Ramble, rant or reminisce, this is an artist’s opportunity to pen their own Clash article.
This issue, David Boulter from Nineties indie stalwarts Tindersticks tucks into a Knickerbocker Glory and takes a trip down memory lane…
What’s The Story, Knickerbocker Glory?
“I was born in St. Anns, Nottingham, in 1965. I left for London in 1990, and then travelled East to Praha, Czech Republic, in 1998.
During this year the snow fell long and deep. I love the snow and having a seven-year-old son gives me an excuse to make snowmen, race down hills on a sledge, or generally roll around in the snow. I’d probably do this anyway, regardless of whether or not I had a child. When the chill gets inside or we need a break, we find a small cabin selling hot wine for me and get some Trdelnik (a sweet pastry wrapped around a stick then grilled and covered in sugar and nuts) for my son.
When the snow becomes a black, sludgy mess and it seems as if it will never melt, we dream of the spring, and of summer holidays.
As a child our family holiday would have been booked in December, just before Christmas. Mum would write a letter in her best handwriting to Trudy’s Guest House in Great Yarmouth, stating which week in July we’d like and include a postal order for the deposit. Then it would be forgotten about, except for the deduction each week from my pocket money for holiday savings, until the last weeks of school term before the summer.
This is an excerpt from an article that appears in the March issue of Clash Magazine. Pick it up in stores from February 4th. You can read the full issue online HERE and subscribe to Clash Magazine HERE.
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The sleepless night before we left, it seemed like we were packing for a trip to the Himalayas. All our bags, sun shades, deck chairs, kettles, cups and blow-up beds, would be squeezed into the boot of Dad’s Ford Cortina, the suitcases tied to the roof rack. Then, at dawn, we’d squeeze in next to Uncle Fred, with me on his knee not wearing a seat belt. But we’d never get above 40mph anyway. On the back seat would sit Aunty Doll, Mum, my sister and my Aunt Dora. We’d arrive in time for tea, after various stops.
We’ve been going to Yarmouth every year since I was a baby, right up until my last family holiday when I was fourteen. Seven miles of golden beaches. Endless fun in the sun. And when it did rain there were always the arcades full of penny slot machines and rifle ranges. Mechanical claws that would always let that gold watch, wrapped in a ?20 note, slip from its clutches just on the lip of that hole that would send it to your hands. You were so close; you had to try again, and again, until more pennies were needed from the change booth.
And at the end of the week, the climax of the fun fair was The Big Dipper. Then the relief of not being sick after all that candy floss and all those whelks.
Childhood memories of food seem to be of school dinners and of bread and jam for tea. Oxtail soup or stew in winter. Bacon and eggs or sausage and tomatoes for Saturday breakfast.
Holiday food was different. There were not only the endless treats from two Aunties and an Uncle, but there were also our daily meals in Trudy’s. Boiled eggs for breakfast, full English or kippers for the grown-ups. A different roast each day with two veg and a choice of potatoes. Suet puddings with custard, or maybe a lemon meringue pie. Friday was fish. Fingers for kids or smoked haddock for adults. Ice creams on the beach. Small tin plates of cockles on the pier. Bowls of mushy peas smothered in mint sauce and vinegar. Bags of doughnuts and chips.
The one thing that always got me, and that I’d have at least once during the holiday, is something that I still dream of today. And it’s something I’d only ever have in Great Yarmouth. The Knickerbocker Glory. Such an exotic sounding treat for a such a young lad. It had no rules. Sat on my bar stool, staring up at it; so tall, full of fruit, jelly, ice cream, whipped cream and a glazed cherry on top. No set recipe. Sometimes sprinkles on top. Always totally worth the wait. I’d save the cherry till last. Eating the layers with the extra long spoon to reach its sweet depths. Slowly melting and mixing together as I ate.
A Knickerbocker Glory. Something, like my childhood, which seemed to disappear with my last family holiday. The last time I went to Great Yarmouth was in 1979.
The next summer my sister and I were left to fend for ourselves. Mum and Dad went to Benidorm with friends. The only knickers I was interested in then were the ones that (hopefully) fell down a girl’s legs. And the only time I’d have a glazed cherry was to sweeten the gin left over from a Christmas party.”
