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Bournemouth out of season...

It’s a nice place. Which in itself is what can be a tad offputting. Because that’s all it is…

"Nice."

Not a blemish on a single paving stone. Not a grain of sand out of place.Everything neat and clean and well presented. Manicured gardens. Everything very archetypally "British" and bland. Stripey canopies and ice cream parlours. An orgy of scones and cream teas. People gazing from cafe windows just dying of inactive interminable niceness.Perfect plastic summer resort for overseas arrivists. Just. Nice. Sort of place where the Police would get bored because there’s just nobody to arrest. Everybody smiling and saying "Happy Day" to one another like Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner ( …made that last bit up)….but it’s sort of like that…

Wakefield, West Yorks.

My Mother and Father in law loved Bournemouth, but perhaps that was because they had spent their honeymoon there….

ESW
Lincolnshire

You know, as the years and years go by it’s often one of the byways of life to return to one’s former stamping grounds of yesteryore…

Bournemouth to me is one of those squeaky clean seaside resorts full of expensive fashion shoppes and coffee houses, teeming with hyperactive mentally retarded teenage Italian students brimming to the excesses of matching back packs, packed lunches and hormonal pillockry dancing the night away in Night Fever in Bournemouth’s plethora of discotheques playing the hits of 1970 as if they’d just been released alongside well fed fat rich old ladies who devour seven course meals in posh restaurants with such elan, adorned in chintzy turquoise taffetas and big floppy hats. W__h__ilst upon its pristine beaches English summertime signifies the dribbling ice cream disgorged from slumbering deck chairists, mouths agog, oozing over cellulite flab whilst tourists from the Middle East attired in black from head to toe in the hottest of weathers cannot believe their luck at what is to be viewed there sprawled over beach towels. British Summertime has arrived.

Apart from that there’s very little to say about Bournemouth, apart from perhaps the old Marquee which dates back to the 1950’s and signified the first venue for so many an aspirant Rock band who now fill stadiums at Wembley.

Yet out of season …what may Bournemouth offer bar the dull, drab, dour, dismal, dreary, drizzling, mournful melancholia of so many a deserted out of season English seaside town….ideas anyone ?

Wakefield, West Yorks.
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