Looking around the hotel restaurant in Hastings I notice a distinctive ’70s theme.

There is pine furniture. A lot, of pine furniture. All of it with striped upholstery. There are ultra-modern (back then, obviously) tubular steel chairs and tables which look uninviting to my weary frame but turn out to be surprisingly comfortable.

The wallpaper has bold chevron patterns in a once-popular shade of avocado. There are dozens of retro framed magazine covers hanging on the wall. There is a fake fireplace and fake brick work covering the side of the (thankfully, not fake) bar. All that’s missing is a Swiss couple fonduing in the corner with stringy cheese stuck to the gentleman’s moustache.

“I love this whole 70s theme!” I say to my wife.

She agrees with me and in my excitement I summon over the waiter for a little pow-wow. I’m so chatty and amicable on holiday!

“I see the owner likes ’70s interior design. Has this hotel always had a retro theme?” I ask with a hint of pride at being a male who is so in tune with the aesthetics around him.

“I’m sorry, I do not understand?”

The waiter is French with little English.

I glance at my wife who is looking at me with bemusement and readying herself for the inevitable charades routine. Eventually, the waiter grasps what I’m saying but still looks perplexed.

“No, there is no ’70s theme.”

He looks blankly at all the furniture I point out as case-winning exhibits. He shuffles off and I don’t talk to him for the rest of the evening.

I wake the next morning feeling a little less confident, but as they say; failure is not in falling down, but falling down again as you try to get up. As we head out to take in the crème de la crème of Hastings’ tourist attractions I approach the receptionist. This time I take a less decisive stance.

“I’ve noticed a bit of a ’70s theme here.” Pause. No Reaction. “Erm, is there a bit of a ’70s theme?”

I follow it up with a look that tries to say it’s great if it is but if it isn’t then that’s okay too.

“The hotel was actually re-furbished not too long ago.”

Quickly, I grab a brochure off the desk and change the subject.

“The Hastings Pier looks great. They say it’s the largest pier in the UK.”

“It’s been closed for the last 5 years and is close to being condemned.”

Right then.

We walk outside and skirt around the perimeter of the pier. It looks dilapidated and the supporting beams seem ready to collapse at the next aggressive swell. We clamber down onto the beach and crunch our way over the pebbles to get a better vantage point.

A large tattered sign on the side of the pier reads: “You Can Save Me. www.hpwrt.co.uk”. We stare at this for a while and then crunch our way back to the high street and head off to the seaside promenade for a cappuccino.

As I raise the coffee mug to my mouth the vestibule reminds me of my dad when he still had a shock of blond hair and smoked Rothmans. And that’s when it hits me.

Looking around, everything looks like it belongs to a past era, but not in retro designer way like our hotel.

Out here in the streets of Hastings we’re in the grim ’70s. The locals look weather beaten, like they still smoke 60 a day and clearly haven’t had the pleasure of the Office 2007 Ribbon. Seagulls swoop overhead in the grey sky and the icy drizzle stings my eyes.

Rows and rows of broken-down fishing boats are strewn across the beaches. A games arcade is empty and garish lights blink and beep in a lonesome non-hi-fi Dolby-less cacophony. The funfair in the distance clearly hasn’t opened in a while and a couple of ‘fun-fare engineers’ tinker away at one of the rides.

The drizzle turns to rain and we both shiver — possibly triggered by the ghostly essence of our surroundings, but probably because it’s winter and freezing. We both stand and head off to explore Hastings’ heritage.

“Perhaps we should have gone to Spain,” I say.

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