The last time I was in Blackpool, the girl in the café got the vegeburger out of the packet and put everything—the burger, bun, lettuce, pickles, everything—in the microwave. The beer gave a hangover just by looking at it.
This time I came forearmed by my editor, Alec Newman, whose family has holidayed there for four generations.
Seniors sells perfectly good fish and chips, far better than most grease joints that drown potato and fish fossil in recycled brylcreem. Mind you, good though Seniors was, we got better fish and chips at The Shepherds Inn, Langwathby, while travelling north the next day.
The pub almost under the tower wasn’t called the punch and hammer, but it served a very good pale ale. It was a locals’ pub, too, a usually reliable sign of a lack of rip–off.
The trams rattle–rolled, and from them I realised Blackpool is serious about its arts. There were some stunning installations on the promenade. I wonder if this city would be a good place to set up a revolutionary arts community? It’s cheap, the major requirement for an arts community, and it has light, which helps a lot too. Furthermore, the middle class so hate the place that it’d keep the deeply destructive, self–appointed guardians of the fit and proper, far far away.