I don’t know what you think of when you think of Blackpool, but for me it conjures up images of corpulent, bearded men hanging around penny arcades and chip shops attempting to ensnare runaways into a web of greasy-handed depravity. That, or menopausal trouts on their third hen night starting fights that would make even the beefiest inebriated southerner run screaming in fear for the next train to Euston.
But hang on, I seem to have got it wrong. It’s actually a hot-bed of continental mystique and sophistication.
Helen France (apparently her real name. How odd), director of tourism for Blackpool Council, said: “Often when we get French visitors – they like to do London, Stratford and Edinburgh and often drop off at a seaside town on the way, and we hope that this will encourage them to come to Blackpool.”
Well, Helen, mission well and truly accomplished. You’ve made it seem like the kind of life-affirming, step-springing delight that I can’t do without for another second.
Either that or a shithole that’s run by a bunch of bovine fuckwits who think French people are as thick as they are.
One or the other.