The north pier of Blackpool. Photograph: Christopher Furlong/Getty
Watch out ... Cliff! Cheery, rootsy, pop-punks the Holloways are planning their own Summer Holiday in a red double-decker. They're spending the first week of June touring English and Welsh seaside resorts in homage to the eternally young one. Though they won't necessarily be going where the sun shines brightly - in the case of Cliff and pals, Greece - and hopefully will not terrorise the local women with their zany antics, they will be taking today's music to parts it now rarely reaches.
Last August, Brighton's Kooks also did a tour of Britain's crumbling coast, ideal for airing their simple acoustic love song, Seaside. The White Stripes' finest hour so far could well have been Blackpool Tower, and anyone who saw Iggy and the Stooges at Butlins in Minehead just before Christmas must have returned to their chalets flushed with exhilaration, only to be deflated when The Weirdness hit the shops.
But these sporadic one-night or weekend flings with the English seaside are all a far cry from the days of Larry Parnes' stable of groomed pop stars, with silly, invented names such as Billy Fury and Georgie Fame. They would spend their entire summers performing on the ends of piers, either as novelty add-ons to variety shows or as part of pop music packages. The problem is, most of the entertainment in our decaying Victorian resorts is now provided by the survivors of that era, with baby boomers still the youngsters in the audience.
Weston-super-Mare, my closest seaside metropolis, didn't see the Kooks and won't get the Holloways. The town of 70,000 people is, however, about to play host to Dave Dee, Dave Berry and Chip Hawkes on their Reelin' and Rockin' tour, and later on to Marty Wilde, The Drifters and the Syd Lawrence Orchestra, while there will also be annual festivals celebrating the remnants of music hall, variety and clowns. Thankfully, youngsters have the Sex Bristols and Who tribute acts to look forward to at the smattering of pub venues - no word as yet on whether the mime-fest T4 on the Beach, in which the stage-managed punters were little more than unpaid TV extras, is returning, potentially stirring up further debate on whether Busta Rhymes' off-stage behaviour makes him suitable for families.
Despite the seaside resort being founded on a falsehood - beneath the flimsy layer of shipped-in sand, Weston's beach is an expanse of dangerous mud flats, with the sea rarely less than a mile away - tourism chiefs have adopted a "blue skies" strategy to get the bucket-and-spade brigade back. But while regeneration will include encouraging brass bands to keep playing tiddly-om-pom-pom on the seafront, trying to stop a pier's demolition and building spectacular swimming pools, there is no mention of any other form of cultural enterprise.
The once-prospering boarding houses and B&Bs have now been turned into bedsits for benefit claimants, penniless beachcombers and downcast pensioners.
And while you still get the occasional, ever-diminishing convoy of Lambrettas descending on Morecambe Bay, these days, they disappointingly never coincide with a rumble. Now, the seaside is more trad than mod. It's the one place postmodernism fears to tread.
Yet despite the claustrophobic old-fashioned inns and the mono-diet of fish and chips, the slumping resorts still hold a romantic allure, summed up in the Delays' debut album title, Faded Seaside Glamour.
One big obstacle to the seaside becoming a hip, happening place, besides Brighton and the emerging Londons-by-the-sea - Southwold, Deal and Worthing - is that it takes so bloody long to get to. If the Holloways do it Cliff's way and hire a Routemaster and eschew all offers of private jets, they must travel hundreds of miles every day. The Holloways may profess to love the seaside, but they have their work cut out. And they'd better take care on those bendy coastal roads, too.
