I'm the Portugal of the UK, Great Yarmouth tells holidaymakers

GREAT Yarmouth is practically an identical substitute for the sunny beaches of Portugal, it has told dejected UK holidaymakers.

With Portugal now on the amber list, the Norfolk seaside resort town has wasted no time in reminding Brits that its tacky, partially derelict seafront is just as good, if not better, than the stunning coastline of the Algarve.

Great Yarmouth said: “I know you’re all sad you can’t jet off to the continent, but I think you’ll find me to be a hidden gem that’s like having a little taste of Portugal right on your doorstep.

“People have tried to keep my charms under wraps by posting thousands of negative reviews on TripAdvisor, but that’s only because they want to keep the oases of Gorleston-on-Sea and Hemsby beach to themselves.

“I’m afraid Portugal can’t compete with my world-class amusement arcades. It’s noted for its grilled sardines and other seafood delicacies, but I think we’d all prefer a nice greasy saveloy from one of my many chip shops.

“Visit for yourself and you’ll see that I’m not dilapidated, just well-loved. That’s if you even get the chance to notice my decrepitude with all the fun you’ll be having at the Time and Tide Museum. It’s got old ships’ steering wheels and wicker baskets.”

The former hub of Britain’s herring industry added: “What’s Lisbon got? Just impressive landmarks like Belém Tower. I used to have the world’s worst waxworks museum.”

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Can you survive an outdoor gig in Wales?

WALES is allowing up to 10,000 people to attend outdoor gigs from Monday. But could you survive the weather and drinking of a Welsh music festival?

12.30pm-2pm

You arrive at a wet, muddy field near Abergavenny worried you’re a day late because the site is already a quagmire and the crowd is roaring drunk. No. This is Wales. Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci are performing. You sink a pint of Brains.

2pm-4.30pm

The mist hardens into drizzle as a Mexican wave, but violent, sweeps the arena leaving you bleeding and leaning on a Bara Brith cake stall, whose owner suggests you ‘f**k off home’. Super Furry Animals are playing a Welsh language set.

4.30pm-7pm

The drizzle hardens into rain as the support stage, which was hosting a DJ set by Cerys Matthews, sinks into the mire along with 3,000 cheering Welshmen waving flags. The mud closes over them without a ripple and nobody is concerned. The Stereophonics are on the main stage and seem angry about it.

7pm-9.30pm

The rain hardens into sleet. The mosh pit has become the toilets, and an impromptu rugby match is being played. A druid lurks on the fringes screaming colourful abuse. You sink a 10th pint of Brains. The Manic Street Preachers are performing their most radically left-wing material, to please the crowd.

9.30pm-11.30pm

The sleet hardens into freezing summer hail. Tom Jones takes the stage, aged 80, and prefaces ‘It’s Not Unusual’ with a rant about the English and how ‘we will kick shit out of them’ at the Euros. He adds ‘That fella’s English, he’s only had 15 pints of Brains’ as a spotlight singles you out. You run for your life and vow to only go to fey English festivals where Florence and the Machine are playing and the stalls sell dreamcatchers.

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