(Not Teddy) Sheringham

My mum likes small places by the sea. Towns and villages where the average age is well above sixty. Wind beaten, Anglo-Saxon coves, reeking of faded grandeur, chip fat and vinegar. Coast is her favourite TV show of all time, this explains a lot.

I decided to spend 24 hours with an accompaniment of siblings in her latest summer bolt hole, Sheringham! 

Not unlike many of England's seaside towns, Sheringham harks back to a bygone era. Though in this case not that far back. The 50-70 year old readers of this blog will be getting misty eyed over Sheringham's proximity to the West Runton Pavilion. The venue that was witness to every formative phase of British rock. The Clash, The Jam, Iron Maiden even Paul Gadd's very own Glitter Band played "The Pavilion". Some endorsement indeed. Legend has it, that revelers from Sheringham and nearby Cromer high on said rock music would meet up for midnight scuffles on the very beaches I now rest my shoes on; street gangs of 2008 take note! 

For those of you a little less pensionable let me be clear: Sheringham is a Small Town. With a capital S and a capital T . I seem to recall the high street having both a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker in that order (yup that small!). There is no internet anywhere, (I had to sign up to the library for 3 months to get connected). In places this small there's nowhere to hide. Much as in the same way a visit to The Isle of Man meant literally tripping over "local Celebrity" Norman Wisdom at the airport. In one 24 hour period Sheringham legend Dion Dublin was spotted not once, but TWICE! 

   

But ring the alarm, this place is actually the jump off! It has a fudge shop, heavyweight ice cream shops (X6), totally deserted beaches, a real life poop poop steam train. You can call me nerdy Jim all you want, but I had a rollicking good time . I ate lobster, went for a Baywatch-style topless run on the beach. Saw a Noel Coward  farce about ghosts, got a crisp new haircut. Smiles all round, two thumbs up. 

Sure it may be sandwiched between places with names like "Diss" but don't let that put you off. Grab a girl or guy and head for the British seaside, the more remote the better. Let's face it, anyone who isn't thrilled with the idea of 24 hours eating fudge and ice cream on a deserted beach, listening to Test Match Special isn't your real friend anyway. Thank you Sheringham, the memories may fade but I'll always have this:

HLH

Breakfast of the Future

As a passionate breakfast enthusiast, I thought by now I would've sampled every possible delight on offer for my favourite meal. Black Pudding (UK) White Pudding (Ireland) Grits (USA) Curry Puffs (Malaysia). But no! In New York last week I came across the key to entering a new inner sanctum of breakfast nirvana in the form of Limited Edition Indiana Jones Pop Tarts.

I do remember a few years in the early nineties dominated by pretty snazzy TV adverts for Pop Tarts.I recall thinking that they resembled the breakfast of the future,individually foiled wrapped like a spaceman's breakfast on a Mars mission. Nothing says more about the stranger than science-fiction future of the merchandising landscape than these sugary breakfast "tarts". Each of which comes emblazoned with questions and images relating to the Han Solo-fronted Paramount franchise. This morning I was quizzed on the make and model of the car used to escape from the nightclub in the Temple of Doom, punchy stuff!

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Shortee's favourite baseball team? Nazi dressing up tips?
I for one cannot wait to find out.

So for all the doubters out there who thought that Pop Tarts were just big soggy biscuits with various over-sweet fillings and "frostings", think again! The future has arrived and this time it's carrying a whip. Who cares what they taste like? This is the closest anyone whose not mental will get to actually eating a cartoon. If that isn't enough to entertain you first thing in the morning, nothing is.

H-Bomb

Whose House?

So when I was 16 I wrote to The Face to tell them I was the prodigal talent they'd been looking for, they just didn't know it yet. They replied offering me a challenge. If I really was the genius columnist I claimed to be, I'd be able to suggest the perfect cover star. Someone iconic enough to represent their magazine in newsagents across the land. Someone classic, yet unmistakably of that moment. In short, a legend. 

I sent my pithy reply in an instant:

"Hall and Oates, nuff said"

I never heard from them again.

You can then imagine my delight this week when I came across the ongoing musical jamboree that is "Live From Daryl's House". Here Mr.Hall sans Oates (his invite must've got lost in the post) hosts a series of musical jamming sessions from his own crib with the help of some musical chums. This week it's the turn of witty pastiche-funkers Chromeo. 

What could be better than Dave1 and P-Thugg coming face to face with one of their defining influences, and in his own living room no less? Think of the vocoder solos, dream of the keytar wig-outs! Just imagine the funk!! In fact you don't have to imagine, you can watch it right here:

Just don't tell Oates.

Henry.