Many of you (when you have followers numbering less than ten but more than five - you can use the word Many with true authority) will be wondering...did Tom die? Where exactly did he go? I've not seen him back at work since Covid. This is awkward...
As someone far more famouser than me once said "I am very much still alive!". That was either Oscar Wilde, Beyonce or Leo Sayer.
Quick recap. The floppy haired Wurzel Gummidge impersonator who'd been moonlighting as PM is finally gone. Liz Truss (Liz who?) managed to shag an already defunct economy within approximately 3 seconds of becoming the new PM, no-one can be bothered to die of Covid any longer because the entire country is officially on strike. Dogs, Cats, Train drivers, Civil Servants, Nurses, Teachers, Ambulance drivers, even the aardvarks in Chester zoo are manning a blazing oil drum as we speak and protesting at the shitshow of a government. I just remortgaged the house for a lump of coal and sold my children just so we could pay for some leccy. There's a horrific war in Europe and we are currently 90 seconds to midnight thanks to the loon in charge of Russia.
On the upside... I'm a celebrity was pretty good this year.
If I get back in my HG Wells time-machine and check my Iphone pictures I can just about remember that the Autumn highlight of 2021 was seeing the wider family along the Welsh borders near Haye-on-Wye. We mainly learnt that Daisy nearly shits herself if she hears a shotgun go off. This is not good when you are staying in a massive old house in the deepest Welsh countryside. The Welsh tend to fire warning shots at rabbits and Englishmen every few minutes.
Sis had booked a magical ancient old manor house which wouldn't have looked out of place in a Bronte Novel. Which meant, I was rather disappointed when the wife failed to come down for supper, at Evensong, in her low level boddice-popping outfit. And she was pretty gutted I hadn't transmogrified into Colin Firth in tight leggings.
Fintan and Dec played some classical sonatas and waltzes on the harpsicord whilst we danced around the main ballroom.
I rode my first ever pommel horse indoors, whilst wearing an assortment of headwear. It was great to chill with sis and enjoy meeting up at last.
Against all odds, we found ourselves in 2022 and vowed it would be better than the two previous years. I can now report that it too was fairly shit - pockmarked with brief moments of joy before slipping back into total misery. It made the Fields of the Nephilim gig I saw with Simon seem positively tree-huggingly upbeat.
I fulfilled a twenty year New Year's resolution and finally visited Barcelona with the family.
Yes - we arrived at the airport without face-masks and then landed in Spain and had to put them on (like the Covid bug has some sort of inbuilt super ability to respect international borders?).
Gaudi blew us away. His park, his bonkers wibbly wobbly houses and holy shit - that Cathedral. Genuinely, walking into the Sagrida Familia made me cry. The shafts of coloured light blasting through the walls. It felt like I'd walked into a giant version of the Mos Cantina on Mos Eisley built by a crazed acid-fuelled madman. To think on such a scale...through time....and into history. What a guy. Getting flattened by a tram outside though...that's a real bummer.
Near the end of 2022.
We tick another item off the bucket list.
The weekend before we set off for Blackpool there were
headline stories basically alikening Blackpool to Beirut but with a worse drug problem and shitter buildings. But there’s nothing that some penny arcades,
bright lights, candy floss and shit-tonne of alcohol can’t hide. Blackpool is basically the 90 year old great
gran at the wedding with the pink lipstick smeared over her drooping face, the
face powder slapped on so heavy to cover the cracks, wearing the see through
mini-skirt whilst dancing on the table with a handful of wedding cake in one
hand, a bottle of Aldi prosecco in the other and a cigarette dangling from her
gob. Just before she tries to snog the groom
and then deck all the bridesmaids.
Our air b n B previously operated as some sort of hostel / knocking shop / slum circa 1958. But we are all very excited.
"Top of the Tower!!!!" I yell in excitement as we leave our house and walk through an alleyway littered with broken glass and crap.
"Kids - we are not to walk back through this alley later tonight," I warn them. We all agree.
Walking down the windswept seafront. You have to admire the beaten majesty of the place. It must have been stunning in its heyday (back before tv was invented and Charlie Chaplin was still cutting edge).
A mile away, we spot the great Blackpool Tower. It's genuinely thrilling.
We trudge towards it. An army of kids running ahead of us. Beanie hats and wolf hat wrapped down around their ears against the arctic northern cold. Grown-ups plodding along behind.
And then we're there. We get in the lift and make our way to the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. Strange music that reminds me of the Ballroom scene in the Shining drifts towards us.
I open the door and am not prepared for the inside. We all gasp.
This would be a Ballroom Dancers wet dream. There are 70 year old men in sequins dragging other men in spangly tops. There are young glamorous couples doing some fancy cha cha cha moves and twirling each other about like extras in Dirty Dancing. And the building itself. It's like finding a gleaming set of crown jewels buried in a sack of shit.
We go to the bar and me and Steve order many pints.
We head upstairs where Lucy and Sarah have found a good vantage to view the spectacle.
"Look at them... is that a throuple? I bet he's shagging both of them..." I suggest.
"Look at that guy. He's amazing!" I say. He is middle-aged, well built and wearing a classic Yorkshire flat cap and tweed waistcoat. The epitome of coolness.
"Noooo....." we all shout out from the balcony. Spitting out our beer. He walks off the famous Strictly dance-floor, feels for a table and then grabs his white walking stick. I feel truly humbled.
After a few more trips to the bar. Us grown up parents decide to surprise the kids.
"I'm well nervous. This is scarier than I thought..." I say.
"I can't do it..." says Sarah.
"Come on! It'll be fine..." but I feel like the wallflower hovering at the side of the dancefloor at the school disco all over again. All the other couples look semi-pro. Some are even just semi everything judging by their tight lycra trousers.
We shut our eyes and, rather like Nemo's dad as he joins the Turtles on the Pacific Jet stream, we find ourselves joining the throng, whooshing along and waltzing our way counter clockwise as a man who has recently magically appeared from within the bowels of the Tower on a giant Wurlitzer serenades us with a sprightly waltz.
The kids are half gob-smacked and half beyond embarrassment as we roll off the floor. The floor itself is surprisingly springy. Like a running track cross bred with a muted trampoline.
"Wooooo!" we are exilerated as we leave the floor. Taking our bows from the couples having their afternoon tea in fits of giggles at our complete ineptitude.
The day gets better.
"Declan...get in the carriage..." I demand.
"No dad...no..." says Declan.
"I want to get in Dad - can I?" says Caitlin. Fintan and his mate Oliver look on with casual disinterest.
"But why not Dec?"
"Because it's a giant pink Disney carriage being drawn by a horse down the main road. It's embarrasing dad!"
"Come on...it'll be fun. When else are you gonna get the chance to sit in a horse drawn carriage like a Princess?" I suggest.
"Exactly. A princess!" he says.
We fail to negotiate with the Horse owner and get in anyway. By the end of the trip down the road and past all the Illuminations....we are all converted. Giant neon pink horse drawn carriage is the way I shall travel everywhere from now on. Period.
We wander into the arcades and blow at least two thousand pounds in 2 pence pieces before heading down the pier for officially the worst kids entertainment show ever (bonus being they served beer).
To top if off, we head to the Pepsi Max Big One and the rollercoasters with sore heads and a shabby three mile walk on the Sunday.
At one point I scream the F word repeatedly for two minutes as this ride loops me up, down, sideways and inside out. I feel bad. Frankie is besides me and only young. She appears totally unphased and demands we go on it instantly again.
We rock up to the last big ride of the day. We watch it whizz by and the boys and me stop in our tracks.
"Shall we give it a miss guys?" I mean - the Wallace and Grommit ride is looking a little more my style right now. But no - Frankie is insistent.
I genuinely feel that I might die of fear. It's not like I'm young these days. Last time I was here was with Nottingham Uni when I was 21. And my mate Mally thought he was gonna die then. How I laughed at his displeasure. And lo - here I am in his shoes.
I survive. We drive home and I know that I have a new found love for this shit-tip. This great city. Blackpool.
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