Lloyd Evans has narrated this article for you to listen to.
Butlin’s is no longer a holiday ‘camp’. The company has evolved from its postwar heyday and now describes its properties as ‘resorts’ which are crammed with restaurants, bars and venues for live gigs. It’s like a cruise but on dry land.
I went to Bognor Regis for a nostalgic ‘Ultimate 80s’ weekend where the performers included half-forgotten acts such as Aswad and T’Pau, and the remnants of the boyband Bros. The site lies 200 yards from Bognor’s shallow, pebble-strewn beach. The town itself is doing all right, if not exactly thriving. The charity shops are cheap, the estate agencies are full of recently vacated bungalows and the funeral parlours offer a special service for customers in a hurry. You can arrange an ‘unattended funeral’ or ‘direct cremation’ for just £1,595. Death is big in Bognor.
Inside the sovereign territory of Butlin’s, it’s hard to spot one of the redcoats. Ordinary staff in dark uniforms patrol the camp unobtrusively but there are glimpses of the old parks. There’s a funfair with dodgems, a waltzer and a helter-skelter. The vintage merry-go-round bears a slogan that might have been painted in the 19th century: ‘The nation’s finest gorgeous galloping golden horses.’ Nearby are benches which invite the elderly and convalescent to take a break. ‘Relax and chat,’ say the signs. ‘Get your sparkle back.’
The main arena is a vast tented enclosure supported by eight steel struts covered in a draped white roof. On the architect’s drawing-board, it probably looked pristine and beautiful, but years of rain have darkened the fabric with black streaks. It needs a scrub.
Saturday night is party night and the site fills up with groups of revellers in 1980s costumes. Women are dressed as Rubik’s cubes or they wear floaty white frocks like Baby in Dirty Dancing. There are sheeted ghosts and witches with green faces and pointy caps. The men are lazier about their outfits. They appear in cheap Top Gun costumes or they dress as Mexican bandits with sombreros and fake moustaches. A few are very smartly attired in US Navy costumes like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman. The outfit is surprisingly dignified and flattering. The peaked cap hides your bald patch. The gold epaulettes broaden your shoulders. And the shadowless white tunic makes your beer gut vanish. You could turn up at Buckingham Palace dressed like this and gain admission.
There are benches which invite the elderly and convalescent to take a break. ‘Relax and chat,’ say the signs
Ahead of the music shows, I caught an hour of ‘Basil Brush, Live and Unleashed’. The puppet appears on stage with his co-host ‘Mr Martin’. They play up their love-hate relationship. Mr Martin introduces Basil as an evergreen celebrity: ‘He’s been a TV star since the 1960s and he’s one of the few who hasn’t been arrested.’ Basil replies with a trusty showbiz putdown: ‘Mr Martin is a performer who can be summed up in one word: available.’ For the fans, Basil is a nostalgic fixture from their childhood but their tastes have matured since then. Mr Martin straddles the gap by reading a spoof erotic novel written by ‘Belle End’ about an Irish seductress named Pattie O’Furniture. Basil listens innocently to the X-rated material and makes comments that appear to misinterpret the book’s sexual content as harmless fun. ‘Boom, boom,’ he cries. The audience cheer. It’s like a helping of childhood comfort food.
Basil is such a convincing creation – the witty toff with a common touch – that he seems like a genuine human being with real opinions and attitudes. You can safely make predictions about his tastes. Whisky not beer. Hiking not sunbathing. The Beatles not the Stones. A Jag not a Tesla. Rugby not football. As for politics, he likes fun, mischief and free expression, so he’s unlikely to support Labour, the Tories or the Lib Dems. As for voting Green, he’d prefer to be torn apart by dogs. His natural allies are Reform but he’s too discreet to say this out loud. At one point Basil flirts with controversy. During a news spoof, he impersonates a TV anchorman who reports a satirical story about Prince Andrew. A photo of the prince appears and Basil sings this ditty: ‘The grand old Duke of York/ He had ten million quid/ He gave it to someone he’d never met/ For something he never did.’
Later I visited the main stage where Matt Goss was due to start at 9.45. No one was expecting him to show up before midnight, but he arrived bang on time. Goss, with his twin brother, Luke, is one half of Bros. They began as a threesome but their colleague Craig Logan quit early, which reduced the band to a two-piece. Goss is now a dependable song-and-dance man who can knock out an hour of hits for a lively crowd. His lyrics mean a lot to him, he tells us. ‘Life’s a Stage’ sets out his personal dreams, which are a little eccentric. ‘I want to live on the right side of the equator,’ he sings. And he describes this strange yearning: ‘I want to live like a butterfly and work like a bee.’
He finished with his best-known hit ‘When Will I Be Famous?’ and left the stage. The lights fell. The drummer glanced anxiously at the rhythm guitarist. They seemed confused and bereft almost. But wait. The guitarist noticed movement in the wings and he started to clap his hands above his head. Could Matt be coaxed back on stage?’ ‘We want Matt, we want Matt,’ pleaded the crowd. A few dissenting voices called out ‘We want Luke’, but it was Matt’s fanclub who won the battle. And he strode out again. Our idol. He launched into ‘I Owe You Nothing’. At the end, people checked their watches. It was 10.46 p.m. Time for bed.
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