One of Morrissey’s finer solo efforts is the classic “Every Day Is Like Sunday”.

I’ve known the song for decades, but I wasn’t familiar with this video until recently. It’s an egotistical Morrissey classic. The man is an obnoxious, narcissistic wanker, who has recently revealed some horrific far-right anti-immigrant views, but I’ll attempt to separate the art from the artist, and this song is a classic cultural reference to Sundays.

The line “this is the coastal town, they forgot to close down” reminds me of a particularly weird time of my life, back in 1992 and 1993, when I lived in Bognor Regis. This was the year after I left school, and I spent it volunteering on an outreach and training programme with Pioneer, a Christian organisation I’d now regard as horrifically extreme. Sadly, at the time, I didn’t realise how awful they were, or what I’d really signed up to, so I spent a year of my life earnestly attempting to win the good people of Bognor for the Lord.

Bognor featured on ITV’s Sunday evening religious programme “Highway” in 1988, fronted by Harry Secombe, so there’s another link with faith, Bognor and Sundays. 🙂 Here’s the show, although I’d strongly recommend only watching the theme tune (fine work by Ed Welch, of “Blockbusters” theme fame). This fantastic electro-banger is followed by the absolute worst in beige pensioner TV, and if you watch it to the end, you deserve a medal. WARNING! CONTAINS CLOWNS!

Right at the beginning, though, you see Harry Secombe standing in front of Bognor station, which at the time hadn’t seen a lick of paint in ages. It was even worse four years later.

Bognor Regis has been something of a joke for some time, and certainly when I lived there it felt like the classic town referred to in this song. In the past it was a thriving resort considered beneficial for health, and it was a prosperous town, but by the time I moved there, the place was decidedly shabby and past its prime. Most of the tourists had long gone, towns like Littlehampton and Brighton were smarter and more popular, and a big question mark hung over one of the town’s major employers, the Lec fridge factory. The result was a town which felt perpetually gloomy, just like the proverbial Sunday – especially a Sunday in winter.

Even in summer, the place felt neglected and forgotten. The reasons why are fairly obvious, really – the town was particularly badly affected by the difficult economic climate of the day, and people were worried about their futures. We spent our days wondering why they weren’t all rushing to become Christians, because, of course, we thought we had all the answers (hohoho, we were so clueless).

Given that hardcore charismatic Christians like to find spiritual reasons for things, one of the people in my team did some research, and came up with the idea that the town of Bognor was cursed. Apparently this was because King George V was very ill, and his advisors suggested a convalescent stay in Bognor, to benefit from the clean air. Upon hearing this suggestion, the king is rumoured to have said “bugger Bognor”, thus unleashing demons on the unsuspecting town.

Yes, really. Even back at the height of my goofy youthful religious fervour, I thought this sounded a bit nuts, but I went along with my team on it, and we’d walk the streets commanding the demons to leave in the name of Jesus.

Yes, really. 🙁 If I encountered you in Bognor in the early 90s, and tried to convert you (or exorcise your demons) I’d like to apologise.

I realise now, of course, that Bognor’s problems were of a much more earthly nature. The wealth-creating efforts of the Tory government of the day produced extremely inconsistent results, and the town was one of the losers. The gloom of a perpetual Sunday truly did hang in the air. We did our best to brighten Sundays up with our church meetings, of course. These were noisily jubilant affairs, with a wannabe rock band leading the worship, and with a few words of “knowledge” and “prophecy” thrown in. The church did it’s best to help out in the community, running youth groups and playschemes, which seemed cool at the time, but were really only attempts to convert people (ewww). It’s hard to find out exactly what happened, but the congregation I was part of folded about ten years later. I’m not convinced it was a major loss.

I think the town’s fortunes have been a bit mixed ever since. It’s one of those places where the buildings, culture, attitudes and people gradually age, crumble and die, and there’s not really much reason to go there any more. Perhaps it’s still a perpetual Sunday in Bognor, at least for the people at the bottom of the pile, who are stuck there on grey January days, when everything closes, and the sun barely rises above the indistinct horizon, where the sea meets the sky.

In an odd way, I cherish my memories of days like that, when the beach was deserted, and the wind blew in off the sea with a force that almost ripped the skin off your face. It was bleak, but it was impressive in a way that’s hard to articulate. I’d often end up there on Sundays too, both before and after church, pondering the Meaning of Life. On occasion, I’d walk to Littlehampton along the beach, and once out of town, it was really peaceful and deserted. I’d then get the train back again. I’d love to try that walk again sometime.

So, I think Morrissey was onto something here. Sundays aren’t just a day of the week. Sundays are an atmosphere, a mood, a feeling, even a location. Sundays hang in the air like sea spray, Sundays follow you around, Sundays are unseen ghosts in forgotten towns the world over. Whatever day it is where you are, it’s a Sunday somewhere. Chances are that somewhere is Bognor.