Viva Largs Vegas

The still of the water is occasionally broken by the lurch of the Cumbrae ferry as it docks or departs towards Millport, its deck strewn with tourists and shoppers. Further ashore, the sun drenches the promenade in white light bounced refractively on the surface of the Holy Loch changing its hue in a dancing shimmer. The air hangs heavy and hot, the only bluster comes from the throng of bodies making their way along the concrete path, one of which will occasionally dash after a dog that has slipped its lead making a break for open water.

My glass sweats beads of moisture onto the table in front of me on the outdoor table as the dull ease of the world unfolds before me. I see people of all sizes, ages and descriptions slide through my vision: young, old, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful. This being Scotland, they’re mostly fat and ugly. Fugly. Secretly, I had hoped that there would be more beautiful girls to watch, there’s something about seeing a beautiful woman in the sunlight…

This is not a glorious world-famous resort – this is Largs, or ‘Lards’ as I have started to referring to it inwardly owing to the amount of morbidly obese people I’ve witnessed walking around. The shore is not beautiful, it is covered in a variety of large and small stones and I am almost tempted to walk down to the waterfront and chuck a few into the loch – there’s something psychologically satisfying about the sound a stone makes as it breaks water. The shore is full of kids and dogs; I would look out of place there.

The table I’m sat at is a garden-variety picnic bench under a fabric awning lining the front of the bar; Grant and Nikki sit across from me. I’m absorbed watching a group of nuns making their way up the promenade, one of them, probably the only one below the age of ninety suddenly makes a break (or rather an amble) for it and gets away from the pack. She is munching on an ice cream cone and I can see her false teeth sliding around in her mouth as she laps greedily at it. The nun notices me looking at her, smiles and is about to wave, Grant sneezes.

Still looking at the nun I say, ‘bless you’ a little too loudly, the nun says ‘and you son’, she hobbles off, delighted to be in the sun and eating ice cream. I smile inwardly at the innocence of this and the simple misunderstanding of the gesture. The nuns trundle off into the distance to be replaced by other less circumspect characters, Grant and Nikki fawn over the different breeds of dogs they see – I know nothing about dogs but I’m enjoying their banter.

I feel at ease with the world, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed. The simple presence of sunlight can do wonders for one’s mood and outlook on life, hot light satisfies some of the hungers that are more difficult to satiate. ‘What about the Hoff?’ Grant asks me lazily, ‘Huh?’ I say, turning to face him, ‘Is he still there?’ I look down the shore to check.

We spotted him on our way up to the bar, lying on a towel on the rocky beach with nothing on but a pair of blue and red trunks that look like they were purchased from the 1984 Debenham’s catalogue: His body is slight and wiry, yet coloured a natural bronze that would put a Californian to shame, his hair is long, unkempt, its colour is black, streaked with cigarette-ash grey. He looks like a small castaway and from what I can tell he hasn’t moved since we passed him on our way here an hour ago.

‘Yeah, he’s still there’, I tell them. We indulge in some light-hearted conversation for a while making observations and being observed by others. Eventually the Hoff gets up.

The three of us watch him make his way down to the water as he wades in to his ankles, bends down and splashes some salt-water on to his face. Many others have stopped their tracks and loiter to watch the spectacle of the lonely sunbather on the craggy shore. He stands for a while facing out into the depths, hands on his hips like Phineas awaiting the Harpies. This seems to go on for an age, but he retreats as the ferry arrives and sends cascades of breakwater up his body.


The Hoff makes his way back to the spot where his towel and belongings lie, pulls on the simple attire of black t-shirt, black jeans and black trainers, shaking the sand out of the latter before putting them on. He makes his way to one of the amusement arcades, straps on a leather money pouch and begins touting for business from the marks on the prom, unaware that his very existence and actions have caused more amusement and pleasure than his cackle of machines will ever be able to.