Viva Las Vegas

And so we trudge wearily on, through the sucking quagmire of the third day of postcards from the edge of reason and sanity that is Great Yarmouth in February.
Today we'll be looking at the sadly abused corpse of an architectural gem and a whole lot of old tat.
Let's start with the gem:

Back in Edwardian times, during its glorious heyday a hundred years ago, this was the Windmill Theatre.
Inside it had boxes and balconies like a mini Albert Hall and gilded rococo decorations spattered all over the walls and ceilings. Its audiences thrilled to operetta and the best music hall acts of the day.

Oh, how the mighty are fallen.
Now but a pale shadow, eviscerated; its innards ripped out and its walls stripped bare, it is home to - of all unfathomable desecrations - an indoor crazy golf range.

Behind it you can see the inevitable fish and chip shop.
The scent of faded coastal resorts the country over; that rank tang of cheap, industrial cooking fat that has been re-used a few thousand times past its shelf life.
That bitter odour of vinegary disappointment wafts along the seafront, assailing the nostrils and catching in the throat, mingling with the fœtid, mouldy, damp stench of a thousand cockroach-riddled seaside boarding houses; with their gorgon landladies an anticipatory taste of Hell to come for the masses of poor families who flock here every summer because they're too dumb to realise that they can fly to the Med and rent a villa for a hundred pounds less.

When I was little, this roller coaster was "The Scenic Railway" and was a genuinely thrilling ride. The hoardings were painted with magnificent alpine views; sweeping panoramas of snow-capped peaks and pine-swaddled valleys under a clear blue sky.

Now it's just a little bit pathetic; the sole remaining traditional attraction among the beeping and screaming slot machines.
It used to be accompanied by a grand helter skelter, manned by a pair of swarthy carnies in the big wooden bowl at the bottom, who made all the little boys clamber out under our own steam whilst helping the little girls and feeling them up.
Now that's gone, along with the big wheel, the hall of wobbly mirrors and the glass maze.
Sigh …

Of the newer rides, this "Water Splash" is hardly Disney World; it looks more like an old pithead tower salvaged from an abandoned coal mine.

Now I for one have never been to Las Vegas and am never likely to go.
But this …

Click on the photo and take a closer look.
It's uncanny!
I must have slipped through some portal into the real Las Vegas!
It IS The Flamingo Casino!
And look! There's Circus Circus just behind it!
Oh, deep joy!
And of course Rogers (note the lack of apostrophe) … er … Fish and Chips.

ah …

Perhaps not Las Vegas then.
The Flamingo turns out to be a row of Edwardian domestic houses full of penny arcade slot machines.
And Circus Circus a wooden shed with a flat roof.
Further down the "strip" are more sad little houses with The Golden Nugget and several other shoebox reproductions of Vegas' multi-million dollar resort hotel/casinos painted on their plywood façades and festooned with desperately hopeful arrays of coloured lightbulbs.

Is this really the best that England can offer our tourists?
Hey ho.

And here's one for our Lynn.

These are the depths to which Royalty has sunk.

One last and tiny glimmer of hope is to be found on the north pier.


I rather fancy Monsieur Benaut and Lynn poking their heads through here and playing at Baywatch.

And so, wretched and defiled by Yarmouth's tawdry crapfest; all hope lost; our souls emptied of all that is good, we stagger back to the car park and get the hell out of this shithole …

… heading for the beautiful North-East Norfolk coast where I shall take you for the next few posts to help restore our shattered sense of decency.