Day One: Welcome to the Sauna Suite

We arrived, checked in, and headed up to our “family room.” Except it wasn’t the spacious, seaside holiday kind of family room. No. We’d been handed the small family room – the one that traps heat like a Tupperware lid on a steaming pan.

Yes, it technically had air con. But it blew out slower than a fart after a hot curry – present, detectable, yet utterly useless in changing the climate. Despite the outside temperature being a very British 19 degrees, the room still felt like the Sahara in August. I was waiting for Lawrence of Arabia to trot past on a camel selling Calippos.

Tea Time Tyranny

Dinner time should have been simple. Instead, my card declined without me knowing. The server smiled, offered me a receipt, and waved me off like everything was fine. Lovely.

So my only crime? Taking my little lad Zac to the park, instead of hanging about for an hour waiting for their technology to cough, splutter, and give up. No mention of a declined payment, no second try, nothing.

Then, an hour later, my phone rang — not from the server who’d actually handled it, but from the manager himself. Enter stage left: the Defender of Desserts. Swooping in like a budget Batman, determined to protect the cheesecake empire from a dad who thought he’d paid for his lasagne.

This is a man whose managerial qualification was clearly earned via a Groupon crash course in ‘Advanced Intimidation & Gateaux Management’, held in the function room of a Travelodge. He probably keeps the certificate in a frame next to his Employee of the Month photo — both self-awarded. I bet he even rehearses these phone calls in the bathroom mirror, lanyard flapping like a cape as he practices his heroic lines.

“If you don’t come back immediately and pay,” he barked, “I’ll be phoning the police. I have your name. Your phone. Your email.”

Calm down, Batman. You’re not saving Gotham, you’re the manager of a seaside restaurant whose own staff didn’t tell me the payment declined. They sent me off thinking everything was settled. And now here you are, chest puffed out, conducting what you clearly believe is a counter-terrorism operation in the name of tiramisu.

And here’s the best bit — later that week, we returned for our dinner booking. Who should take us to our table but the Defender of Desserts himself. Because not only had we booked breakfast every morning in the restaurant, we’d also booked dinner there three times. Which makes his bright idea that I’d “do a runner” without paying even more laughable. Who commits dine-and-dash fraud on the same restaurant they’ve pre-booked half their holiday with?

Managerial skills? None. Customer service? Non-existent. Ego? Bigger than the big wheel at Skegness Pleasure Beach.

I spent the rest of my evening penning a complaint the length of Shakespeare’s complete works, pouring more drama into that letter than Hamlet chucking it all in at the end. And I’ll tell you this: if the police had turned up, they’d have arrested him for impersonating a manager.

The Defender of Desserts: ruining holidays one unpaid bill (of his own making) at a time.

Day Two: Parrots, Coasters & Childhood Bravery

Things picked up. Lincolnshire Wildlife Park delivered — though the tigers clearly had other plans. They were either sleeping, hiding, or nipped down to Lidl for meal deals, because not a whisker was seen. Shame. The lion, meanwhile, was sparked out cold in full view, proudly displaying his enormous crown jewels to the paying public. Not quite the majestic furry face you’d expect on a postcard, but memorable all the same.

The parrots made up for it. Zac loved the chatty ones, though he was gutted we didn’t stumble across the infamous sweary parrots. Apparently, they’ve been known to shout things like:

“Oi love, get us a bloody Greggs!”

Which, frankly, is the kind of enriching wildlife experience I’ll happily pay to hear.

And speaking of enriching: in the walk-in aviary, one parakeet took a shine to my Fanta Fruit Twist. It clung to my backpack like a caffeine addict outside Starbucks, shredding the bottle lid in a desperate attempt to get a sup. Wildlife encounters don’t get more authentic than being mugged by a tropical bird.

For all that, it was an absolute bargain day out. Big cats (sort of), thirsty parrots, and a proper laugh for the price of a family chippy tea. We’ll definitely be back.

Then the sun broke through, and off we strolled to Skegness Pleasure Beach. Normally, Zac avoids rides like I avoid salads, but this time he spotted the caterpillar rollercoaster and wanted on. He loved it.

Feeling brave, I got him onto the Ferris wheel. First lap: death grip on my arm, like we’d hit turbulence over the North Sea. By the third lap, he was shouting to go again. Progress!

Then the runaway train coaster. Fast. Rattly. Loud. The whole seaside package. Zac’s little face was pure terror-turned-delight, captured perfectly on my camera as he screamed: “OH MY GOD!” like he’d just witnessed the end times. Parenting highlight of the year.

Day Three: From Fire Alarms to Fighter Jets

Just when things were looking up, the universe threw us a curveball. At 3am sharp, the fire alarm goes off. Cue every guest in the hotel stumbling bleary-eyed into the corridors, asking each other if this was a real fire or just some daft test. Nobody knew. Down we all shuffled into the car park, pyjamas on display, kids in tow.

We waited twenty minutes while the staff investigated. Finally, they reappeared with the confidence of someone announcing the winner of a meat raffle:

“Erm… you can all go back to bed. We don’t know why it went off, but we think it’s safe.”

So back we tramped. Only then came the real battle: two separate toilet trips courtesy of Zac, rearranging the covers back to their exact specifications, hunting down Jeffrey the meerkat teddy from Lincolnshire Wildlife Park, and generally trying to restore the fragile ecosystem of sleep. Eventually, at about 4.30am, blissful silence – and unconsciousness.

Later that day, we headed to East Kirkby Aviation Centre to see the Lancaster taxi down the runway – and it was phenomenal. Watching all four engines spin up, one by one, before it lumbered forward was unforgettable. Zac, fresh from shouting

“I LOVE PLANES!”

like a banshee in the East Kirkby bogs, then declared his number one plane of all time was… a Jet2. Closely followed by a Spitfire. Priorities, eh?

We wandered through exhibits of planes, wreckages, and incredible glimpses into World War Two. Then it was on to RAF Coningsby for Typhoons and the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight visitor centre. I’ll be honest – I was desperate to go. Ever since being wowed by a Typhoon ripping the sky apart at the Blackpool Air Show, I’d had the photography itch. I wanted to capture them properly, roaring home where they belong.

Before we even got inside, movement caught my eye on the RAF airfield next door. Cue me ditching the car at speed on to a grass verge and all of us gawping for fifteen minutes as Typhoon after Typhoon roared back in for their lunchtime break. Even the world’s top pilots can’t resist a spam and egg butty… or at least that’s what I like to imagine keeps the RAF in the air. It was a photographer’s jackpot, even if my parking made it look like I was trying to write the car off.

After that, we finally got our nosey round the BBMF visitor centre and shop, where I bought Zac a Lego Spitfire (knock-off, obviously – do I look made of money?). On the way back, we noticed the hangar doors were open, revealing the crown jewel of the BBMF – another Lancaster bomber. Cameras out, more photos taken, before making the 25-mile trek back to Skegness, buzzing from the whole day.

Back at the Premier Inn, I was barely through the door when the receptionist called me over:

“Ah, I was hoping to catch you. My manager popped up earlier looking for you, he’s left his number for you to give him a ring.”

This was about my complaint regarding the Defender of Desserts.

So I gave the manager a call. To his credit, he was polite, apologised for the behaviour of the restaurant manager, and assured me it was being fully investigated — stressing that this was absolutely not how they aim to treat guests. And quite right too.

Day Four: Seals, Golf & Questionable Toys

Day four was far calmer. It began, as most mornings did, with another breakfast in the Defender of Desserts’ domain — no incidents this time, though I did half-expect him to swoop in and demand proof of payment for my toast.

Afterwards, we braved a chilly, windy wander up the promenade to Skegness Natureland. We saw the seals, fed the goats, and had a nosey at the rest of the animals on display. Zac, determined to expand his growing menagerie of wildlife teddies, came away with a seal teddy, a guinea pig teddy, and a little plastic turtle that, when squeezed, pops its head out. Naturally, this toy brought me far more joy than it should have, purely because of my deeply ingrained toilet humour. Cue me explaining what a “turtle’s head” is, to my 7 year old. Top parenting, I know.

From there, we strolled down the beachside path all the way to the affectionately named Pirate Golf – the Jolly Roger. Revenge was sweet. Having been humiliated on the Arnold Palmer course back on day one, I proudly handed Zac and Hayley’s backsides to them on a plate. Victory restored.

We rounded things off with a pit stop at The Hideout, where I tucked into a decent toastie while Zac absolutely destroyed a chocolate orange brownie with the sort of focus usually reserved for professional athletes.

After The Hideout, we wandered over to the park in Tower Gardens, where Zac set about forming what must have been his 39th friendship of the holiday. Four days in Skegness and the lad had a bigger social circle than me. He and his new mate tore around together while we sat and watched, enjoying the peace – the kind of peace only granted when your child is momentarily distracted by someone else’s child.

After half an hour of this, we decided to call it and head back to our room to rest our battered feet. An hour’s recharge, then it was out again for tea at the best indian in Skegness, Saffron.

Now, if you’ve never been to Saffron in Skegness, let me tell you: it’s one of the best curry houses I’ve ever eaten in. Fresh, tasty, and proper good value. Our first visit was back in 2019 when Zac was still a bairn – and cried the place down like he was auditioning for Britain’s Got Tantrums.

These days though, he’s happy as a pig in shit, tucking into his chicken nuggets and chips while glued to his tablet, while me and Hayley get to enjoy our curry in relative peace. Which, in parenting terms, is basically fine dining.

Afterwards, we did what any self-respecting family does at the seaside: found an ice cream hut and demolished a bubblegum sundae. Because if you’re not eating something blue on holiday, are you even British?

Then it was straight into the amusements to continue our ongoing 2p machine campaign. This time, jackpot. We struck gold on a machine that coughed up three Bully toys (yes, as in Bullseye – no speedboats, sadly) and about 700 tickets. Add that to our previous haul and Zac marched proudly to the counter and came away with a Spider-Man toy.

I swear I’ve never seen him happier. On the walk back to the hotel he hugged both of us repeatedly, beaming, telling us it was “the best holiday ever.” You can tell he wasn’t the one threatened with the police over a lasagne, can’t you?

Back at the hotel, just as we were about to hop in the lift, the manager stopped us and asked for our room number. The moment he clocked who I was – the poor sod caught up in the Defender of Desserts’ crusade – he pulled me aside for a proper chat.

He asked what he could do to put things right and even offered us a free evening meal by way of apology. We graciously accepted, though after Sunday’s fiasco we were extra cautious — half-worried it might trigger some kind of emergency alert and have the Defender of Desserts charging up the stairs, cape billowing, to accuse us of international cheesecake fraud. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d reported me to Interpol.

Credit where it’s due though – this manager was the complete opposite of Captain Profiterole. Calm, friendly, genuinely keen to fix what had gone wrong. He couldn’t undo the nonsense of the first couple of days, but he went a long way to restoring my faith. Honestly? Couldn’t fault him.

After a good chat, I headed back upstairs to find Zac happily lobbing his new Spider-Man toy around the room and demanding to know who on earth “Bully” was. So we fired up the laptop, stuck on a few minutes of Bullseye, and – to absolutely nobody’s surprise – he couldn’t give a toss. Worth a try though, eh?

Day Five: Sharks, Dinosaurs & A Man Called Justin

Day five kicked off with another breakfast in the domain of the Defender of Desserts. Drama free again, which was both a relief and a disappointment — I was half-expecting him to leap from behind the toast rack and demand proof of purchase for my hash browns.

Today’s adventure was the Skegness Aquarium, made even sweeter thanks to a bargain the wife found online — the Skegness Discovery Pass from Planet Offers. This little gem gets you entry to the aquarium, plus access to the outdoor dinosaur park, 18 holes of Atlantis Golf, and even a 20-minute go on the electric boats along the old Skegness waterway. Back in my day, those boats used to take you all the way to Natureland… more on that in a moment.

The aquarium itself was pretty solid, not bad at all for an independent setup. There were sharks — and let’s be honest, no matter the size, sharks are always bloody cool. They even offered snorkelling with them, but as a man with a very strong sense of self-preservation, I politely declined. I don’t care if it’s two foot long and swims for the hills at the sound of me belching — it’s still a shark, and sharks eat toes. Not today, thank you.

They also had axolotls, which are mint. Little water geckos with a face like they’re permanently in on some cosmic joke. Weird, wonderful, and right up my street.

Outside in the dinosaur park, it was everything you’d expect — a big T-Rex, some raptors, and a load of others with names I’ve long since forgotten. Cool to look at though. The highlight wasn’t the fibreglass dinos, though, but a bloke called Justin. Justin was a one-man entertainment machine: first doing a surprisingly informative talk about dinosaurs and the whole meteor wipe-out saga, then reappearing five minutes later running the puppet show. Punch and Judy style, aimed at kids, but with enough fart jokes sprinkled in to keep the parents giggling along.

Credit where it’s due — Justin, you absolute legend. Dinosaurs, puppets, and comedy arse noises all in the same shift? That’s five-star seaside talent.

After finishing with Justin we went upstairs for a drink and cakes, because it’s a bloody holiday after all. I had a banging little Jammie Dodger blondie — not bad, Skegness Aquarium, not bad at all. The little one dived into the children’s soft play and promptly formed friendship number 53 of the holiday.

Once we’d finished, we made our way over to Atlantis Golf. Now, as self-proclaimed crazy golf aficionados, you’d think we’d ticked this one off before — but no, this was our first time. And fair play, it was pretty impressive. Water features, mad courses, and a giant rusty submarine with more holes than a council road. Authentic? Not in the slightest. Fun? Absolutely.

I went in determined to keep the pressure on and hand the wife and child their backsides again, but it wasn’t to be. The game ended in a tie between me and the wife, with the little one — fresh from declaring he’s “the best golfer ever” — trailing behind. I’ll take that though. Still technically first place in my book.

Next up was activity number three: the electric boats. These run along the old Skegness Waterway. Back in my day, you’d hop on a proper boat driven by a bloke in a cap, who’d ferry you all the way from the lifeboat station up to Natureland. You’d wander round the seals, hop back on, and get chauffeured back into town to save your feet. Those days are gone. Now it’s little self-drive electric tubs — and they’re actually pretty fun.

The only downside? Everybody else. I’m a fantastic driver (if I say so myself), so reversing that little boat out, spinning it round, and hugging the left side like a pro was a piece of cake. Zac sat at my side, Hayley in the boot, and off we went.

On our way round we passed countless families trying their best to recreate Titanic. These little electric boats are stubborn though, they just keep trundling forward whether you can steer or not. On the way back to port, we ended up behind a family letting their little one pilot. It was chaos. Left, right, left, right — slower than dial-up internet on a rainy day. I was constantly stopping the engine, reversing, starting again, ready to have my own Leonardo DiCaprio moment.

Eventually my inner Hamilton kicked in. I overtook them cleanly, as they muttered “he’s overtaking us…” Damn right I am. At your pace, the waterway’ll be closed for winter before you dock. No wonder mum looked absolutely fed up, head in hands like she was plotting an escape route.

We then decided to head back to the 2p machines and blast through another £20 in about 60 minutes. Once again, we made a beeline for the Bully machine — but this time tried the other side, where it was dispensing Bluey keyrings. Because obviously that’s exactly what every 35-year-old man wants to win in Skegness: a cartoon dog keyring.

Still, it paid off. Between us we racked up another 1,500+ tickets, which bagged Zac a Black Panther toy to go with the Spider-Man from yesterday. Result.

Afterwards we wandered over to The Three Monkeys Bar for another pizza, which was absolutely banging. We finished with ice cream sundaes — because let’s be honest, it’s the law when you’re on holiday.

Rather than heading back out, we were all knackered and decided to retreat to the hotel for an early one. I settled down to watch my beloved Leeds Rhinos absolutely annihilate Hull KR. Pure joy. I don’t normally watch rugby when Zac’s around, so there were a few accidental f-bombs flying out before the wife stepped in with the inevitable telling-offs. Worth it though.

Just one more full day left ahead of us — but for now, it was lights out.

Day Six: Pirate Golf Glory

The final day. Day six. The last hurrah. The only day of the whole trip where we hadn’t micromanaged every hour like overzealous tour operators. Aside from breakfast in the domain of the Defender of Desserts (still ruling over the toast station like a caped crusader), the only thing in the diary was a swimming slot at 2pm. Everything else? Freestyle.

So we decided to head back to our favourite: the Jolly Roger — or “Pirate Golf” as we like to call it. When we got there, it was practically deserted, which is the golfing equivalent of stumbling on a pie aisle fully stocked at Greggs. Bliss.

The bloke in the booth clocked Zac grinning like Christmas morning at the prospect of yet more crazy golf, and kindly told us we could play both 9-hole courses even though we’d only paid for one. Cue Zac sprinting around like he was on some kind of PGA sugar rush, bagging holes like it was going out of fashion.

For once, we all managed a hole-in-one. The little one nearly combusted with excitement. The wife was smug as anything. But the overall champ? Yours truly. I took victory on both courses, hoisting the unofficial Skegness Crazy Golf Cup high. A glorious win. A sweet, sweet moment.

I’m sure they’ll get their revenge next year… but for now, I’m the champion of seaside putting.

Afterwards we wandered into the shops, where Zac spent his holiday pocket money on more pointless tat. His proudest purchase? A Where’s Pikachu book. Very educational. Because nothing screams seaside literacy like squinting at badly drawn Pokémon hidden behind deckchairs.

Shortly after, we headed back to the Premier Inn to grab our swimming gear and made our way to Skegness Swimming Pool. The place had both indoor and outdoor pools, which sounds lovely until you remember this isn’t Lanzarote — it was about 20 degrees if we were lucky.

As a man who values his extremities, I tried to give the outdoor pool a wide berth, treating it like it was the Grim Reaper himself waiting with a scythe. Sadly, I failed. Wife and child insisted we all go outside, because apparently neither of them have nerve endings.

To be fair, the outdoor pool was heated, so as long as you kept every inch of yourself submerged you were generally fine. Which suits me, really — I prefer being underwater anyway, given I’m a bit self-conscious of being a fat ass. I’m working on that though: eating healthier, cooking properly during the week, no snacking. But sod dieting on holiday. That’s just depressing.

Still, with the surgery last year, I’ve got to avoid water in my ears, so my “submerged but not too submerged” approach made me look like a man impersonating a submarine who’s forgotten his periscope.

As the day was coming to a close, we returned to the Premier Inn to drop our gear off and get ready for another dinner at the Defender of Desserts’ domain. We were pleased to be told the meal had been covered by the Premier Inn manager as part of his ongoing “please don’t tar and feather us in a Tripadvisor review” campaign. Fair play. We tucked in happily.

Midway through our scoff session, we hatched one final plan: Arnold Palmer golf. One last round. One last shot at seaside glory. Sadly, fate intervened and it wasn’t to be for me. Zac, fuelled by spaghetti bolognese and sheer bloody-mindedness, pulled off his first golfing victory of the holiday — beating me by a measly two or three points.

Redemption, however, was sweet. On the final hole, the “ring the bell” challenge, I smashed the ball straight up into the target. Ding! Free game secured. Bosh. A glorious mic-drop moment.

To wrap things up, we wandered onto the pier. Zac cashed in his remaining 25 tickets for a couple of little sweets (inflation’s a killer, isn’t it?). Then we strolled down to the end of the pier, taking in the evening lights, and the lingering smell of chips and seaweed. One last look at Skeggy before heading back to the hotel.

Holiday pretty much done. Suitcases ready. Bell rung.

Day Seven: Ingoldmells & The Long Drive Home

Our last day began, fittingly, with one final breakfast in the domain of the Defender of Desserts. No drama, no capes, no threats of police involvement — just a fry-up and a quiet nod to the end of an era.

Afterwards we loaded up the car and took a short drive down the coast to Ingoldmells to wander round the massive market. Except here’s the thing: it’s the same old tat they’ve been flogging for as long as I’ve been going — at least 25 to 30 years. The only thing that’s changed is the lack of dodgy branded gear that used to hang proudly from every stall. Turns out the council and the police aren’t too keen on counterfeit Adidas trackies anymore. Who knew?

Zac, of course, still managed to sniff out yet more pointless tat. This time it was another teddy — Alex from Minecraft — and a couple of Pez dispensers for good measure. His collection of toys could now rival the Natural History Museum, if the exhibits were mostly parrots, superheroes and badly sewn plushies.

We only stuck it out for about an hour and a half. And to be fair, that was more than enough: the same four stalls on repeat, and enough second-hand weed smoke to convince me I’d wandered into a grow room. At that point, we decided to call it.

Holiday over. Time to head home.

In Summary

Though the first couple of nights were rough — thanks to one overzealous restaurant manager who clearly missed the “customer service” module of his training, and a 3am fire alarm drill that nobody asked for — things did improve. We had some cracking days out: Lincolnshire Wildlife Park with its thirsty parrots and exhibitionist lion, East Kirkby Aviation Centre with the Lancaster thundering down the runway, and RAF Coningsby where the Typhoons roared home for their spam-and-egg butties. All of it made for memories that’ll stick.

As for where we’ll stay next time? Well, the Premier Inn has served us well on past trips, but this year it wobbled. For the price you pay, it didn’t quite hit the mark — especially with that new, fancy-looking Travelodge now looming over the Skegness skyline like a challenger waiting in the wings. Maybe we’ll stick with Premier Inn. Maybe we’ll switch. Either way, one thing’s for sure: we’ll be back in Skegness, because for all its quirks, it still delivers a proper British seaside holiday.

I know Skegness often gets a bashing in the press — regularly crowned the “worst seaside resort in the UK” — but honestly, that couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re Yorkshire folk through and through, yet we’ll take Skegness over the Yorkshire coast any day. Don’t get me wrong, we love Whitby and Scarborough, but they just don’t offer what Skeggy does. No matter the weather, there’s always something to do. Sure, it’s tacky in places, overpriced in others, and the restaurants won’t be winning Michelin stars anytime soon — but it’s got that true, unapologetic British seaside vibe. And Zac absolutely loves it. Which means, like it or not, we’ll definitely be back.

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