After an amazingly sexy weekend away in Germany, I was trying to decide where it ranked in my 'not-written-down-because-I'm-not-that-sad' list of every holiday I've ever been on. Short answer is: Dunno.
I've been on so many genius holidays - The Honeymoon Suite at Center Parcs, Brighton 2008, Southend, Alcudia, Roquetas De Mar 2008, Halkidiki, Prague, Portugal - that it's really hard to choose where to place it on this list wot only exists in my head, honest.
Ask me to name the WORST holiday, however, and I have no trouble.
Blackpool.
Don't go. Seriously. Avoid like the plague.
Hands-down the most depressing, skanky, wanky coastal town (that they forgot to close down, come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come...) that I have ever had the misfortune to visit.
From the racist undertones of the seaside "cabaret" to the eye-watering smell of actual, proper shit liberally scattered over the beach... Being there was like stepping into a land designed to be the complete OPPOSITE of Brighton. I was SO disappointed.
The Golden Mile sounded nice and inviting.
But then, if you think about it, so does a Golden Shower.
In reality, both are down-right dirty and wrong. And smelly. And seedy. And unhygienic. And - once again, for emphasis - down-right dirty and wrong.
The main reason for venturing to Blackpool was the theme park, which - in all fairness - was amazing.
But the fact our hotel was MILES away meant a half-hour walk through the vileness of the ramshackle seafront to get to the wonderfulness of Valhalla or Wild Mouse. It completely ruined what could have been a great holiday.
(Of course, it doesn't help that I went with a young gentleman caller, who dramatically started a fight on our last day... with the toilet door)
But if I haven't provided you with enough evidence for why you shouldn't go to Blackpool - as if shit on the beach wasn't enough?! - here is another:
Anyone who has been on Brighton Pier with me will know how much I like to win cuddly toys. (Who said "Grow up"...?!)
So I merrily approached the Hoopla, en route to the theme park, and tried to win something. With every throw, it seemed like I was getting better and better; closer and closer to the prize. I was nearly there. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.
Seventy quid later, I had to walk away...
Seventy pissing quid! Gone.
The smooth-talking dicktard of a CONMAN on the stall kept promising champagne (which I thought would be a nice, romantic thing to win) or a wad of cold, hard cash or a giant Tigger (less romantic). He would move the targets closer to me if I handed over more cash. It seemed like he genuinely wanted me to win. I gave him money, the targets got closer, the chance of winning got easier and easier. A no-brainer, yes?
Except the whole game was designed so that NO-ONE could win. There was more chance of me marrying TV's sexy Susan Hampshire than winning this Hoopla game, no matter how close he moved the targets. Because they were built in a way that made winning impossible.
Regard:
I've been on so many genius holidays - The Honeymoon Suite at Center Parcs, Brighton 2008, Southend, Alcudia, Roquetas De Mar 2008, Halkidiki, Prague, Portugal - that it's really hard to choose where to place it on this list wot only exists in my head, honest.
Ask me to name the WORST holiday, however, and I have no trouble.
Blackpool.
Don't go. Seriously. Avoid like the plague.
Hands-down the most depressing, skanky, wanky coastal town (that they forgot to close down, come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come...) that I have ever had the misfortune to visit.
From the racist undertones of the seaside "cabaret" to the eye-watering smell of actual, proper shit liberally scattered over the beach... Being there was like stepping into a land designed to be the complete OPPOSITE of Brighton. I was SO disappointed.
The Golden Mile sounded nice and inviting.
But then, if you think about it, so does a Golden Shower.
In reality, both are down-right dirty and wrong. And smelly. And seedy. And unhygienic. And - once again, for emphasis - down-right dirty and wrong.
The main reason for venturing to Blackpool was the theme park, which - in all fairness - was amazing.
But the fact our hotel was MILES away meant a half-hour walk through the vileness of the ramshackle seafront to get to the wonderfulness of Valhalla or Wild Mouse. It completely ruined what could have been a great holiday.
(Of course, it doesn't help that I went with a young gentleman caller, who dramatically started a fight on our last day... with the toilet door)
But if I haven't provided you with enough evidence for why you shouldn't go to Blackpool - as if shit on the beach wasn't enough?! - here is another:
Anyone who has been on Brighton Pier with me will know how much I like to win cuddly toys. (Who said "Grow up"...?!)
So I merrily approached the Hoopla, en route to the theme park, and tried to win something. With every throw, it seemed like I was getting better and better; closer and closer to the prize. I was nearly there. Nearly. Nearly. Nearly.
Seventy quid later, I had to walk away...
Seventy pissing quid! Gone.
The smooth-talking dicktard of a CONMAN on the stall kept promising champagne (which I thought would be a nice, romantic thing to win) or a wad of cold, hard cash or a giant Tigger (less romantic). He would move the targets closer to me if I handed over more cash. It seemed like he genuinely wanted me to win. I gave him money, the targets got closer, the chance of winning got easier and easier. A no-brainer, yes?
Except the whole game was designed so that NO-ONE could win. There was more chance of me marrying TV's sexy Susan Hampshire than winning this Hoopla game, no matter how close he moved the targets. Because they were built in a way that made winning impossible.
Regard:
I swore to this day that it was a fix, and that they were a bunch of conmen. I swore I wasn't just being a bad loser, bitter at the fact I was stupid enough to give them SEVENTY FUCKING PISSING QUID. And now, I feel vindicated. And a little bit smug that those Blackpool Bastards have been caught out. In the Daily Telegraph, no less.
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