32. Blackpool

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June 6^th, 7^th and 8^th

Fifty-six down the M6, very busy, along the M55 then off at a roundabout, nearly getting killed by a psychopath driving an articulated Cemex lorry who went postal because I got in the correct lane at the roundabout and overtook me on the inside on the roundabout. I counted to ten and retired shaken. Life's too short.

 

Blackpool Tower and Pleasure Beach

Pleasant site here between Blackpool and Lytham St. Anne's, so will try to visit both. The bus service runs only from Monday to Friday, so I may have to cycle in to Blackpool. Lytham, by the way, used to be the home of the headquarters of the Football Association, but I imagine they have moved to Monte Carlo or New York. Appropriately named, the FA. They have delivered our national game into the hands of thieves, precisely by doing sweet FA. Rant over.

"Big Blue"

The day which promised much has now (2pm) clouded over and I hear heavy rain is forecast tomorrow. No problem.

Why did I come to Blackpool? Well, mainly to confirm what I devoutly hope, that it has improved since the last time I came (and the only time) about twenty years ago. It can't have got worse. I came before on an outing with some colleagues from work (the Mutants, in fact). There is a word, but I don't know what it is, for something that is so bad that it's good. That's how this outing was. It started at a pub near Euston Station. When we left to get the train, a dog had done the most enormous pile of poo just outside the door. We all missed it, but it was an omen and it all went downhill after that. The 'hotel' had a leaky ceiling and a drunken landlady. We couldn't find anything recognisable as a decent pub anywhere and had to settle for a Yates's Wine Lodge, drinking 'Aussie White' wine. We had a Chinese which gave me the worst flatulence I've ever had and which proved nearly fatal to my friends. We ended in a club which was a sort of prefab painted entirely black inside where nothing seemed to happen, where time seemed to stand still and life seemed a distant memory. The next day we went for a healthy walk all along the promenade and admired the sea, which seemed to consist of eighty per cent sewage and in which large lumps could be seen bobbing. Things became bearable only when we found a great pub in a Preston back-street while waiting to change trains on the way home. Sadly, we had time for only one drink. One brave soul had a British Rail curry on the train which consisted of a spoonful of rice, a pool of yellow liquid and a single lump of meat in the middle of it. Of course, it being Stuart Orchard, he wolfed it with relish.

The Tower and "The Albert and the Lion"

I did a good deal of planning with the idea of cycling to the sea-front then right along the promenade to the north side of Blackpool and back again. My route would avoid some of the really vile dual-carriageways I saw yesterday and their homicidal drivers. There don't seem to be any speed limits on these roads. It's a bit like some parts of LA where it's almost illegal to walk anywhere and certainly a sign of insanity. My attempt to walk to Tesco yesterday to catch a bus to town was nerve-racking to say the least, especially the bit where I had to cross two lanes of one of these highways of death. I was also risking drowning in the litter which covered the verges. Tesco had to manage without my custom. I saw the bus I was trying to catch three times, always disappearing round a corner, but I never saw a bus stop. Anyway, I digress. My cycling plans came to nought because it poured with rain nearly all day. It's sunny now (at 18:00) so I'm hopeful for tomorrow. It should be a really enjoyable ride. I've just heard it's forty-four degrees in Montreal. I thought Canada was a cold country; this one certainly is so far this year.


Mmmm, that adds a bit of class

Sunday, my last day here, and a great cycle-ride, thirty-two km., all the way along the seafront from St. Anne's to past the North Pier at Blackpool, mostly off the road on cycle paths and on the promenade. Off to the north was a faint view of hills, presumably in the west of the Lake District and a vast wind-farm out in the sea, off, I should think, Barrow in Furness. The funfair bit about Blackpool is not really my scene, but you have to admire a superlative when you see one. This place has really gone for it and it's pretty awesome. Lots of spectacularly naff buildings, but my favourite was a great art deco block next to the Tower which houses a Weatherspoon's pub called “The Albert and the Lion”. This is named after the Stanley Holloway song about a boy who goes to Blackpool zoo and gets eaten by Wallace the lion.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,

And didn't know what to do next,


Said " Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert,"

And Mother said " Well, I am vexed!"

Then Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom,

Quite rightly, when all's said and done,


Complained to the Animal Keeper,

That the Lion had eaten their son.

 

 

This morning, enjoying my shower, I was looking forward to my bike ride and telling myself not to forget to wear my cycling shorts. Oh bliss, no more sore backside. That reminded me about the silly books titles we used to invent at school:-

 

“Cycling from Pole to Pole” by Major Bumsore

“Tragedy on the Cliffs” by Eileen Dover

“My Life as a Lion-Tamer” by Claud Bottom

Ah, simple, innocent pleasures, and we were only eighteen.  

The Albert and the Lion