A seaside town in winter, as I have mentioned before, is a beautifully bleak and grim place with a hint of sadness hanging over it. With the boarded up shops and locked amusement parks it is as if the place goes on hold until the sun comes out again, it's as if someone throws a switch and freezes the place in suspended animation. The shops that do open are purely functional apart from a smattering of resilient merchants who brave the cold on the off-chance that someone might want to buy a stick of rock and a kiss-me-quick hat. I bought a few old fashioned rude postcards and some sticks of rock to go with my souvenirs - I keep everything; travel tickets, food receipts, a stone and a piece of seaweed from the beach and a local newspaper.
The piers are closed, and the I wonder what the people on the tram are using it for at this time of the year. Of course during the summer it is handy for getting from one end of the promenade to another but this doesn't look like a commuter route but I suppose it is. I would like to organise an educational visit for the staff and management of the Nottingham tram company so they can see how a tram system is operated. Along the front, a few hotels are optimistically declaring that they have vacancies and in most cases have their Christmas decorations up, presumably as an enticement. What strikes me the most about Blackpool though (and this isn't meant in a derogatory way as everyone we encountered was friendly and welcoming) is that it knows exactly what it is and doesn't try to pretend otherwise. This is a working class resort that doesn't even know where the airs and graces are kept, never mind putting them on. Any town that has a Poundland, a B&M and a Sports Direct on the seafront is not a posh place to visit. A sad fact is that there's a lot of homelessness and poverty here, much like any other town or city I realise, and I'm hopeful that Blackpool has some way of trying to help, if only because it is fucking freezing here.
Walking around the town last night was a strange experience as it never seems to take long to walk into an area that looks dangerous, especially as we are strangers. It isn't intimidating as such but you do try and keep looking out for people lurking around. Having said that I do this in Nottingham or anywhere really.
What really impressed me though, was Blackpool's pride in its comedy legacy. I've already mentioned the pub The Albert and the Lion, which aside from the poem also displays old music hall and variety posters. Blackpool was once known as an entertainment mecca and although now a little shabby round the edges displays an affection for its heritage. There's the statue of Morecambe and Wise, the Comedy Carpet, and a pub that I sadly can't remember the name of with photographs of many of the famous people born in the town and a big display dedicated to Charlie Cairoli. Obviously Cairoli wasn't born in Blackpool (he was born in Milan) but made the place his home. After being presented with a watch by Adolf Hitler in 1939 he was performing in Blackpool in September of the same year when war war broke out. In protest, Cairoli walked to the end of the North Pier and threw the watch into the sea before deciding to stay.
And people think clowns are bad.
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