Summer in Scarborough

When you wake up in the morning and check your camera and the first photo of the evening is your pal laying on his back in a skip, it kinda sets the bar high for the ridiculous shit that will inevitably follow. Atkin wasn’t supposed to fall in, so I guess he wasn’t expecting to fall onto a whole bunch of loose metal shelving with a pizza box around his head either…

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Things definitely took a turn for the unexpected. After the skip incident, Atkin decided on our behalf to ditch the clubs and grab crate and head to the beach instead. I was down with that. I haven’t spent a night on the beach since last Summer. It seems to be the case with me, living in such a popular tourist town like Scarborough means that I generally spend my days on the beach in winter, and nights on the beach in the summer. It’s an ideal compromise, as I don’t deal well with crowds nor do I give a fuck about getting a tan.

This is d’Artagnan, formerly known as Kev. I say formerly in all sincerity as Deed Poll is apparently his new favourite thing.

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I don’t remember who, but the night was announced as “No pants on Saturday”, as a result, there’s a few photographs which I have been sworn to keep offline…

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Sat with our pants down, in a strange moment of reflection that we’re all essentially pretty good guys wondering why passers by didn’t want to come and join us, someone said something about going into the sea.

“What did you say, Atkin? You’ll give Mart a hundred quid if he goes in the sea?”
“He won’t do it. He fucking won’t. If Mart goes in the sea, he will get a fucking blow job off me.”

Err, everyone went in.

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“Uhhh, it’s fucking freezing!”

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Atkin could barely function properly, wading around like a concussed seal. 

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And I don’t really know what the purpose of this was.

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Either way, the whole sea appeal kinda died and we headed back on to the beach.

I mentioned earlier about no folks coming to join us, well we were wrong. There was this guy walking down the beach in a suit and we called him over and he joined us for a beer. His name was Scott, and he was visiting from Birmingham for a pals wedding and he’d decided to skip the party for a bit as the music got bad. The discussion turned to music with the reveal that a few of us play in bands, and he mentioned he had some guitars that he’d bring down for us to jam with if we were gonna stick around. We had some beers left, so sticking around was a definite. True to his word, he emerged later fresh outta his suit and with two acoustic guitars.

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There’s a video somewhere of our stunning rendition of The Proclaimers’ hit, I would walk 500 miles.

It’s amazing how with only a few chords you can be nailing such classics as Wanted Dead of Alive, before breaking into an impromptu blues jam followed by Scott taking over vocal duties for the White Stripes’ Hotel Yorba. Scott, if you see this, be sure to come and hang out again, yeah?
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DSC_4435Despite all being good mates, we each have our separate lives and something I’ve come to notice a lot lately is how rapidly everything is developing for everyone, and granted, we’re by no means *old*, but to have a night in our town doing stupid dumb shit again like a bunch of 15 year olds felt really great. I’d like to do this more, ’cause if you’re not hurting anyone in the process of being dumb and stupid, then be dumb and stupid forever.

 

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