Day Out in Blackpool
I first went to Blackpool with two friends in 2002. We’d seen an advert for The Syndicate, allegedly the UK’s biggest nightclub at the time and, as passionate clubbers (regulars in the one nightclub in Leeds that accepted our International Student fake IDs), we decided we needed to experience it. Accommodation was deemed unnecessary – we would simply stay in the club until it closed at 3 a.m., then whittle away the hours until the first train back to Leeds. No problem.
Armed with £60 between us and covered in unsociable quantities of Lynx and Dax wax, we shared a small bottle of Glen’s vodka on the train and barrelled into the first pub we saw. It was packed inside with a drag queen on stage singing “You Spin Me Round” by Dead or Alive. We walked towards the bar, heads down, and ordered three pints of Carling. The music stopped.
“Jesus Christ,” the drag queen shouted into the microphone. “Has the school bus pulled up outside? Where are your lunchboxes, lads?”
We left our pints, decided against any other pubs, and arrived at The Syndicate at 9.30 p.m., the second the doors opened. Following a short queue, the bouncers allowed us in which was exciting - there is no situation in adult life which can replicate the thrill of getting into a nightclub underage – but we had a predominantly bad time. The drinks were overpriced for our paper round budgets, the numerous dancefloors were filled with muscular adult men in Lambretta t-shirts, and the women of Blackpool astonishingly showed little interest in three rake-thin 16-year-olds wearing what appeared to be their dad’s work shirts.
We’d spent all our money by midnight but, with nowhere else to go, had to remain in the vast, intimidating nightclub until the bitter end. When we finally escaped, we aimlessly stomped the windy streets of Blackpool, barely talking to each other. For 3 hours. At one point, my pal identified a potential bed under a wooden table outside a pub. When he tried to clamber in, however, it turned out that a bearded man had beaten him to it and we were told, in no uncertain terms, to find alternative sleeping arrangements.
Fast forward twenty years, I hoped a trip with my wife and two children would be a smoother experience involving fewer men swearing at us from beneath tables. We had, at least, sourced accommodation this time around, and stayed at my auntie and uncle’s house in Poulton-le-Fylde. They were great hosts and, after the boys had gone to bed, plied Louise and me with good food and wine until 1 a.m. It was a lovely night.
At 3 a.m., I was woken up by shouting.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Not lovely.
Bleary-eyed, I trudged through to Jacob’s room.
“What’s up?”
“I had a nightmare. There was a monster who had spikes for legs.”
“Monsters with spikes for legs aren’t real, son.”
I didn’t tell him that, at that moment, I felt like I had spikes inside my head.
He eventually settled again but, by 6.30 a.m., he was in our bed, kicking me in the kidneys.
“Can you be the tickle monster, Daddy?”
“Not right now, buddy. Maybe later.”
At 9.30 a.m., we were queuing up alongside fatigued parents and shouting children at Sandcastle’s, the UK’s biggest indoor waterpark. Why does everything in Blackpool have to be so big?
Would it be unreasonable to change plans and go to the cinema? I thought, considering the appeal of sitting down and eating a large bag of Tangfastics. That said, we went to see the latest Trolls film recently and it was about as relaxing as someone screaming in your face while flashing laser pens in your eyes.
I struggled to open our lockers with my electrical wristband for slightly too long and started to lose my rag/did lose my rag.
“Why is life so complicated these days? There was nothing wrong with the £1 locker system.”
Louise took my wristband from me, immediately opened the door, and looked, for a few seconds, like she no longer loved me.
The waterpark was an overwhelming sensory overload but mercifully the boys were fans of the lazy river which allowed us to drift around in rubber rings for 20 minutes. When we finally got out, Joshua eyed up a slide with a 6+ age restriction. Drawing parallels with my night at The Syndicate, we nervously queued up, hoping we could convince the gatekeeper – a teenage pool attendant – to admit us.
“How old is he?”
“Um, 6.”
“No, I’m not, Daddy. I’m 5.”
“Shh, Joshua!”
The teenager scowled and we briskly walked to a smaller slide which permitted parents to ride with their children. I sat Joshua on my lap, swung from the bar, and lay down, trying to pick up pace.
“Too fast, Daddy!’ Joshua started screaming. “Stop!”
When we clambered out of the pool, he was pale-faced, heart-pounding and unhappy. In the space of three minutes, I had encouraged my son to lie then, to overcompensate, tried far too hard to be A Fun Dad, and ended up terrifying him.
“I feel terrible,” I told Louise.
“Good. You should.”
After swimming, we took a stroll down the Promenade where it was drizzling, the wind was swirling, and the waves were smashing against the sea wall.
“Can we go for a paddle, Daddy?”
“Not right now, Jacob.”
Instead, we succumbed to the boys’ pleading and bought them each a large inflatable ball tied to a string from a street vendor. A bargain at £2 each, the boys pretended the balls were their pets, gave them names, and walked them back to the train station, delighted. I fear we are not far away from iPads and game consoles, so I need to appreciate these days of easy (budget) entertainment.
When we got back to my auntie and uncle’s house, Louise and I slumped on the sofa, exhausted. My uncle helped us out with a solid tickle monster shift for the boys before we stuck Unicorn Academy on Netflix on and I closed my eyes.
“Can we see the illuminations now, Daddy?” Joshua asked. “You promised.”
Children never forget.
“Sure.”
I offered to drive but instantly regretted it. It was rush hour, lashing it down, and the boys were loudly squabbling over the rightful ownership of a Squishmallow toy. While Louise muttered under her breath and massaged her temples, I took several wrong turns, stalled at a roundabout, and got stuck down a dead end resulting in a 37-point turn to escape. 2023 has been another consistent year for bus lane fines and there is every chance I will soon receive a letter from Blackpool Council to add to my collection.
We eventually made it to the Illuminations and thankfully the boys loved it, staring wide-eyed at Blackpool Tower and the miles of bright lights lining the streets. They were, though, mostly taken by the numerous street vendors selling light-up wands.
“Can we get one, Daddy?” Jacob asked, seeming to think I could manage the transaction whilst driving a car.
“No. We’ve already bought you a ball on a string today.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t light up.”
Fair point.
After their initial excitement dwindled, we crawled down the Promenade in near stand-still traffic for the next forty-five minutes which was arguably (definitely) too long. On the plus side, I spotted a man with a face tattoo smoking an enormous vape while riding a horse and carriage and how often can you say that?
Back at the house, the boys had a final frenzy of excitement, whacking each other with Squishmallows, before going to bed and Louise and I joined my auntie and uncle downstairs. After dinner, my uncle produced a second bottle of wine and I glanced at Louise whose eyes were now visibly drooping.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I need to call it a night.”
“At 9 p.m.?” he asked.
“Me too, I’m afraid,” I said, yawning.
Ashamed by our lack of stamina, we brushed our teeth in silence and were in bed by 9.15 p.m. Absolutely pathetic.
The Syndicate wouldn’t even be open yet.
***
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