Out of season, Seahaven dons the aura of a town helping the police with their enquiries. Gone from the beach are the holidaymakers in their gaudy shirts and flip-flops. The crazy golf course lies sodden and impossible. The static big wheel towers over empty amusement arcades like a monument to a dead civilisation.  Sallow youths of dubious intent shelter from the rain and share cigarettes in shop doorways, and ghostly old-town drinkers gaze out through the thick condensation on the windows of the pubs along Victoria Street. The smallest of these hostelries is The Clown, the irony of whose name becomes  apparent as one pushes through its well-worn door and experiences the absence of comedy within.