I’m Bob and I live here. Combe Martin is definitely not interesting, lively or quaint. In any way. It’s dark, humourless, miserable and depressing. Those who don’t live in lorries in the fields are “Masons you know”; up their own backside much?. The village is blessed with a lovely Sweet Shop and Bakery but no available women whatsoever, they’re not that stupid.
Usual Business hours are 11 AM – Midday, Mon- Wed in July. Half day closing Wednesday.
Highlights of the year include a mythical Dolphin, a Duck Race and an annual farce where someone called the Earl of Rone Hugh O’Neill gets chased through the streets in a pram. That’s all folks. The locals freely admit O’Neill never existed and it’s just an excuse for them to get bladdered again; what the hell would an Earl of Tyrone be doing here in the first place?
Nightly entertainment is usually betting on drunks trying to walk home, or a Pub Quiz if you’re bored. Entertainment in Combe Martin is strictly against council policy. Then there’s the carnival where the village alcoholics, and people who don’t come out in daytime, suddenly appear out of nowhere and get legless until midnight before staggering back up the High Street back to their farms and caravans with their crappy floats.
Combe Martin is full of alcoholic farmers all year round and antisocial holidaymakers screeching down the High Street roaring drunk all summer and every Saturday. There’s even a women’s refuge and counselling shop for all those wife-beaters; if Jack the Ripper was alive today, he’d live in Doom Martin and get away with it all over again. Perhaps Jack was from round here, but nobody moves here, they just move out and leave those as can’t afford to go, to die.
You’ll know when you’ve arrived in the village , just look out for Billy-five-bellies smoking on the doorstep and a sign saying “Combe Martin – No Smiling By Order”. You won’t get a tan here but you will go ga-ga; Combe Martin is the type of holiday resort you’d find in Dickens with shops you’d find in hell, when they open, but we did get rid of Baldy Clive from Bideford. Hurrah. There are people you’d find on Mars, fondly known far and wide as “Combe Martians”. There’s no crime, people aren’t intelligent enough, and it’s a good job too, there’s no Police either. It’s a “holiday resort” by the way; the buses are rubbish, no evening or Sunday or Bank Holiday bus service, no cash machines, only one “bank” twice a week, one decent Fish and Chip shop and only two decent restaurants and Pubs where you probably won’t get stabbed. I bet you think I’m kidding.
Apart from that it’s fine, I should book your holiday now.
Bob.
