I went to Blackpool once. It was like walking through a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Hoardes of topless blokes hung out of pub windows, yelling, drooling, puking, pissed. Out on the streets there was shouting, fighting, bum-showing and bottle throwing – and that was just the ladies on hen-dos. Their male counterparts were mainly passed out in their own bodily fluids – even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see imps with pitchforks come along and start loading them onto carts… But what I actually saw was a woman wearing “L” plates trying to touch a donkey’s privates.
It was then that I decided to go home.
God obviously can’t see Blackpool. If he could, he’d burn it.