Boxing day in Scarborough always seems slightly different to many places.
Not for Scarborough the simple consumption of excess chocolate and the remains of Christmas dinner. Instead we’re all seemingly lured by the call of the sea to walk around the seafront in sub-arctic conditions as lunatics paddle home-made rafts around the harbour. As hypothermia hits you might image that people retreat indoors, get a warming cup of coffee or tea, perhaps brandy to warm the cockles – nonsense, why have tea or coffee when you can get a cone of ice cream (half and half of course, I go lemon and vanilla) from the Harbour Bar – let that core temperature drop even further.
That is, they say, part one.
Part two is the Boxing Day night out. Very few places seem to have it. On Boxing Day people in normal places watch a film, or perhaps make a curry or stare at the socks they’ve been bought wondering if their personality is really so bland. Not in the ‘boro. In the ‘boro at 11am the pubs start to fill, they come from far and wide and get unbelieveably shitfaced. It builds like a wave, more and more people joining, energy building and building until carnage is unleashed at 2am and people walk triumphantly out of the Casino clutching the £4.50 they’ve “won” after spending a mere £20 on two pints and, for an unknown reason, a dry pork sandwich.
For many years I participated in this tradition. Chance to catch up with old friends, have moments with people I thought were bellends to nod and say hello while secretly wishing they’d fuck off and, of course, to dance.
It was eventful too.
There was the year I was punched in the face over a wall by a man on drugs who swiftly apologized, said he mistook me for someone else and ran off.
There was the year where deep snow fell and me and Chris McGraw played an epic game of dare to see who would walk the furthest on the frozen lake at Peasholm Park as frozen looking ducks observed.
There was Mick’s burger house (Hawaii burger with pineapple and BBQ sauce) followed by the 90 minute walk home in driving rain because taxis were booked for the next 2 hours.
Then the moment where someone I’d gone to secondary school (lots of shared classes) and sixth form didn’t recognise instead asking me if I was Chris McGraw’s brother. When I said, “no, I’m Sam” they looked confused and just backed away. It was an odd year.
Then last year came and I was too ill to do anything or go outside. The cycle had been broken. Almost.
This year was different. McGraw’s parents had moved to York, everyone our age has family and happiness, and so it was agreed that we’d move towns from Scarborough to York. What a difference a city makes. It turns out the tradition of the Boxing Night doesn’t exist in York and it was… it was… better.
Curiously quietly drinking a few pints before dancing in a packed salsa bar was really good fun. It was a nice change of scenery. It was relaxing, not pressured and a little less aggressive. It got me thinking about all the people who I used to see in that once a year moment in Scarborough and fundamentally whether it actually matters.
Here’s a thought. I have, somewhat ludicrously, 872 friends on facebook – some ex-colleagues, many friends, ex-teachers, ex-beerbuddies, ex-badminton partners and ex-ex’s (or simply ex’s) and then a huge batch of comedians – what’s interesting are the school and college friends on there who i’ve not seen for 10, 15 years, but for occasional glimpses of lives on that annual 26th Dec tour of Scarborough.
For my parents and grand parents generations this didn’t happen, i mean sure they might’ve seen people in the distance, might have heard rumours, but to have hundreds of lives a mouse click away… Lives would change, people would live, die, procreate and marry and they would be blissfully unaware. I wonder about the value of these connections, particularly ones that are lost to the past. Is it okay to let time take that connection away or is holding on a nice thing?
I’m torn. In one way I think I leads you to compare lives, to become retrospective and to immortalise people in your mind, a constant connection. The flip side is that a few years ago i reconnected, briefly with someone I knew at school and got on with them really well in a fascinating new way – i discovered a new them, the kind of discovery that can’t be made in self-curated photo album or bumper sticker status updates, but was made by going for coffee, hanging out and chatting. That moment, made me consider that those moments to reconnect can keep reappearing and that maybe social media is simply a tool to make those moments possible.
So here’s a challenge. You’ve got this far. This is over 800 words. Consider this – Should we go for a coffee or not? How much does the connection matter? And if you don’t find out how will you really know? And, ultimately, does any of it really matter?
I don’t have an answer. It might be no and that’d be okay. It could be yes and that’d be okay too. Or maybe it’s at some point in the future, when our paths next cross or when Boxing Day part two returns to Scarborough.