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.