Pier Review

by Jon Bounds

  The photographer arrives and we pose by the pier. Midge just walks with us as we go to where the photographer tells us and nobody questions us.

  'Great,' says the reporter. 'Can I just get your names for the caption?'

  Me and Jon tell her. She turns to Midge.

  'Midge,' he says.

  'What's your full name?' she asks.

  'Just Midge,' says Midge and she looks at him hesitantly.

  'We don't publish pictures without people's full names.'

  'People call me Midge,' says Midge.

  I'm not sure if he's making a point or worried about the DSS finding out he's on this trip.

  She gets on the phone, and when she comes back she says, 'The editor says it's a legal thing. We can't put the picture in without your full name.'

  'Midge IS my name,' says Midge.

  I see her pretend to write 'Midge' down. We say our awkward goodbyes and then she leaves.

  'I bet she wouldn't ask Madonna for a second name, or Cher.'

  I leave Midge to think of himself in the same pantheon of multigenerational pop-diva legends and go onto the pier.

  At the bottom of the urinal is a collection of wads of chewing gum. This is the most colourful thing in the faded and tatty arcade. The machines haven't been current for five or so years. In one of the 2p 'waterfall' machines, as an extra incentive, a £2 coin has been Sellotaped to a lottery ticket. The Central Pier is the second-oldest pier in Blackpool, originally known as South Pier until South Pier was built and a simple matter of logic earned it its new name. Central Pier was built as a more family-orientated pier, as opposed to the simpler North Pier. Today the giant Ferris wheel can be seen from both the other piers and most of the promenade.

  As you leave the arcade the weather hits you almost immediately, the wind harsh and cold as the aggressive barkers shout at you to try their rigged, tatty games. I'm used to turning down even the most pushy chuggers and marketers on the high street, but I'm not at all ready for these guys. Maybe the end of season has sent them into a feeding frenzy, each competing for the sickest deer at the edge of the pack. Strangely, they all seemed to have London accents. I linger around the funfair at the edge of the pier, waiting for the barrage of pleas and very audible under-the-breath insults when I walk past.

  * * *

  Up the road, in muted colours and a criss-crossing of cables, the Tower is boarded around the entrance. Which is muting interest. It's also way too expensive: I'd had this plan that we'd do interesting things along the way, but we've had to skip Battle, only played one round of crazy golf and, if we're to make the Pleasure Beach, we can't afford the tower.

  We hit the North Pier: sprouting tannoys pipe Badfinger. We hit a dead end: the man in the change cubicle sees us walk past but doesn't tell us that we can't exit at the back of the amusements.

  BLACKPOOL North

  Opened: 1863 (Architect: Eugenius Birch)

  Length at start: 1,410 ft (430 m)

  Length now: 1,318 ft (402 m)

  Burn baby burn? Hit by boats in 1867, 1892 and 1897. The pavilion burnt down in 1921, and then again in 1938. To top it off, the pier suffered severe storm damage in 1997.

  One of the earliest Sooty puppets used by Harry Corbett is on display on the pier. Corbett bought the original (yellow) Sooty on North Pier for his young son, later darkening the ears and nose with soot so they would show up on black-and-white TV.

  The pier theatre has played host to Frankie Vaughan, Bernard Delfont (who coincidentally wrote a foreword to Bainbridge's Pavilions on the Sea), Morecambe and Wise, Paul Daniels, Russ Abbot, Bruce Forsyth and Hale and Pace.

  It's the last surviving Eugenius Birch pier.

  North Pier was built first, and was originally intended for a better class of tourist. It charged admission until very recently and its entertainment always used to be orchestral or a less bawdy comedian. It retains a sense of faded glory.

  It has a small arcade, populated today by six or seven people standing around the push-penny machines as if in prayer.

  * * *

  A tiny carousel spins idly in the doorway of the family bar, where there is no one stuck to the dark carpet but a gang of shaven-headed teenagers.

  * * *

  I see Midge some way ahead of me, and next to him a group of three lads are swaggering around. Looking for distraction, interaction, anything I suppose, even violence, because anything is better than a numb, grey day in Britain's haunted fun house at that age. They're trying to pull some of the boards up from the floor when one spots Midge and they sway up close behind him. I look around for back-up. Jon's nowhere to be seen and the only other person is an elderly Chinese gentleman with a cagoule done up around his face like Kenny from South Park. Speeding up, I catch up to Midge. The boys are looking at me diagonally as I wait for him to take a picture of the carousel and we get out of there.

  * * *

  I enthuse about how we can go to see the blue plaque that marks where Alan Bradley was killed by a tram. Alan Bradley was a very bad man, a very bad fictional man, in the eighties. Over 25 million people watched him take a glancing blow from a silent killer and, as Coronation Street viewers get pretty involved in the narrative, a lot of them probably gasped then cheered, as their PG Tips sloshed onto their plates of rich tea fingers. Generations of northern men have known not to interrupt while mum is watching her programme. They'd have sat reading the paper and possibly tucking into a Club biscuit.

  * * *

  Outside, a pair of homeless people are pouring cider out of its can and into discarded Lucozade bottles, so if the police stop them they don't look like they're drinking in the streets. They're merely refreshing themselves during the gaps in their cardio routines.

  Jon wants to visit the spot where a character from Coronation Street died. It's apparently not far. I'm dubious, the rash on my legs really hurts and we are already in the sketchy part of town. It looks worse the further north you get. But Jon is adamant. It's only 200 yards away, Jon tells us, so we set off.

  This end of town has obviously missed a couple of regeneration cycles, so crumbling plaster reveals dirty brick. The signs are damaged or not present any more, leaving only dirty ghosts where the vinyl letters have been. The windows are boarded or cracked and everything is faded like an old photograph. Jon tells us that it is just a little bit further. We walk nearer to a thousand yards than 200 before we get to a hotel. Jon walks out into the road waving his arms about, demonstrating where the tram hit this guy. I neither care nor know who Jon is talking about. But he thinks it's important.

  * * *

  The blue plaque is tucked behind a hanging basket, which is limply planted with anonymous and uncared-for flora. The hotel has the busy carpeting of all those we've seen, the stains not quite hidden. Fifty years of little accidents: spilt rum and coke and Mabel not quite making it. The carpet echoes the blotchiness of a frequently soiled inner thigh.

  * * *

  I see a tram going back down the front and we all sprint to catch it. It kills my legs but it's better than walking back. Almost throwing ourselves on, I was expecting more. The outside is a bright wraparound advertisement for SpongeBob SquarePants, the relentlessly upbeat yellow sponge. But the tram is full of very old, unhappy people, coughing aggressively, or peering sadly out of the obscured windows.

  * * *

  'Room for a little one on top,' gurns a young comedian-type as we board the tram.

  There are drips down the curved stairs and a whiff of something that identifies this as municipal transport. A shuffling old guy swings his way to the door. I can smell the booze on his breath as he talks without much response about beer and pubs and trips away, fantastic pubs that are all gone now.

  A funk descends on us. I'm not keen on funfairs and we're heading down to one of the largest. They're all sugar in the air, oil, hand jobs and stabbings. The grease in the hair of the speedway operator, the testosterone and overconfidence. I've not yet seen anyone in Blackpool smile, certainl
y not any of us.

  South Pier turns out to be an expanse of costly rides too. I stare over the railings back up the tramline. Deserted, dirty stops, peeling paint and lamp posts only there to hold up grubby light boxes. The boxes are twisted and distorted in the autumn dullness, and we can see through the translucent facades to the workings behind. We've taken a pill and put on glasses that mean we can see the seaside as what it really is; a resting place for the desperate and hopeless.

  The pavements laugh at us. 'Turned out nice, again,' they say. 'You get nothing for a pair.'

  BLACKPOOL South

  Opened: 1893 (Architect: T. P. Worthington)

  Length at start: 492 ft (150 m)

  Length now: 492 ft (150 m)

  Burn baby burn? Fires in 1954, 1958 and 1964, each time destroying the grand pavilion.

  Originally called the Victoria Pier, it was supposed to be more refined than the North and Central piers, and – we're told – 'at first provided little entertainment'. It now has rides advertised as an 'adrenaline zone', which seems in keeping with that tradition.

  The South Pier has a big-top theme. Inside the arcade at the front the room seems massive and a mural of clowns make up a large portion of the space. I've never understood people's fear of clowns: I think it's sad that today we suspect the motives of any man that wants to wear a make-up disguise and hang around kids. John Wayne Gacy murdered little boys and buried them under his shed. Yes, he was a clown, but he was also an amateur painter and the majority of the population doesn't freak out when they see an easel. That said, the clowns painted on the walls of Blackpool's South Pier are the stuff of fuelled nightmares, waking dreams where proportion and scale are distorted beyond reason. Grinning demons of primary colours lurch out from the walls. I keep my head down and spot an eight-year-old child on a fruit machine, sitting on a stool so he can reach the slot.

  Towards the back one of the booths has become a fish pedicure place, but the cushions are threadbare and half the fish lie dead, floating at the top of the tank.

  * * *

  The attractions at the Pleasure Beach are already closed for the night as we arrive. It's barely half five, and chains are draped over the barriers. The grease is heavy in the air – there's frying tonight. We beat an exit, as a horrific toothless guy calls 'show us yer rabbit' at a girl who may or may not have one, or want to show it if she has.

  * * *

  None of us suppresses our relief at the Pleasure Beach being closed and we take a slow walk back, past some of the worst-looking hotels and public houses to the car park. At least the walk starts slow, but then it turns into a brisk walk and soon descends into a straight-out retreat.

  * * *

  Building after building is rotting into itself. We step quickly, in case it's catching. A fun pub belts out thuds and neon. Outside, in a van, a machine drips Thatcher's cream. 'Coughin better toneet,' hacks a vested simpleton, strands of a fetid comb-over dangling into the red juice he drips. He hands the cone to a grateful child, who slurps it down while lashing at razor-beaked gulls. We've got to get away.

  From an open window, grey flecks of net curtain mix with the smell of decay. 'Would you like it now or will you have it later?' A cackle.

  The twisted mouth of a bloody tramp gargles at us as we reach the car park. Midge fumbling for the key, my hands grasping at the handle. The tramp points at his cardboard sign, written in brown: 'Me horse drowned.'

  * * *

  Frankly we are shocked that we haven't been broken into as we arrive at the piermobile. We pile in the car, and Midge picks up the map. Jon takes the map off him. 'Just drive,' he says.

  * * *

  Speeding away, tight to the coast, I feel something of a return to normality. The badness slips through the cracks still, like bacteria gathering in a broken shower tile. For the most part it's okay, but there's a festering. We can't spend too long anywhere.

  * * *

  It's not hard to find St Annes Pier in Lytham St Annes. If you follow the coastline from Blackpool, probably driving a little quicker than strictly necessary, you'll find a charming village with wide streets, charity shops and Marks & Spencer outlets. Quicker than you can say 'blimey, it's a bit posh round here', you'll see the large mock-Tudor entrance. The village is sedately middle class, but with our hearts still beating from Blackpool it is a nice change. Part of my working-class-warrior roots winces when I admit this to myself.

  ST ANNES

  Opened: 1885 (Architect: A. Dowson. Mock-Tudor entrance in 1899 by J. D. Harker)

  Length at start: 914 ft (279 m)

  Length now: 600 ft (183 m)

  Burn baby burn? The children's theatre burnt down in 1959, the Moorish Pavilion in 1974, and the Floral Hall in 1982.

  The Ribble Navigation and Preston Dock Act (1883) and subsequent dredging of the river channels to improve access to Preston Dock meant that the pier was left on dry land, somewhat ruining the resort's steamer trade.

  The pier has seen Gracie Fields, George Formby, Russ Conway and Bob Monkhouse perform, and in the seventies had a miniature zoo. In the ornamental gardens next to St Annes Pier is a statue of Les Dawson, who lived nearby.

  Up close it looks like a grand cricket pavilion. I think I hear the thwack of willow, a ripple of applause, or is it sea breaking slowly onto the rough sand.

  It's still bright, with the beginnings of the evening haze. We move druggedly towards the doors, on autopilot, silent. They're shut. The notice says 5:30 p.m. and, straining my eyes against the reflections from the clock on the frontage, I can see we're a minute or so past that. It's regular and ordered.

  * * *

  We take a quiet walk under the pier. Dusk isn't for another few hours, but the cloud cover is already making it dark. Jon disappears but, as tonight is his night to organise the place where we sleep, I presume it's something to do with that. On the beach somebody has been making sandcastles, but not plastic-bucket sandcastles. These are independent sand creations, hybrids of sand, stone, stick and feathers. Someone has drawn a stag in the sand with stones for eyes on its triangular head and sticks for antlers. They look closer to pagan fetish-worship objects than childhood doodle sculptures. If you scratch the polite surface of any Englishman you'll find an angry pagan waiting to rut, fight and howl at the moon. It's true, we love booze in this country purely so we can let ourselves go, wrap the wolf fur around us and run into the night. And the next day pretend we can't remember a thing.

  * * *

  The car park here is no doubt patrolled by regular men in regular hi-vis, men with an ordered way of ticketing. So I suggest that Midge should idle the engine on the double yellows outside, while Danny hops out on some unknown errand.

  * * *

  On our way out of town we pull into a NatWest, as Jon and Midge have to use the cash machine. I spy a cheap-pound-shop analogue across the junction. The rash on my legs at this point is so painful I decide, if I can catch it open, to buy some clean underwear, which might help.

  'Wait here,' I say to Midge. He nods.

  'Where you going?' asks Jon.

  'Just over the road to try and catch that cheap shop open. Wait here, right?'

  'Sure,' says Jon.

  * * *

  Bored with not being at the hub of activity, not knowing what Danny's up to, spotting rodent-like movement in the vacated back-seat nest, I make us pull round the corner so we can stock up on beer. I need something to kill the visions. I think I need to sleep.

  * * *

  I can see people in the shop near the door, so I sprint over the suddenly busy junction to try and catch it before it closes. The sharp pain of the rash stabs into my legs as I step out of the way of a car as it narrowly misses me. As I get to the door the security guard next to it is already shaking his head. Bollocks. I sprint across the junction a second time to catch them at the bank, even though it hurts. They're gone. I hear a beeping behind me, and see the car pulled up on the main road, where I was not 30 seconds ago. Seeing they're on a
main road and that they shouldn't be stopping there, I sprint across the road a third time, just in time for them to pull off because a bus had pulled up behind them. My legs are burning at this point, something that could have been avoided if they'd stayed where they were like they agreed. A minute later they come walking round the corner.