Worse Things Have Happened At Sea


To most it conjures up images of sun, sea and surf, but to me and my comrades this weekend, it brought back dreaded memories of ‘whiteying’ by the cliffside and 'everything but’ in the dunes of daymer bay.

I left on friday expecting a more sober affair, that my wisened years would prevent the feral days of my youth from rearing their ugly head. Unfortunately it would appear that where Cornwall is involved, toffs are like lost boys, and Rock is their Neverland.

I should have known after being greeted with a jagerbomb by a chin in red trousers that resistance was futile. All attempts to claim that I was now edgy, because I live in East London and fancy myself as a writer were dashed as I stared down the barrel at the pack of insurance workers who lived in parson’s green.

I knew it was time to ditch the fedora and throw myself to the lions and truth be told, I reckon a bit of nostalgia is good for the soul.

Waking up on saturday morning after having led the rahs like the pied piper to my unsuspecting comrade’s abode there was only one thing for it. Hair of the dog. wanting to keep my actions under wraps, my partner in crime and I opted for a robinsons squash bottle as a disguise and headed for Daymer.

After an afternoon spent frolicking drunkenly in the surf, we decided not to heed the warnings about our increasingly slurred speech and embarked on a journey along the cliffside for drinks. 

Pimms and extravagant surnames were the order of the evening and I found myself quietly mumbling excuses as miniature scotch eggs were thrust underneath my nose by a charming mother wearing an alice band.

'Oh I say it is lovely to have you all here, have you met my son Arthur, Yeees, oh do have another carrot, yeees, just dip it in the philadelphia yeeees.

I have never noticed this before but next time you find yourself in the presence of a lady wearing Tods in Cornwall listen out for the yeees at the end of every sentence. 

After said drinks, followed the inevitable return to the scene of the former nights initiation; The Oyster Catcher. More Jager bombs went down the hatchet and before we knew it, everyone was heading down a darkened drive way towards the next party.

It was half way through this journey down the treacherous paths of Trebetherick that I realised that we may have left someone behind. I was torn between worry that she may not know where we were and conviction that I would never make it back alive. I decided to keep moving forward.

Having successfully navigated the hazardous terrain I was both relieved and confused to see pair of familiar shoes poking out from under a bush. My first thought was that she was getting to know someone rather well in the (extremely visible) undergrowth.

After having clocked a man known only to our party as 'brows’ crouched down in front of said bush, performing a beckoning gesture, I resolved to deny all knowledge of our friendship. She had clearly crawled into the bush and was refusing to come out, I would alert the asylum in the morning.

When I got down to the scene I stole a hurried glance at the situation and was shocked to see that my friend was indeed not alone. There she was, cradling an enormous, shivering dog, staring out of the floodlit bush.

Brilliant, I thought. Kate thinks she’s the dog whisperer. We hurriedly moved on and in, to what can only be described as the worst party I have ever been to. 

The Grease megamix was blaring and a sea of chinos were clambering onto every available raised surface to do their best T-Bird. Out of fags and out of patience, we all waited quietly for someone to leave who knew the way home. 

Making a break for a drink, I was cornered by the hostess herself,

'Oh are you leaving? Thanks so much for coming.’

'Er no, I was just going to get a drink.’

'Right, well you do know this is a no smoking house.' 

Had I had a cigarette in my hand this would have been a perfectly reasonable statement. As I did not, I took this comment only to mean, 'Yeah, I’ve seen you chaining like Bette Lynch you washed up old ashtray.’ We promptly left.

An unexpected Royal visitor had Cornwall’s curtains twitching on our final and possibly most memorable day. After a relatively wholesome day involving not a drop of booze we once again girded our loins for the final round at the now dreaded pub. 

After having screeched a medley of Avril Lavigne’s second album and Lady Gaga’s born this way it was someone else’s turn to reach utter disgrace. Spotting the regal addition to our party, he stumbled over and slurred,

'YOU’RE SISTER LOOKS LIKE AN OWL ON CRACK.’ I’ll leave the identity of said royal open to interpretation, but needless to say, she was not amused.

As we were fleeing the scene of the crime, a couple loomed in the distance. Having decided that the girl was definitely my friend and that the boy was the chino clad toff of Grease megamix fame, I launched into a tirade that Kat Slater would have been proud of.


A tap on the shoulder and a careful whisper in my ear let me know that it was not in fact my friend who I was shouting at, nor was it a stranger. Not that I do shout expletives at my friends like this on a regular basis, it would just appear that too many wkds make me behave like Snooki.

After having stormed back up the hill to stand over the increasingly awkward couple and apologise profusely, explaining that I am a mad old lush and they mustn’t take it personally I was informed that her name was Lav.

Having alerted everyone at the party that if they were friends with Lav, please would they apologise on my behalf, I resolved to return to East London and never return.

At least here I cannot be held accountable for my actions, as nobody knows who I am.