The merest mention of Blackpool and I’m instantly whisked back to the last time Mum took me there.
Now, I’ve never been Blackpool’s most enthusiastic advocate. And yet, in my allegedly responsible adult years, I’ve found myself obliged – on occasion – to return to that blustery western coast and endure the odd weekend in what I’ve come to think of as Blackpoolshire… complete with everything it has to offend – I mean, offer – me. No disrespect to the residents or the hordes of eager visitors, but when you’re barely ten years old and denied even a whiff of the Pleasure Beach – instead frogmarched round the shops from minute one – it rather sours the notion of repeat visits.
Every year, without fail, Mum and Aunty Joan would settle themselves on the coach with a flask of tea or coffee, a Tupperware full of homemade sandwiches, a bag of barley sugars, a stockpile of sick bags, and of course, yours truly. I might come home with a T-shirt printed with some lurid and peeling design, a stick of candy rock, or perhaps a bag of cinder toffee. But that hardly made up for being hauled from one dismal shop to another by two bargain-hunting adults with no intention of going anywhere near anything remotely entertaining – save for the occasional game of prize bingo on the seafront.
With my little legs aching and my boredom threshold long since breached, I decided to entertain myself and make the torturous passing of time just a little more bearable. At one point, inside a large department store somewhere near the Tower – the name escapes me now – I began to lag behind. Quite significantly, in fact.
After a brief spell of solo browsing, I reappeared trailing after Mum and Aunt Joan wearing, on my right foot, a gentleman’s shoe in approximately a size nine, and on top of my trousers, a pair of enormous white satin knickers – complete with frills. I had made a valiant attempt at fastening a bra, but being unfamiliar with the architecture of such garments, I was caught mid-struggle before success was achieved.
What followed was an urgent and undignified disrobing. The shoe was swiftly booted off, the bra snatched from my hand, and the knickers yanked to my ankles with scandalised precision. Tragically, my attempt to step out of the knicker leg – while still wearing my normal shoe – proved ill-advised. I lost my footing entirely, tumbled, and landed in a rather artistic sprawl amidst a display of porcelain ornaments.
Ker-ching!
“£27, please, madam.”
Wording 