Blackpool: There’s No Need. Ever.

My first memory of Blackpool was a family trip to see the lights in the late 70s. We got caught in a downpour and I remember being sat, soaked to the skin in the back of my Dad’s Princess, feeling glad to to be going home.

Fast forward to a few years ago and I agreed to a return trip, expecting that Blackpool had experienced some kind of gentrification in the intervening 20+ years. How misguided could I be – It was like a war zone at 9pm, with staggering hen parties and chundering chavs littering the streets. And the Flying Handbag was without doubt the rankest gay pub I had ever been to.

I few weeks ago I made the mistake of a return visit with a group of friends and acquaintances, assuming that there would be safety in numbers. And there was, until the proprietor of our B&B spewed out his views on black people, the usual “chip on shoulder” comments, descending into the use of the phrases “Black c***” and “cotton picker”.

COTTON PICKER? Not the kind of phrase that trips off the tongue is it? Unless, of course, you have used it before. To say I was flabbergasted is an understatement. At first I was speechless. Then as the day wore on, so did my anger. And with a drab evening of a revolting kebab and a drag show with drunks in prospect, we cut our losses and left.

It was a reminder of one of the reasons why I left the North of England in the first place – because frankly I can’t stand bigots. And even more disgusting, this was racism coming from the mouth of a gay person. I wonder if he finds homophobia similarly amusing?

So I wonder what the future is for Blackpool now that the Super Casino isn’t happening? Apparently there are regeneration plans. Well you can can build all the luxury flats and malls you want, you can’t redevelop the people.

I will never again set foot in that sh*thole for as long as I live.

Chips and Ice Cream on the Pier

“Well, you know, with all this talk about global warming, we decided to reduce our carbon footprint and take our holiday in the UK, as flights are soooo damaging to the environment.” This will sound good at our next terribly middle class dinner party won’t it? But the truth is we couldn’t be arsed to go abroad and I can’t find my passport.

After a couple of days failing to leave the house, wedged on the sofa in front of the Virgin + box, we finally extracted ourselves and headed to London. Yes, we actually live in London, but when you live in the burbs and work outside of central London, it’s amazing how spending a few days enjoying what London has to offer actually feels like a holiday. When I say “what London has to offer” I mainly mean shopping and eating.

So we took in a couple of shows (reviews below) and dined at The Terrace in The Fields restaurant, described as “British favourites enlivened by classic French training and Caribbean background.” It’s always great to see high quality Caribbean food and the Jerk Chicken Caesar Salad and Snapper with Mango, served with Caribbean staple side dishes such as Rice and Peas (Jamaican style with kidney beans and coconut) and plantain were exquisitely seasoned and cooked to perfection.

The Chef is an admirer of renowned Scottish architect and designer Charles Rennie Macintosh, so we went to see the lovingly restored 78 Derngate, Northampton, a terraced house which was remodelled by Macintosh in his Art Nouveau style. Amazing but in places a little bit oppressive, the most striking thing was the fact the bathroom with its roll-top bath, huge shower head and mosaic-effect wallpaper looked startlingly modern. Which goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun.

We returned home to attend Paula and Pamela’s Civil Partnership (congratulations girls!) before setting off for Orford, Suffolk where we stayed at the Crown and Castle, which is owned by cookery writer and star of TV show the Hotel Inspector, Ruth Watson. Now as Ruth’s speciality is cookery and telling people how dirty their hotels are, it was a tiny bit disappointing to find food that The Chef could have cooked better at home and dust in our hotel room.

The hotel seemed entirely booked up by retired Colonels loudly scoffing at David Cameron’s green policies in the Daily Telegraph over breakfast. Orford itself has olde worlde architecture but little atmosphere, nearby Aldeburgh with its pebble beach and galleries had more charm.

To me, a British holiday isn’t a British holiday without fish and chips and an ice cream at the seaside so it was off to Great Yarmouth. The Fish and chips were fantastic, the rest felt like you were in a 1980s timewarp. Jim Davidson now deems himself too grand to perform on the pier anymore, which just about sums it up. And there is really no need to visit Kings Lynn, trust me. In fact I started to wonder what the point of Norfolk was at all.

Thank God for Brighton, were were spent a wonderful couple of days at The Griffin B&B. The proprietor, explaining the mysterious hooks on the ceiling beams and the skinheads still depicted on his outdated website, explained that it used to be a S&M hotel. The mind boggles. Although the big housing developers and chain coffee shops have besieged Brighton just as much as everywhere else, independent shops thrive in the Lanes, maintaining the essential character.

Friendly but high quality restaurants are ten a penny, and if bars with naff drag is your bag (not usually mine, but I stuck it out for an evening) then there’s that to. Add this to the eclectic mix of people and there’s no doubt Brighton is sill the best seaside resort for metrosexuals.

Before Mobile

I recently enjoyed a weekend in Snowdonia with the Chef and his parents. While the Chef and his dad tackled Snowdon, his mum and I ambled into Carnarvon in the Mini. The scenery was absolutely stunning, but there was a nagging fear at the back of my mind. It was the fear of being somewhere with absolutely no mobile reception.

It’s hard to remember what we did BM (Before Mobile). How on earth did I get through university without one? Looking back it was simple – you arranged to meet your friends somewhere and turned up where you said you would be, on time. It’s an earth shattering concept far removed from the lame texts you get from tardy friends blaming Transport for London when in fact they couldn’t avert their eyes from the Big Brother live feed.

In fact the most historic and quaint moment of the trip was when the Chef and his dad had finished their walk and needed a lift back to base camp. They had to find a phone box (when did you last use one of those?) and call our hotel’s landline. The hotel manager had to describe where they were, and I had to go and look for them. Naturally the name of the Welsh village slipped from my short term memory into the ether and I drove straight past them, and as I couldn’t call them, they weren’t far from home by the time I tracked them down.

Much as I loved Snowdonia, I think I’ll stick to living somewhere where I am being irradiated by 3G Masts from five different mobille operators, thanks.

Eating All The Pies in the Cotswolds

This weekend was spent in the Cotswolds with friends, which apparently is what Kate Moss and her cokehead boyfriend like to do. Unlike Kate (and most of her model friends) we spent most of the weekend eating vast quantities of lasagne by the fire.

Very little walking was done indeed, apart from the route from the car park to the Weighbridge Inn which does a very nice “2 in 1″ pie which is half meat, half cauliflower, with pastry that definitely isn’t Be Good To Yourself. Yum!

Brighton & Hovel

Above, we see a promotional picture for the Holiday Inn Brighton Seafront. Looks like somewhere you would like to spend a weekend, doesn’t it? And with four stars and a £250 for two nights, you can look forward to a clean, modern environment.

Actually, no. On our stay there last weekend for a friend’s 40th birthday party, we arrived to find that we had been put in an “Accessible” room for the disabled. This wouldn’t be a problem if the room wasn’t so disgusting.

The Chef complained to the Duty Manager who said they hadn’t had any complaints before and they could fill the room 20 times over, and the hotel was being refurbished soon. Which was too late for our weekend away, naturally. He refused to discount the rate but gave us free car parking and breakfast (corn flakes and soggy toast, no thanks).

The Chef will be writing to Holiday Inn to complain, and we noted that the non-Accessible room we were moved to on the second night was much cleaner. This says a lot about Holiday Inn’s attitude to disabled customers.

But this less than customer focused attitude is symptomatic of the whole can’t-be-bothered culture prevalent in Brighton. Businesses think they can take the mick because if you don’t like it, several other chumps will be along after you who are prepared to put up with it.

One popular pub we visited tried to charge 8 quid for a sandwich described as “Mozzarella” but in fact was cheap pizza mozzarella, not buffalo, so The Chef sent it back. And the toilets in the same pub were absolutely rancid.

With the same identikit shops and same polluted air as any other British city, Brighton is in danger of losing its appeal if it doesn’t sort its customer service out, and if you need photographic proof click to enlarge the gallery of horrors below.

The sea view – but don’t look down at the filthy balcony with the rusting railings.

Balcony detail – a selection of fag butts. In a non-smoking room.

Mmmm…lovely discoloured grout evokes memories of the bathroom in your shared student house

The dirty shower curtain and bath and rusty plug hole

The lovely bathroom floor, with tastful designer touches such as the rusting taps and badly repaired floor tiles