Redcoat (Pt. 1)

When I was seventeen, I was offered my first full-time job as a Butlins Redcoat. A dream come true. My dad drove me down in January for the audition, where I joined a very long queue of hopefuls that eventually led into a vast venue through a red corridor: red carpet, red velvet drapes, red walls adorned with gold-framed photos of famous Redcoats of the past. This, I believed, would be my ticket onto the stage—because drama school was financially well out of reach.The audition was brutal. We held numbers in front of a camera, explained why we’d make a good Redcoat, learned a dance, spoke on a microphone on stage, then endured a series of one-to-one interviews. The room was packed with young hopefuls wearing white numbered stickers. In previous years, I was told, the London Hippodrome had been used to house the sheer volume. Butlins was a British institution, the grassroots of entertainment, and I wanted in.When the phone call came, I was ecstatic. I still had final college exams to complete, but when I asked if I could join straight after, they agreed.This wasn’t just a job; it was an entire lifestyle. It meant moving away from home and living onsite—like university, except they paid me (very little) and there were no essays. This was the university of life.My parents drove me to Minehead in early summer 2000 with one small bag of belongings, including a plate and a knife and fork from Woolworths. I was immediately directed to my accommodation at the very back of the campsite, where the original 1950s chalets still stood. We parked and walked through a maze of double-storey buildings until we found mine.The door flew open. A very tall girl with incredible boobs bounced on the spot and announced, “Hi, I’m Anecia. I’ll be your roommate, and I’m also the maddest person here!”I think this will work, I thought.We shared a three-room chalet with a tiny galley kitchen, which I later learned was extremely lucky—some people were given the kitchen as their bedroom, with only a curtain separating the bed from the shared utilities. No one cared. We were eighteen and this was freedom.The walls were basically cardboard. A small heater was mounted on the wall and smelt of burning dust when switched on. My room had a single bed and permanently closed green floral curtains. News quickly spread that a new Red had arrived. My parents were serenaded by Adam, who rollerbladed in and circled them while delivering an incredible Tom Jones number. Then a tap at the window: I pulled back the thick, damp (even in summer), musty curtain to find a small naked man holding a can opener and asking if I’d brought any baked beans.I hadn’t. But it turns out beans were a Redcoat staple, alongside Super Noodles and Angel Delight.My neighbour Mitch, a six-foot blond from Leicester, popped his head in to ask if I liked my “shed”—the entirely accurate term for our accommodation.I was overjoyed.I waved goodbye to my tearful parents, who in hindsight were probably quite concerned, though I was far too excited to notice. When I returned to my room, I was greeted by several ducks that had been ushered inside, and the sound of laughter from two male redcoats hiding around the corner.I lived in that shed for eighteen glorious months. Through cold, dark winters when the campsite only opened at weekends, giving us free rein of the place, to hot summers where everyone caught norovirus and sunbathed on the small strip of grass between the two rows of entertainment staff accommodation.I was too young to care about the damp (one girl’s entire shoe collection, stored under her bed, was mouldy by the end of summer), the metal-sprung single bed, or the fact that every meal had to be cooked in a sandwich toaster. I was rarely there anyway—most nights were spent drinking pints of Diesel in Jumping Jacks or the staff bar, and days hosting game shows, calling bingo, and standing on the freezing seafront welcoming new guests.My first shift was calling Bingo in the main hall, which doubled as a ballroom dancing venue. I was nervous—Bingo, I quickly learned, was serious business. I had the microphone, the room’s full attention, and just as I started to relax, I looked up to see three male Reds at the back of the hall simultaneously drop their trousers.And so the carnage began.Life as a Red was always going to be colourful.Halfway through my second year, a camera crew arrived to film a new ITV series called Redcoats, and we were moved into better accommodation. But until then, those cardboard walls held some of my happiest memories—and the people who would become some of my very best lifelong friends. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com