It has a special place in my heart does Blackpool – a dark, dark place that natural light cannot penetrate – and thus this poster was done with an extra level of perverted affection. My own personal experiences of B-Pool are a mixed affair: For example, there was that freezing weekend one March when myself and my better half thought we’d take advantage of pre-season price cuts at the Pleasure Beach. Unfortunately, it appeared that every scally in a 100 mile radius also had the same idea and made it their business to gob on us while we queued in the rain for the Big One. They all had matching cold sores which I thought was an especially thoughtful touch. Anyway, the long and short of it is that no matter which you cut it, Blackpool is in a league of its own when it comes crapness. The tat, the scallies, the sense that something awful lurks behind every corner, the fact that before long anyone without a can of Carling in their hand before breakfast looks a bit weird – all of this conspires to give Blackpool it’s terrible, aberrant beauty. Say what you will, at least they take being unrelentingly ropy seriously.
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