We knew it wasn’t Zante
When we booked for Whitley Bay,
But we didn’t bargain for the bile
The weather threw our way.
Awoken on our first full day
By seagulls taking refuge,
From stormy seas and driving rain,
We rose and faced the deluge.
We squelched around the campsite,
Spent loads in the arcade,
Saw landmarks in the freezing rain,
It didn’t make the grade.
No tables left in the park café,
So we took our meal outside,
Shivering in a 9-force gale,
Without a place to hide.
The Geordies lacked compassion,
When we moaned about our pain,
They said we’d brought it with us,
‘Could we take it home again?’
God led us to the bargains
As we dripped around the shops,
A butter dish in the hospice shop
And brown stuff made from hops.
So heartened by our findings,
And reinforced with booze,
We dreamed of sun-soaked beaches,
As we had our teatime snooze.
Well, now we’ve packed the car for home,
Storm Francis stowed away?
Because the skies are clearing fast,
How nice for Whitley Bay!
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