One thing I secretly quite like about colds is the feeling of expelling all the bad stuff when it hits its sniffling snotting peak (usually on day three, for me). Surely this is why the common cold is so often the desert to a dinner of stress…
Maybe this is why I’m thinking of going back to London tomorrow: judging by the amount of snot I’m producing, most of the bad stuff must be out of me, distributed around various toilet bowls and bins, safely discarded with pieces of tissue for company.
Tonight I’m going to sample dinner at the Imperial, mainly because I fear a lack of non-deep fried options outside. So, a feast of English stodge beckons. I’m still ruing not ordering the knickerbocker glory at the Midland. No sign of those here. Just faux footballers’ wives fresh from three hour tanning sessions. Satsumas. Actually I fancy some English stodge now. Time to eat.
Categories: Holiday in the North
My cold has dissuaded me from going to the hotel gym. The man in the red and white striped football shirt and stubbly face and head also helped. As did the five families’ worth of children who helpfully warned everyone in earshot that they were scheduled to spend the next two hours in the adjacent swimming pool.
So I’ve swapped gym sweat and pool piss for Campari and soda and a window seat. The sunset is warm through the large bay window.
Sadly I’ve decided that rather than the faded seaside glamour of Ramsgate, Margate and maybe-just-about Morecambe, Blackpool is more a breeding ground for hens, stags and slags.
True there is a light peppering of nostalgic grannies revisiting ‘that old bar that used to be the place to be’ and a few non-feral youths (holding onto their parents for dear life), but predominant vibe is that of a knocking shop for sixteen year olds who are paving the way for their council house upgrade by working towards their second or third child. It is sad.
Categories: Holiday in the North
One pleasing anomaly to the recurrent theme of chavs, children and chips is the northern pier and its delightfully deserted sun lounge. Like a Victorian greenhouse filled with plastic white chairs (loungers).
This is probably the quietest part of Blackpool, populated for the past hour or so by just a couple of grannies and a pair of deflated mums (children pinging off the walls in the arcade). Happily the Fosters/Stella bar was abandoned, giving the whole place a touch of Mary Celeste.
In fact the whole pier was quite a treat, with die hard over-60s sunning themselves through sunglasses, gritted teeth and protective glass on the promenade section. Occasionally shut in the event of high winds. Diving is not permitted.
The two clinically obese girls with very tight bootcut jeans and figure-hugging McKenzie gym vests synchronising to the responsive dance mat game in the arcade was curiously mesmerising, if not one of the most amusing things I’ve seen. I didn’t dare to look for longer than a couple of seconds.
From a safe distance. Substantial gold earrings look dangerous if you jump while wearing them.
Categories: Holiday in the North
I’m starting to think that greasy spoon cafes and heart attacks might actually correlate. Positively. For the second time in two days I’ve found myself sitting among the locals in a cafe listening to them discussing the time a friend/family member collapsed. In the cafe. That time the ambulance ‘ad to be called…
This time it was someone’s mum, having took a funny turn after taking one of those pills from that Holland and Barrett. Last week. Either she had it mixed in with one of the many fried eggs in her Full English or the shock of trying to ingest something healthy made her body to say NO. She were as red as a lobster.
I could have powered an eco-bus with the spare oil on my haddock and chips.
All I want now is pasta and a warm shower. I think I might go home tomorrow despite the lack of the latter. The north west is like another country and while a lot of the people are friendly, I don’t fit in. Lesbian Hair aside, I have honestly never seen so many teenage mothers, bright white trainers and Nike twinsets. No jeans here.
Categories: Holiday in the North
Blackpool beach looking north with the tower in view
Is different from Morecambe. And I fear the initial impression I got when exiting Blackpool North train station won’t be easily shifted.
Very tatty, very run down and very poor. I crossed the road more times than strictly necessary to avoid a selection of tramps, frightening bright tight white trousers and quite frankly, dirty young men. In need of a wash.
It’s much busier than Morecambe, perhaps explaining why I was terrified for the first two hours which I foolishly spent wandering around the southern section of promenade – the most fearsome part of the town. Hen nights and stag parties are welcomed.
I chose a hotel on the quieter northern section called the Imperial. Turns out it is where the Labour party had their last Blackpool-based party conference. Tony Blair’s crash pad of choice. Home of the Number 10 bar and the Churchill Suite. Imposing communal areas. And hoards of holidaying children everywhere.
Categories: Holiday in the North
Morecambe ARCADE
There are a lot of loafers in Morecambe. Surely, there should not be so many young men on the streets on a Monday morning?
I’ve just seen Full Blend Feral, loitering outside the Post Office. Faces that look like they’ve put up with everything from the weather to the wife, as well as the occasional cheekbone fracture. Teeth are a relative luxury. Gritty, spotty, leathery skinned youths who could be anywhere between 15 and 25. They look bored and a little sad. It is a little sad.
If the ‘Lesbian Hair’ boy-on-the-bike I saw yesterday was a little bit feral, then this lot are the mangy cat that not only shits on the floor but scratches it into the carpet and walks it up the stairs, before jumping out of the kitchen window and going after next door’s unneutered bitch. Phew.
Categories: Holiday in the North
Deco building, the home of the Morecambe branch of Woolworths. Until a couple of months ago.
It’s still raining, possibly with more intensity than it was earlier. In this land of tracksuits and twinsuits I’m happily trapped in my white modernised bubble. Quite literally, as I’m not equipped for a soaking.
I’ve toyed with the idea of visiting the amusement arcade across the road (Cooper’s) but vetoed the plan for fear of finding myself in the feral youth version of a hornet’s nest. The thought of all those damp underage grey Nike tracksuits, hair gel and excess Lynx is nasty and unlikely to mix well with my Lesbian Haircut.
The Reebok factory outlet smelt a bit Lynxy when I took a quick tour this morning but, by visiting at 11am I ensured the only other people around were two slick shop assistants and a couple of teenage mothers with their broods and multi-buggies. Two for one, cheapest item free, applies to all stock.
Feral youths never leave the house before 2pm. Fact. The shops that seem to do the most business here are greasy spoon cafes (AM) and pubs (PM, but some AM too). The charity shops provide a refuge for the women whose children are too old to be taken shopping by their parents.
Categories: Holiday in the North
A couple walking their Borzoi in front of the Midland Hotel
Almost every photograph I’ve seen of this white deco dream hotel has a whiff of unrealisticism about it. All the people look both happy and beautiful as they indulge their holiday whims. In Utopia. Their pets too. It really could be.
I like the minimalism of it all. There could be more chairs but there aren’t. I wonder if there could be more people. There are only 44 rooms. Is that enough? And is there a need for such a large reception area? Yes. I require space to appreciate this fine work.
Outside the hotel are deserted arcades and vast wastelands of beach/silt/cockles. And a few tatty cafes. It will be interesting to see how Blackpool compares. It promises to be the antithesis in every way. Loud, trashy, cheap, bright lights, busy, B+B, pleasure beach, Butlins, hens and stags.
Categories: Holiday in the North
Eric Gill (sans) designed sea horse sculptures on the outside of the Midland Hotel
I’m the only person left in the conservatory and the silence is blissful. There is 21st century parlour music possibly coming from the restaurant next door and the distant rattle of cups and saucers, with occasional cutlery.
Morecambe is full of rain and while the sky is dazzling me with its pale greyness there is not a jot of sunlight. The sea is a marginally darker shade of grey and I am becoming happier by the minute at the lack of internet access. The lawn is the most colour-saturated thing I’ve seen in the north west.
The Eric Gill (sans) medallion on the ceiling above the circular stairwell was inspired by the following William Wordsworth poem:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not–Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
WW
Unspeakably beautiful.
Categories: Holiday in the North
The terrace outside the Midland Hotel's Rotunda bar
Apparently Morecambe doesn’t have any internet cafes. And the Midland Hotel has wifi only for those who bring their laptops on holiday. So I will have to book my room in Blackpool when I get there. Wild.
As the hotel receptionist said when I asked him about getting online, “there’s not much in Morecambe.” How true. All the locals must be able to get internet through their satellite dishes, or don’t care what happens outside the town.
I have a cold. I’m wearing orange socks. Instead of using the gym/going for a run I just had a roast beef, caramelised onion and horseradish sandwich with a Campari and soda in the hotel’s Rotunda bar. Divine. And amazingly, less than £10.
Categories: Holiday in the North
