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Weekend in Blackpoo

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Six go mad in Blackpool….

Imagine this if you will:

a seriously classy golfing hotel with its own course. The clientele are generally wealthy golfers who probably own their own yachts and have names like Roland and Percival. They’re sitting down to a nice dinner at their weekend golfing break and talking about share prices or how Tabitha is doing at the gymkhana. Then five fruitcakes with grins like the Cheshire cat enter the room and take their place at the table before they begin to heckle the waiters, complain about the rolls, laugh outrageously and talk about poo in a jar (still not sure where that conversation came from.) I guess we just aren’t classy people.

But the hotel was seriously nice, which is good considering we were there to celebrate the demise of Hotspur’s freedom. Staying in the hotel and playing golf there were five of us. Hotspur (the groom-to-be) has been mentioned in this journal before. The best man (who we should call Scouser) has not, nor have Caesar or Moving man (temporary names as I don’t know them well enough for a really good moniker) and of course myself.

Of golf I can say only this: Not what I expected. I’ve never played a hole of golf in my life before, but I was pleasantly surprised with how it turned out. Over the two days I played a total of 30 holes. I did 13 the first day and then we made a run for the hotel, getting inside only minutes before an angry god threw the north sea at us through a sieve. The next day I played 17 holes, refusing to try the 18th as I’d have been finishing right under the eyes of all the Tarquins in the bar. I actually won 2 holes and drew a 3rd. I’m quite impressed with that altogether. I wouldn’t say I’m ready for a links course or anything like that, but I managed not to completely embarrass myself. Plus I almost concussed only two people when my ball swept through a massive slice ending up on someone else’s fairway! Humorous moments included the water hazards that claimed more balls than a castration clinic, Hotspur driving a golf cart for the first time, including emergency stops and wheelspin and all sorts, and the Scouser throwing a tremendously funny fit over the failure of one of his clubs to perform. In three shots his ball moved about the same number of feet. There was some grumbling, I have to say.

Since there were only five of us staying at the hotel, I miraculously got a twin room to myself. Not sure whether this is because of my snoring (which makes a similar sound to the collapse of a marble quarry) but in any case it was nice. Much nicer than for other people I suspect, citing the case of next door, where a twin was shared between Hotspur and the Scouser. Scouser awoke in the morning and turned over to see Hotspur spread-eagled on the bed, naked as the day he was born and displaying the last turkey in the shop. Poor Scouser was still getting involuntary twitches hours later.

The evening out, where we met up with the-IT-man to form a six-man posse was also fun. We received orders from the scouser that we must wear outrageous shirts and wigs and all did so apart from IT-man who apparently wasn’t told. Still, he got away lightly. We should in theory have been the most outrageously dressed people in Blackpool that night, but we were upstaged in many ways.

Blackpool has to be the tackiest place in the whole of Britain (and that’s not just my morbid fear of all things Lancashire talking.) It’s a run-down place that reeks of faded glory when it was a true tourist trap in the 1930s. Now it’s just tacky and dishevelled. There were quite a number of stag and hen do’s going on around town, but none of them came close to the noise and boisterousness of the Blackpool FC fans who’d just watched their team whooping the ass of Oldham Athletic, who turned out not to be so athletic after all. Hmmm. Does being an Oldham fan make you an Athletic supporter?

And even the football fans could not hold a candle to the other main event in Blackpool on Saturday. We knew something was going on when in the morning 3 floats went by covered in tacky, over made-up people of indeterminate gender in underwear. Yes, it was the gay pride parade. Well done on choosing the date guys.

Not that I have anything against this kind of thing, but it puts something of a cramp on the style of a lad’s night out when you’re surrounded by camp men often dressed as women. Every bar we went in had a gents’ toilet with a flamboyant attendant offering free make up and other luxury items. When you tried to leave the room without plumping your eyelashes or rouging your cheeks the camp attendant would scream blue murder at you. Plus two of us got our asses pinched several times by men (the crowd was so thick you couldn’t tell who’d done it) and the woman (who was definitely a woman) who seemed to be out to get me could conceivably have been Godzilla’s mother. I spent some time hiding I can tell you.

Hotspur made some vague comment during dinner about himself as Roger Ramjet. None of us can understand how the comment came about (much like the poo-in-a-jar conversation) or could press for any further information, but next time I visit the Hotspur house I must keep my eye open for a Roger Ramjet costume.

Now I am tired and sunburned and back at work.



Written by SJAT

December 24, 2010 at 12:26 pm

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