When Mr PBBB isn't writing about beer, he's trying to be a travel writer, and as part of this package, I sometimes get to go to really lovely places. And sometimes I get to go to Blackpool.
The last time I was in Blackpool, I was competing in some sort of Young Pianist competition. All I remember is that I played a Grieg sonata well enough to come 3rd in the age category above me. The girl who won went on to be Young Musician of the Year and a celebrated professional pianist. I ended up in PR. Go figure.
Anyway, this time I got to sample the full smorgasboard that Blackpool has to offer, which, because I'm not 10 this time, included The Dream Boys (a tongue-in-cheek oh stop laughing at the back) male strip act with 'full nudity' (if that was a real todger I'm Thora Hird) and Legends (a lookalikey show that demanded 'no photography' presumably because they didn't want people saying 'he looks more like Neil Kinnock than Neil Diamond'). All I can say is that they were very enthusiastic and no-one fell off the stage.
Astonishingly, given that Blackpool is the deep fried capital of that bit of England, I also managed to find a jacket potato with cottage cheese, a perfectly respectable spaghetti bolognese and a chicken caesar salad that was mainly edible.
By the time I left, the sun had come out and I sort of got it. The sea's nice, there are donkeys on the beach, more 2p falls than you can shake your purse at and it's built for people to have Fun. But when the sun's behind the clouds, the wind is sand-blasting your eyeballs and everyone's shivering in their anoraks, it's grim grim grim. (If there isn't a hotel called "The Three Brothers" there should be).
So, Blackpool is ticked off the list. Mr PBBB is still there and I'm regrouping before packing up for The Green Man festival in Wales and....no, I can't.....my fingers are seizing up.....I've got rictus.....GOING TO PONTINS IN PRESTATYN.
And on that note, I wish you a peaceful and serene good night.