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.
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