I had vague fond memories of Beachcomber, nostalgia soaked memories of fillet steaks past. The pilgrimage from north to south pier was arduous into a head wind as I ran the gauntlet of hover boards and fidget spinners. I found myself at the final hurdle ascending the stairs of Beachcomber to its delicious meaty summit, alas this is where things went sour. Service was fine no qualms there. Front of house were far from the issue. The mixed starter was fresh from Iceland. A five minute flash in the deep fryer and the job was done but to be honest it was alright, the kind of snap you'd have for a lazy tea at home but let's talk steak. I don't like rare steak simple as that, I know some people do, but there's something about blood that doesn't do it for me so I ordered my steak medium. I couldn't live with myself I ever drew for the still mooing line so let's say it still had grass in its mouth or something like that. I alerted our member of waiting staff to the state of my rump and she eagerly whisked it away to return with what we both hoped may be an adequate replacement. 5-10 minutes passed while our lass happily scoffed her gammon. Finally it arrived the ultimate crescendo of anticipation a brand new steamy bad boy sizzling before my very eyes. I inspect this hunk of beast tentatively and delicately deliver my maiden incision. A Niagara falls esque tsunami of crimson erupts from this attempt leaving my scampi and chips doing the backstroke in an abatoirs overflow. I channeled my inner Ramsay and asked the waitress to come and observe my newest pressure washer of gore. She empathised, I left, I am hungry, the end.