The Pink Panther

J. J. Whelan

It was a cold bleak late September morning 1981 when we were heading for to board the bus outside St. Joseph’s for our first ever holiday without our parents. Blackpool for September weekend was the place to be. I was only 15 years of age and only allowed to go because my 2 big brothers were on the same bus and would look after the 4 of us, Jimmy (me) Babe, Shug and Big Nally. Truth be told we never seen them from the journey down till we returned, Tam and Marky had travelled down with Tams family but we had all agreed to meet up that evening and start our adventure in the town of tram cars, kiss me quick hats and loads of young ladies for our delight.

The bus was buzzing, packed with voices louder than the engine, carry-outs clinking in bags, the smell of smoke already drifting down the aisle. None of us had a clue what we were in for, but that was half the thrill. We weren’t boys anymore, at least not in our own minds, we were heading south, chasing the madness, chasing a freedom that felt bigger than anything back home.

By the time we rolled into the town, stiff from the journey and wide-eyed with excitement, the sun had burned through the morning chill. We dumped our bags in the dingy digs that would be home for the weekend, nothing more than four walls, two squeaky beds, nylon sheets and a kettle that barely worked. None of that mattered. What mattered was that night, our first night on our own, pockets light but spirits heavy, waiting for Tam and Marky to show face so the real fun could begin.

By the time darkness fell we were buzzing, all four of us crammed into that tiny room trying to get ready with a half-broken mirror and tunes crackling out the wee radio we’d brought. We didn’t care what we looked like as long as the shirts were clean, the shoes polished, and we had enough money for drink and the door fee. Tam and Marky showed up, already a few in, big grins on their faces as if they’d been waiting all day for the madness to start.

We made our way down the strip, neon lights of amusement arcades and bars pulling us in like moths to a flame. Every bar we passed spilled out laughter, shouting, and music, but it was The Gaiety Bar and Dixieland we were heading for. Everyone talked about it back home like it was some rite of passage.

Outside the Dixieland the queue was already bouncing, lads our age trying to look older, girls dolled up and giggling, the bouncers stone-faced at the door. My heart was thumping as we edged closer, praying they wouldn’t clock how young I was. When they finally waved us in, it felt like stepping into another world.

The heat hit first, then the smoke, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Lights flashing red and blue, the DJ blasting tunes that rattled right through your chest. We pushed through the crowd, wide-eyed, soaking it all in, the dancefloor packed, the bar heaving, bodies everywhere. Babe shoved a drink into my hand before I even knew what was happening.

That was the moment it began. No parents, no rules, just the chaos of Dixieland swallowing us up.

Inside Dixieland, it was carnage from the off. The drink hit fast, none of us used to it, and suddenly the world was spinning with flashing lights and thumping bass. We tried dancing, but mostly it was stumbling about, spilling pints and laughing until our stomachs hurt. The girls were older, sharper, and we couldn’t believe some of them even gave us the time of day. One minute you were chatting rubbish in the smoking area, the next you were snogging someone you’d only just met. That was the night innocence got lost in dark corners and cheap hotel rooms, awkward and clumsy but unforgettable all the same. We became men, bragging rights were ours now as the cherries had been lost.

Of course, the fights came too. Someone shoved someone on the dancefloor, Tam stepped in, and before long fists were flying, bottles smashing, bouncers charging through the crowd. We scattered like rats, shirts torn, knuckles bleeding, laughing as if we’d won some sort of badge of honour just for surviving the chaos.

By Sunday, the madness hadn’t slowed. We were skint, hungover, and restless. That’s when the toy shop window caught our eye, seven six-foot teddy bears sitting pretty behind the glass like they were mocking us. Marky, always the hothead, put the first boot in. The plate glass exploded, slicing his foot to bits, blood pouring everywhere, but in the madness we didn’t stop. We hauled those bears out like trophies, dragging them down the street while folk stared in disbelief.

We tried to flog six of them for beer money to no avail but I was keeping the Pink Panther as a memento. Couldn’t part with it. For years it hung from my bedroom ceiling by a noose, swaying in the dark like some warped souvenir of the holiday that changed everything.

Marky spent the rest of that night in hospital, stitches pulling tight across his foot, grinning through the pain like it was worth every drop of blood. And maybe it was. That trip wasn’t about beaches or sunshine, it was about us crossing a line, stepping into a world where the rules didn’t apply, where we found out who we really were when nobody was watching.

The journey home was just as wild as the weekend itself. Big Frank had somehow managed to charm a girl on the bus, and before long the two of them disappeared under a blanket at the very back seat. The whole bus roared with laughter, wolf whistles and chants, but he didn’t care,never came up for air till we were half way up the motorway.

Me? I was busy offloading the last of those bears, slipping them to my brothers’ pals’ girlfriends for a few quid a pop. My brothers weren’t impressed, looking at me with that mix of disgust and disbelief, like I’d dragged the family name through the gutter. I just laughed, pocketed the cash, and thought of the Pink Panther swinging from my ceiling for years to come.

When the bus finally pulled back into town, we stepped off different lads than the ones who’d boarded a few days before. Tired, battered, grinning through bruises and hangovers, carrying stories we’d tell and retell for the rest of our lives.

It wasn’t just a holiday, it was the weekend we crossed the line, where childhood got left behind in the smoke of Dixieland and The Gaiety Bar in stolen teddy bears, in blood on broken glass, in awkward nights with girls whose names we barely remembered. A weekend we would never forget.