merlin had us enrolled at his School of Gambling Wizardry, Procrastination and Hair Loss. Pounds enter machines for nothing to roll out. £10 notes get exchanged for half to be blown on clichéd rubbery fish and cholesterol-battering chips. And the rest gets splashed enthusiastically on these cruel, soulless grabbing machines. Yet we still persevere. And eventually two of those fairly irritating monosyllabic plush toys from the Vauxhall ads flop limply into the collection box. Pure, natural ecstasy pulses through our bloodstream hopefully counteracting the adrenaline that's turned legs to Tesco Value Jelly. Nothing that intoxication can't solve...
Our 2-berth twin chalet has suddenly become stunningly reminiscent of a rubbish tip, complete with broken shards of Super Noodles, Wotsits rappers and an infinity of cheap Stella cans, all either empty or containing the foul dregs that look, taste and smell like sewage. Blurring the boundaries between Hoxton squat and generic student haven, Comic Relief soundtracks the shambles that our lives have become and after one Davina McCall screech too many, we head to meet our destiny within the Bloc big top.
Jamie Lidell- Another Day
