The first time I went to Butlins was during a week of excruciating planned activity fun. I was about twelve years old and my school at the time had arranged for us to do four days of laborious river walking, abseiling and mountain biking in the rain. Then, as a reward for the wretchedness of the first four days, we were treated to one day at Butlins.
As I’ve got older, more cynical and altogether more misanthropic I find myself increasingly surprised by how much of a soft spot I have for regional news programming. It’s as if my understanding for what’s terrible is somehow unaffected by smiley small-town blandness and aimless reports about vandalised road signs and vegetables that look like people.