A bell rings for half past happy hour on the eve of the Cheltenham festival in a city that seems to ignore time altogether.
Not entirely, of course. Clocks are still needed to separate the midday cutoff for a cheap full English breakfast available in various sizes from large to extra, extra large from the slightly pricier options that follow. Similarly, they help distinguish between performances from Michael Jackson, Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, and Queen, all appearing on the same stage on the same night, just as they will again tomorrow, in the form of tribute acts of varying quality.
The countless British tourists who flock to Benidorm in search of an escape from everyday life operate outside the usual constraints of time. Bars along the neon-lit Calle Gerona are just as lively at midday on a Monday as they are in the early hours of a Friday morning. Patrons punch arcade machines with enthusiasm, belt out Amy Winehouse songs at karaoke joints that never close, and revel in an atmosphere that never wanes.
A poster on a roadside wall advertises a “Sticky Vicky” magic show, paying homage to a legendary local performer famous for her jaw-dropping stage act. Her daughter, Maria, continued the legacy for a time, but recent word suggests she has moved on, leaving behind a string of imitator acts attempting to fill the void.
A man, visibly worse for wear, stumbles past the outdated poster, assisted by a friend as he navigates the common Benidorm hazard of a discarded mobility scooter. A few steps later, he crashes into a rubbish bin, sending his “Cheltenham 2025” cap tumbling to the pavement.
Benidorm’s British tourism boom, particularly in the New Town, dates back to the rise of high-rise hotels half a century ago. Each year, close to a million Britons visit, with early March now holding special significance. Just a decade ago, Cheltenham festival week passed largely unnoticed here. Now, it has become one of the busiest weeks on the calendar.
While attendances at Cheltenham itself have dipped, Benidorm’s bars and hotels thrive. At 9:30 a.m. on the first race day, the Winning Post bar is already packed. Waitresses weave through the crowd, serving full English breakfasts and pints of beer. At one table, a group of men, still in last night’s clothes, attempt to shake off their fatigue with shots, leading to a brief, rowdy exchange of playful punches. Others take a more measured approach, poring over newspaper race cards before heading to the betting counter in the corner.
The Winning Post operates as a bookmaker every day of the year, screening races and taking bets from eager punters. Less than an hour after opening, the betting slips need restocking, and as each race approaches, a queue forms outside with punters eager to place their wagers.
Across the road, the Marina Resort draws an even bigger crowd. More than 500 racegoers gather by the poolside screen, soaking in the sun as they watch the drama unfold. Mass gasps erupt when the heavily backed Constitution Hill and State Man take dramatic tumbles, dashing the hopes of many.
Timothy King and his former work colleagues arrived at 8:30 a.m. to secure the perfect table, optimally positioned for viewing. “Going to the festival is too expensive now and too crowded,” he explains. “You can barely see a horse in person, let alone the finish. This is our first time here, and I’d recommend it to anyone. There’s everything you could want.”
It’s a sentiment echoed up and down the strip, from Funky Flamingo to Yorkshire Pride, where every television is tuned to the races. Many argue that with cheap beer and great weather, the experience here outshines the real thing.
“We all live by Musselburgh, so we love horse racing,” says Stephen Peters, in town with friends. “But most tracks just have big screens now anyway. We’d bet on anything – if we saw a couple of cockroaches on the floor, we’d probably place a wager.”
As the sun sets and the racing ends, the night is just beginning. “We have a rule that you can’t go to bed on the same day you got up,” Peters laughs. “We lost everything today, but tomorrow’s a new day. Maybe a different bar will bring better luck.”
Their group stumbles down the strip past souvenir shops selling crude T-shirts and novelty lollipops, ready for another round of cheap beer and wild entertainment. Anyone up for a show?
