North Devon, the land of hospitality and great scenery. well at least the scenery and coastline pass muster. Living here is like living a 1970s sitcom, and to be blunt it’s just as cheesy. Why, how? – really glad you asked – let us begin…
Hospitality? Picture Fawlty Towers, if you will, and throw in Ralph Filthy, Gertrude Richie Rich and Ed Didgeridoo Catflap. The Hotels in Ilfracombe are the best that North Devon has to offer, which isn’t saying much really. If you’re filthy rich you can lodge at the finest establishments that think they’re still in London. Fish and chips dinners for just £15 served by Basil and Sybil. Bargain. Forget all that ensuite room malarkey, you’ll have a sink and like it, it’s just how the upper classes always lived.
If you’re not quite the hipster boutique Bertie type with the Lexus and Harrods sandals, it’s bed bugs and rising damp for you. Try the Hotel [we can’t name], and really live it up. Your new brummie hosts that [allegedly] never ran a hotel in their life are waiting with the Spanish waiter to make all your wildest dreams come true. As long as you always dreamt of squalor at wild prices. Of course there are holiday parks with 1970s style huts going for just a mere grand a week. Bring the tarpaulin for the roof just in case. And the Dettol.
Of course North Devon is also a holiday resort of sorts, where all the shops and cafes are on holiday all year round. Dine in the finest cafes where nobody cares about hygiene. And nobody needs a tea meal for the grown ups and kids. You need to diet, so they all close at three. They leave all that catering and hospitality nonsense to Wetherspoons, [allegedly and in the author’s view alone] a sort of Day Centre for alcoholics in track suits. And Kevin and Perry. And **** food.
North Devon Business is so rich it doesn’t need to work, so they don’t. They can never do enough for you, so they don’t bother. You see how simple it is; North Devon Business really has got it all screwed down. Which is more than you can say for their heads.
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Goodness, we nearly forgot the grockles: to join the famous Devonshire grockles you’ll need to walk about in Primark Home bargain fashions. It helps if you’ve got a tribe of fat mingers in tow, two mangy mutts and no hair or teeth. A liking for loud impromptu street parties is an absolute must, how else would you piss off the locals at 3AM. Plenty of late Pubs to get rat arsed in.
Don’t get the wrong idea, we’re fighting for North Devon’s honour here, which is more than they ever did. Aren’t you reaching for the brochures right now?
