Having Wonderful Time

Like his home, a Briton's holiday is sacred and for the most part steeped in gloom. Last week as Britain's August Bank Holiday came to an end under sodden skies, tens of thousands of vacationing Britons trooped back to grimy workaday lives at Leeds, Manchester, Birmingham and London with little to look back on but dreary days in shabby, seaside boarding houses. There were some Britons, however, whose vacation memories would glow brighter through the long winter months ahead. Among these were the 21,000 returning from Butlin's five "Luxury Holiday Camps" in England, Scotland and Wales.

Rollicking Round. In 1938 the Holidays-with-Pay Act assured Britain's working men & women at least a week's paid vacation a year. It remained for William Edmund ("Billy") Butlin, a bustling, 48-year-old onetime carnival barker, to teach them how to use the new leisure. "I just think about what I'd like for a holiday," says South Africa-born Billy, "and then I give it to 'em." For the aspidistras of the traditional boarding house Billy has substituted neon lights and glass brick; for shoddy, scabrous hotels, rows of neat, bright cottages; and for listless hours when the rain is falling, a round of regimented frolic that smashes British reserve.

Arriving at Butlin's Filey Camp on the Yorkshire coast last fortnight with his wife Mary, their two children and some 400 other workers from the Midland's woolen-weaving city of Bradford, Alf Murgatroyd had little time to stand and wonder what next. Bustling all around him on the long, flat station platform was a group of bright young girls and athletic men in red blazers. Bursting with good cheer, they whisked Alf and his friends over green fields to a cluster of glass-sided buildings topped by a huge white tower bearing the word "Butlin's" in four-foot letters. All around the tower were ranks of brightly colored, stucco cottages ("chalets") stretching down to the sea.

Welcome. In one tiny chalet there was a double bed for Alf and Mary, a double-decker for the kids, a washstand and a bureau with a bouquet of flowers, but Alf, his Butlineer's badge pinned proudly to his breast, had little time to admire it all. Three gongs sounded and from overhead came a lady's voice, soft and refined as marshmallow: "This is Radio Butlin. Welcome, campers, it is now 12:45. In 15 minutes lunch will be served."

Almost before Alf knew it, there he was with his family in "The House of Windsor," one of four giant dining halls serving 1,500 Butlineers each. Before Alf's week was up "The House of Windsor" would have become his alma mater, his particular allegiance against the other three royal houses (York, Gloucester, Kent). "Welcome, campers, to Windsor," loomed the loudspeaker. "Now let's all get to know each other right away. Introduce yourself to the camper on each side of you. Fine. Now to the camper across the table . . ."

Knobbly Knees. For scarcely a minute would Alf be left alone to brood. If it wasn't calisthenics in the Viennese ballroom, it was a knobbly-knees contest for middle-aged men, a tug-of-war between Windsor and York or a whist-drive in the card room. There were movies, variety shows, boxing matches, beauty contests, dancing, billiards or ping-pong. Nothing vas compulsory, but it would take a solider and stauncher Briton than Alf Murgatroyd to resist the blandishments of Radio Butlin's persuasive voice, or the contagious enthusiasm of the young extroverts in the red blazers who kept things moving with shouts of "hi-de-hi." Alf was soon experienced enough to answer "ho-de-ho" when this cry was raised.

Many Britons, most notably those who can afford a trip to the Continent or a week after grouse in Scotland, consider all this downright un-British, but to many a camp graduate (300,000 this year) Butlinism has become almost a religion (in the twelve years since the first was founded, Butlin camps have grown into a -L-2 1/2-million enterprise). "Once you go to any Butlin camp," said the winner of a Butlin beauty contest, "you always come back."

Goodnight, Campers. Billy Butlin found his key to success a quarter of a century ago when he was running a peg-and-ring game in a one-day carnival. His fellow showmen laughed at Billy that day because his rings were too big and local sports were grabbing his prizes right and left. But at the end of the day Billy found that although he had lost some $50 in prize money, he had grossed $75 while the small-ring men took in a measly $15. Ever since Billy has preached the gospel of small profits and satisfied customers.

To most Butlineers the certain knowledge that a pound of Butlin holiday is a full 20 shillings worth is as invigorating as a day in the country. It is this knowledge as well as the exuberance of camp life that sends them to bed tired but happy when, at the end of a long day, the Butlin redcoats line up before the bandstand to sing at last:

Goodnight, Campers, I can see you yawning.

Goodnight, Campers, see you in the morning!

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