I arrive in the rubbish coastal town with no train ticket check (Standard).
Coming out of the station, I can see the sea. It’s apparent nearness is deceptive, it’s a ten minute walk down a hill.
At the front, I turn right and walk along for around half a mile and realise I have passed nothing, just a bandstand.
I ask a couple what is ahead. They tell me nothing but a park.
As I’m here for the seaside and not parklife, I turn back and walk to where I came from.
I notice a tiny, tiny beach packed with young families and think that the truant officer must be the busiest guy in town. It’s not even a holiday. What the hell?
I walk onto the beach and through the crowd and along the shoreline and out into the water which is 3ft deep in seaweed.
I come out ten minutes later looking like an enemy of Dr Who. Half man, half kelp.
On a bench, I change back into my trainers.
I notice the town has the angriest and fattest seagulls.
I hunt down a fish and chip shop to get out of the sun.
I assume they are probably much of a muchness and find myself sat a table, with the whole place to myself. Never a good sign.
I order a medium cod and chips and a can of Diet Coke because I like being a sterotypical twat.
It was nice… It wasn’t the £13.15 pence nice but nice.
I was going to go out into the kitchen to see if the fish had been caught and cooked by Rick Stein.
I realise that people here will assume I’m a tourist despite my southern accent as a clue that I’m not.
I go in search of big shops I might have heard of but there are none apart from a Savers and Tesco Express.
I don’t go in the Savers in case I’d have to sell one of my kidneys first before I could buy anything.
My life is sapping away from me.
I go into a couple of nice small art galleries, book shops and tat shops to escape the heat.
I go in search of the Wetherspoons. Except it isn’t really a Wetherspoons, despite the headache inducing, spirally carpet but one that’s been leased out or sold on.
I’m told there is only one draught cider. Aspall’s or Arseholes or something? I’m past caring. Just give me something vaguely wet.
I pull out a fiver to pay and get told it’s £5.05p because they flipping like being awkward around here.
O2 text me to tell me I’m in France and data roaming services apply. They haven’t text me back to say I’m back in England.
I bloody wish I was in France.
There is music piped in from somewhere and it plays The Smiths Every Day Is Like Sunday because no matter how low I feel, there is always Morrissey around to cheer me up with his irony.
I leave the pub and start to walk back to the station but apparently, whilst in the pub, the council have moved the roads and I end up asking an elderly couple for directions to the station.
They were heading that way and asked if I’d like to follow them but I really wanted to get back faster than they could walk and before midnight.
Back on the train by 2.25pm and home just over an hour later, (Ticket unchecked).
I know that I will never return here.
Russ Writes 
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