When you're as young as us Burtsters, you start to think about 'the old days' quite a lot. You know, those days before things like gray hair and beer guts existed, when every day was guaranteed to be followed by another of equal length and excitement, and you never had to pay for anything. The good days.

During this trip, us Burtsters (being Burtman Himself, sporting Burt Himself, the original mean machine; Burtbro, usually sporting the T4 Transporter (but currently not, because it's knackered); and Burtdad Himself, also usually rocking the T4, but in this case, coming equipped with the Sleepmaster XL, so Burtbro would have somewhere to sleep in the absence of his wagon) headed for some of the old time standard locations. Great Yarmouth being chief among them.

Many a holiday was had in Yarmouth, and it's one of the very last places on Earth where time has forgotten to intervene. Since the last time I was there, around 2009 - nothing has changed. Nothing. And even then. it hadn't changed since the first time I was there, way back in the 80s. Yarmouth is a wondrous place, filled with stinky fast food, noisy arcade games and fatties on shop mobility carts (comprising something like 50% of the visible population).

At the end of the beach, a quiet holiday park that looks out over the wilder part of the beach, where dogs love to play and where we, as youthful lads, used to run about as cowboys and indians, before heading to the water to lose footballs and get our ankles wet (we sure were adventurous, even then).

The quiet end of town, as viewed from the Sleepmaster XL.

The town is a postcard of itself, featuring the same posters I remember from decades earlier, and the same seaside stores, packed with tacky plastic junk, sticks of hard candy and the feeling of stalemate leeching from every brick. Truly marvelous. And speaking of postcards, check this badboy.

Truth is, I'd missed Yarmouth, for its fond memories (crazy golf, go karts, the Pleasure Beach, and a range of greasy spoon cafes we never failed to visit. Its tackiness is its strongest merit and the reason we never forget.

At the other end of the beach, knackered old caravans and campers line up near the shipping yards, stuck in limbo for years, and revealing a sad side that so many places hide well. Here, plain as day and without pretense. I remember coming to this part of town so many times before, just to see what was down the road from all the noise and lights. And there's a peace in the skid row section that I can relate to. A kind of forgetfulness and melancholy that doesn't upset too deeply - just kind of makes you thoughtful and curious.

The forgotten few.

Over the few days we camped waited (no camping allowed on that road), so many memories came back and so many silly things were said and done. The magic only grows in Yarmouth. We visited the old music store that's still there, under the cover of the bus station. We walked the same path, down by the bowling green, where we were famously awoken, one early 90s morning, by the timeless words, announced on the bowling green's PA; "Morning, George."

It was in this very parking spot that those famous words were heard, some thirty years ago.

And, of course, we located (and dominated) the air hockey table. At one point, once we'd located the table that releases all 20 pucks at the same time, we had a cinematic moment that I already remember in slo-mo, where incoming pucks were literally flying past my face, as I battled with both hands, to keep them from the goal I defended. The result was undeniable. Czech Republic smashed England to a pulp, five games in a row, and took the title. For green key holders, an instamatic pic from one of the games is available on the next page.

Thank you, lads, and thank you, Great Yarmouth, for not changing a bit. I really felt like I was a kid again. An excellent few days.