We recently took the kids on a Groupon-inspired trip to Brean Sands, Pontins. We weren’t expecting the earth for what we paid, and were prepared to be seriously underwhelmed with our accommodation. This trip was not about us in any way - it was a mini break for the kids and we fully expected to be dragged around to various pre-school activities and come home more exhausted than we were when we left.
Because of this, we were loathe to self-cater and opted for half-board at the onsite canteen. We wanted quick fuss-free refuelling in-between blue coat entertainment and our fifth visit to the pool of a day. Again, our expectations were few, especially given we’d spent a few days before chuckling at tripadvisor reviews.
In short, as long as we all had somewhere to sleep, there was on-tap entertainment for the tiny people, and edible chips, beans and sausages for brekkie and dinner, we weren’t likely to complain. I overlooked the seriously outdated decor in our paid-for “upgraded” accommodation, the positively tortuous sofa bed that Craig and I were expected to sleep on, and the scruffy uniforms of the staff. It was all good. We’d paid less than £200 for a 3-day kids-fest and this seemed reasonable.
I had no intention of joining the scraggy queue of complainants at the reception desk. If they had booked this expecting a relaxing stress-free enjoyable experience - more fool them. The reviews on this place are really staggering, decrying everything from insect infestations, sub-standard accommodation and a resort needing demolition. But who cares right? I even overlooked the fact that Dexter opened a MDF wardrobe in our “chalet” and the door fell on him. He wasn’t hurt so who cares?
Better times!
To be honest, it wasn’t the staff or the resort itself that made this mini-break hellish for us. The staff were doing their best to polish the turd that is Brean Sands. It wasn’t even our over-enthusiast children who tried their best to hospitalise their parents by sprinting out of the amusement arcade, ironically-named “fun factory” and other supposedly kid-friendly attractions - it was the other guests.
Something clearly takes over people when they visit Brean Sands. Hardworking ordinarily pleasant people turn bad. Pontins will attract pretty much everyone owing to it’s 80s reputation for cheap fun. On the bank holiday we were there, there were other young families, couples and adult groups, and a light sprinkling of elderly patrons. Yet what should have been a community of people staying up too late, drinking and socialising in spite of their numerous frustrations with Pontins, the weekend turned into Battle Royale.
Teenagers badly in need of a wash were stealing 2ps out of the drip trays of arcade machines under our children’s noses, and intoxicated parents would shout for their kids at 3am to “Get their asses back” from making-out in the playground - oblivious to the fact they were less than 6 ft away from the beds of sleeping children in neighbouring chalets. In short, people don’t act as they would at home. The onsite shop allows people to get half-cut before visiting the Clubhouse, and the manic performances of the blue coats manage to strip people of any remaining decorum. Everything goes to shit.
Craig and I didn’t drink. I’m not judging anyone who does manage a cheeky half pint whilst in charge of their brood, but alcohol + Dexter &/or Heidi doesn’t mix. That’s not to say we weren’t bloody exhausted and temper-free either. Sadly for us, it was the dinner queue that eventually broke us.
Queuing is a Great British tradition. We’re very used to queuing for everything. Yet, when we turned up for our roast early Sunday evening, we saw the sheer size of it and balked. People looked pretty pissed off and were shifting from foot to foot. We quickly ascertained that the queue would take an hour+ and it would bring about some pretty shitty behaviour from our 2 & 4 year-old. So we backed off and whisked our wide-eyed tots to a nearby playground and let them work up an appetite.
We rejoined the queue an hour later. The warning signs were there from the off as many of the guests we’d spotted earlier were still there, the length had roughly doubled in size, and a blonde woman at the front was remonstrating with staff. Craig and I held talks and it was decided I should go back outside with the kids and let Craig queue alone.
The incident
45 minutes later, I returned avec les infants to see Craig no further forward, and blondie STILL holding up the queue. Me being me, I positioned myself within earshot of the rent-a-gob to ascertain what the deal was.
Now this is an all-you-eat buffet affair. You queue, fill your plate, sit down to eat, then return if you are gutty enough to manage seconds. Yet this sequined, shoulder-pad embracing mare was up in arms that they had temporarily ran out of roast potatoes. She had no fewer than 4 plates on the hot counter so was obviously taking one for the team and on queue-duty for the rest of her family. Besides the obvious absence of roast tatties, the serving trays were underwhelming yet full enough to sate the groaning bellies of the rest of the queue.
Do I say something & risk a spitting match with the Pat Butcher of Pontins 2016?
One glance back at my waning family said yes.
I asked her what the deal was.
Pat: “They ain’t got no roast potatoes. I’ve been waitin’ an hour for them and nuffin’.”
So she was currently on-side. Believing me to be sympathetic to her cause. But I wasn’t.
Me: “Oh I see. Maybe you could come back after eating what’s on your plate already? There’s just a pretty big queue behind you, and some people might not be fussed about potatoes..?”
I thought it was sensible, framed with the right amount of concern, and probably music to the ears of people close enough to hear. She was bloody seething, rolling back those sequined shoulders and shaking poodle-permed tresses at me - but I had the rest of the queue on my side… surely.
Feeling smug, I addressed my fellow queuers: “If you’re not fussed about potatoes, let’s keep this moving. There’s beef, turkey, cauliflower cheese, yorkshire puds…”
The onslaught of abuse was rapid, fierce and completely unexpected. Those immediately behind Miss Third World turned on me like a pack of wolves. I’d over-estimated their hunger, and under-estimated their fury at Pontins. This was all the resort’s fault and this woman had been bantering with those close-by - grooming a refund-seeking mob. I didn’t stand a chance.
Although I had some sympathisers in the queue, this is Pontins, and it has a weird effect on people. They simply winced as I was called every profanity in the urban dictionary in front of Heidi, Dex and my usually outspoken better half. Unable to quite believe people could be so stupid, my defence was pathetic and barely audible. I was defeated.
So, to the woman that called me a c%&t in front of my children - I hope you get your £25 back for your 3-day half-board. You deserve it. I suspect you’re a reasonable person in everyday life - perhaps a dinner-lady, or a part-time legal secretary - you certainly had no trouble convincing people to back you during Tatty-Gate - no easy feat given they were stood uncomfortably behind you for over an hour. You exercised indoctrination on a scale that Hitler would have been in awe of.
Thankfully, we’re less bothered about the £25 and my children made the best of the bread and butter meal we ended up serving them. You see, you made me so upset that we couldn’t face queuing with you any longer and asked a member of staff for something easy-to-fix from the kitchen instead. They did their best to dress up the situation for the children and even managed a few half-melted scoops of cheap ice-cream as a pudding. Yet even they were in a hurry to get me out of that food hall - I became the pariah of Pontins for employing a little common sense and trying to spare its patrons from yet more frustration. It seems that’s half the reason people go to Brean Sands - to forget themselves and channel their inner Martin Lewis, with its staff brow-beaten enough to indulge you.
So good luck with that. We’re unlikely to meet you again. May your future budget holidays be even more shitty than this one. I hope sincerely that you walk into your next chalet and find a dirty ashtray or nappy under your bed so you can shout a little louder.
