Blackpool is the quintessential British holiday resort, home of the piers, the Tower and the Pleasure Beach. It represents family holiday and personal solitude.
The alluring aroma that wafts across Talbot Street is undeniably the signature scent of Blackpool which is fried chip fat. This quintessential seaside town is home to countless establishments that sell chips and associated products throughout the famous and infamous promenade and piers. What seems like mile after mile of cheap B&B’s, tacky gift shops, pubs, amusement arcades, cliché t-shirt shops, burger outlets and traditional beach-side entertainment. This is the zenith of the z-list celebrity and the ultimate for the x-factor wannabee types. It represents the kitsch for the middle class and the height of irony for the cut-price hen night.
The place exudes thinly veiled boredom with entertainment as short-lived as the sugar rush from glucose-ridden candy floss. It hits the highs of the Big Dipper to the lows of the dilapidated lap-dancing bar.
People seem to be involved as families and as lonely as the lost umbrella on a windy day.
When the lights go out and the rides are shut, the chip fat frier turned off, the bar shut, the last song by the entertainer sung there is a silence akin to the moment the ventriloquist places his dummy in the suitcase. Now what!?