There's been a few things occurred I should like to discuss with you all. I had a few things I wanted to say about various affairs occurring round the world currently, but we'll get to that all in due course. For now, I need a moment. This blog will serve as a catharsis for the surreal past few days I have just spent in Blackpool. I'm not even sure where to start or even if it's appropriate for me to even divulge this stuff, but I need to get it off my chest if I'm to have any chance of enjoying a normal life again.
I hadn't been to Blackpool for over twenty years. If I ever go back it'll be too soon. My reason for this trip was to attend the funeral of my Grandmother. For one reason or another I hadn't seen her for approximately 15 years and my Granddad for over 20, so it was important that I made the trip to Blackpool to say my last goodbyes and I was looking forward to seeing my Granddad again after all those years.
I arrived on Tuesday. The trip up there was fairly uneventful and as I headed across the M55 to Blackpool I was reminded of the journey's along this motorway I made with my parents as a child every summer. As we got closer to Blackpool we would have a competition to see who could spot the tower first. I was always too previous, mistaking every single electricity pylon for it, either that or even at that tender age I was just a cheat.
I spotted the tower and awarded myself a prize of a few beers later that night. As I approached my hotel I couldn't help but notice how run down the area seemed and cursed my luck for booking a hotel in the shittiest part of the city. In retrospect it wouldn't have mattered where I stayed. The whole community is a neglected heap, but to be fair to the people, they may live in depressing northern ruins and on a diet of chips and gravy with dripping, but they're still chipper and incredibly pleasant. If you ask someone for directions they'll do their very best to help you as I would find out on many occasions on Wednesday. If you ask for directions in Cowley you'll almost certainly die.
My plan was to meet Paul on Tuesday night at the G-Casino. They must have heard I was coming cause the place was deserted. Fourteen runners for the £30 freeze-out and despite not a single black jack table being occupied, the tournament was still self-dealt. It was a pleasant enough game though, and I was making progress on what appeared to be a relatively soft table, but about an hour into it I looked down at pocket Kings and from here on in my trip began a rapid decent into a despairing surreal nightmare.
Never before have I been involved in an Aces v Kings confrontation so I suppose I was due. Five years is quite a long time to avoid such a cold decked confrontation. It was a double chance tournament though and for no reason in particular I had decided not to take my second stack of chips at the beginning, so at least the Aces didn't bust me. Unfortunately that hand served as some sort of temporal rift. I'd entered a new completely surreal reality I wasn't able to escape from until I was officially in the south again two days later.
This tournament had the most bizarre structure of any I have every played in before. The first two levels were 45 minutes. After the break it was a 20 minute level, then a 30 minute level, then back down to 20. What the hayell!! After the break, with the chips most of the players had, it was immediately rendered a total crap shoot. I was out some time during the fourth level, but my chances of cashing were effectively done for after the Kings v Aces incident.
While Paul flew the Witney inc. Carterton Mob flag (eventually finishing 3rd wp, gg etc) I got involved in a cash game that was as bizarre as the blind structure of the tournament. In fact, as the first hand was dealt I sat back in my chair and wondered if I was actually asleep at the wheel of my car somewhere in the M6 and hadn't even arrived in Blackpool yet. Was I in fact about to plough my car into the central reservation? I pinched myself and eventually convinced I was indeed awake, began playing. I gave my lager a sniff too though just in case but that seemed OK.
The cash game with blinds of £1 and £1 was a minimum £20 buy-in. I bought in for £100 which I assumed everyone else would too. But to my surprise the four other players had only bought in for £20 each! What the hayell! Self dealt again, the player who had volunteered to deal was a Colombian guy called Jose who every one called Chico. How the fuck does a Colombian end up in Blackpool. I was reminded of something a political commentator said about John McCain choosing Sarah Palin as his Vice Presidential pick - "It's like finding a tortoise on top of a fence post - you wonder how the hell it ended up there and how it's gonna get away from there."
Chico man
The two lads to my left were friends. Or at least they said they were. They were the most drunk guys I'd seen in recent years and had no idea how to play. They may have even been lovers the way they squabbled with each other. I busted one of them twice and the other one once. Pissed guy v.01 then got involved in a hand with Chico which became slightly controversial and considering the guy was from Colombia I assumed pissed guy v.01 would soon reside under the South Pier.
Chico held pocket kings on a queen high board. Both of their £20 stacks went in on the flop, but as this was a cash game the hands were not shown until the river. The turn and river cards put four clubs on board and unfortunately for Chico, who actually was a very nice mild mannered guy, he did not hold the king of clubs and pissed guy v.01 took the pot as the queen in his queen-9 hand was indeed the queen of clubs. The players had not spotted this however. Chico was about to rake in the pot, when the floor man who just happened to be watching at that point, announced the flush was the winner much to the amusement of pissed guy v.o1.
Pissed guy v.02 inexplicably took the opportunity now to tell the floor man that whatever was on the board was none of his fucking business! The floor man diplomatically tried to argue that as this card room was his, it was very much his business. Pissed guy v.02 was not persuaded though. He was however persuaded to leave when a security guard arrived and asked him indirectly whether or not he'd like his head panned in.
The game was over and I trooped off to the cashiers with the easiest £80 I'd ever made and had another sniff of my lager. I was in bed about an hour later. I woke up on Wednesday feeling a bit rough and looked out at a rainy cold November morning - a perfect metaphor for the most despairing twelve hours of my life I was about to endure since I was in a jail in Paris in 1993.
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I hadn't been to Blackpool for over twenty years. If I ever go back it'll be too soon. My reason for this trip was to attend the funeral of my Grandmother. For one reason or another I hadn't seen her for approximately 15 years and my Granddad for over 20, so it was important that I made the trip to Blackpool to say my last goodbyes and I was looking forward to seeing my Granddad again after all those years.
I arrived on Tuesday. The trip up there was fairly uneventful and as I headed across the M55 to Blackpool I was reminded of the journey's along this motorway I made with my parents as a child every summer. As we got closer to Blackpool we would have a competition to see who could spot the tower first. I was always too previous, mistaking every single electricity pylon for it, either that or even at that tender age I was just a cheat.
I spotted the tower and awarded myself a prize of a few beers later that night. As I approached my hotel I couldn't help but notice how run down the area seemed and cursed my luck for booking a hotel in the shittiest part of the city. In retrospect it wouldn't have mattered where I stayed. The whole community is a neglected heap, but to be fair to the people, they may live in depressing northern ruins and on a diet of chips and gravy with dripping, but they're still chipper and incredibly pleasant. If you ask someone for directions they'll do their very best to help you as I would find out on many occasions on Wednesday. If you ask for directions in Cowley you'll almost certainly die.
My plan was to meet Paul on Tuesday night at the G-Casino. They must have heard I was coming cause the place was deserted. Fourteen runners for the £30 freeze-out and despite not a single black jack table being occupied, the tournament was still self-dealt. It was a pleasant enough game though, and I was making progress on what appeared to be a relatively soft table, but about an hour into it I looked down at pocket Kings and from here on in my trip began a rapid decent into a despairing surreal nightmare.
Never before have I been involved in an Aces v Kings confrontation so I suppose I was due. Five years is quite a long time to avoid such a cold decked confrontation. It was a double chance tournament though and for no reason in particular I had decided not to take my second stack of chips at the beginning, so at least the Aces didn't bust me. Unfortunately that hand served as some sort of temporal rift. I'd entered a new completely surreal reality I wasn't able to escape from until I was officially in the south again two days later.
This tournament had the most bizarre structure of any I have every played in before. The first two levels were 45 minutes. After the break it was a 20 minute level, then a 30 minute level, then back down to 20. What the hayell!! After the break, with the chips most of the players had, it was immediately rendered a total crap shoot. I was out some time during the fourth level, but my chances of cashing were effectively done for after the Kings v Aces incident.
While Paul flew the Witney inc. Carterton Mob flag (eventually finishing 3rd wp, gg etc) I got involved in a cash game that was as bizarre as the blind structure of the tournament. In fact, as the first hand was dealt I sat back in my chair and wondered if I was actually asleep at the wheel of my car somewhere in the M6 and hadn't even arrived in Blackpool yet. Was I in fact about to plough my car into the central reservation? I pinched myself and eventually convinced I was indeed awake, began playing. I gave my lager a sniff too though just in case but that seemed OK.
The cash game with blinds of £1 and £1 was a minimum £20 buy-in. I bought in for £100 which I assumed everyone else would too. But to my surprise the four other players had only bought in for £20 each! What the hayell! Self dealt again, the player who had volunteered to deal was a Colombian guy called Jose who every one called Chico. How the fuck does a Colombian end up in Blackpool. I was reminded of something a political commentator said about John McCain choosing Sarah Palin as his Vice Presidential pick - "It's like finding a tortoise on top of a fence post - you wonder how the hell it ended up there and how it's gonna get away from there."
Chico manChico held pocket kings on a queen high board. Both of their £20 stacks went in on the flop, but as this was a cash game the hands were not shown until the river. The turn and river cards put four clubs on board and unfortunately for Chico, who actually was a very nice mild mannered guy, he did not hold the king of clubs and pissed guy v.01 took the pot as the queen in his queen-9 hand was indeed the queen of clubs. The players had not spotted this however. Chico was about to rake in the pot, when the floor man who just happened to be watching at that point, announced the flush was the winner much to the amusement of pissed guy v.o1.
Pissed guy v.02 inexplicably took the opportunity now to tell the floor man that whatever was on the board was none of his fucking business! The floor man diplomatically tried to argue that as this card room was his, it was very much his business. Pissed guy v.02 was not persuaded though. He was however persuaded to leave when a security guard arrived and asked him indirectly whether or not he'd like his head panned in.
The game was over and I trooped off to the cashiers with the easiest £80 I'd ever made and had another sniff of my lager. I was in bed about an hour later. I woke up on Wednesday feeling a bit rough and looked out at a rainy cold November morning - a perfect metaphor for the most despairing twelve hours of my life I was about to endure since I was in a jail in Paris in 1993.
* * *
For someone with my personality a funeral is a very tricky proposition. The opportunity for social faux pas is huge. An inappropriate or insensitive comment can launch itself from my mouth at any time and there's nothing I can do about it. My plan to prevent this was to sit in silence for as long as possible and since it's a somber atmosphere and small talk is even more awkward than usual for everyone, I felt I couldn't be accused of being unsociable.
I was managing well. As members of my family arrived, most of whom I had either not seen for decades or never met at all, I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but was keeping myself out of conversations and had yet to offend anyone. Eventually the under takers arrived and after seeing my Granddad and mother into their limousine I sat in my car with my Dad and one of my cousins waiting to follow the procession of cars to the crematorium.
I'd managed three hours without upsetting anyone or making any knob gags and I felt I was home and dry now as the reception would be in a pub where everyone would be more relaxed and I'd be able to be myself again and at the service itself I'd have my head down and not mutter a word so unless I farted I'd be fine. Or at least, I would have been had I actually made it to the service.
A funeral procession travels how fast? Ten miles an hour? How do you lose a funeral procession? Ten fucking cars. Not sure but I did. We were at the back you see and some how two random cars had gotten between me and the last car of our funeral party. Then some traffic lights separated us. As the lights finally changed to green we rounded a corner only to find to our horror a fucking roundabout. Which way did they go? None of us had any idea where the damned crematorium was. Fuck!!
We went right. They obviously went left. It was 2.35, the service was at 3.00pm. Plenty of time. We knew it was only 4 miles away. It was close to chucking out time for the schools so the streets were littered with lollipop ladies. The first one gave us directions which all three of us forgot immediately after thanking her and setting off. We then asked an old guy walking his dog who happened to be a minister. Phew, he'll know. He gave us directions, but had we followed them explicitly I think we'd have ended up in Burnley.
Our second lollipop lady was great and after repeating the directions back to her this time so we could be sure, we were on our way. It was now 2.45, but we still had time. After ten minutes we rounded a corner only to drive right past the first lollipop lady we had consulted and end up right back where we started. Panic set in at this point. We considered asking Mr Whippy the ice cream man but he was busy with a queue of school children and our ordeal was starting to resemble a sick joke about a funeral, a minister, three lollipop ladies and an ice cream man.
At about 3.05 we'd driven about now randomly for about 30 minutes until a fourth lollipop lady came into view and to our relief and surprise informed us we were two minutes away from the place and after 30 seconds ,to our utter relief, we saw a sign for the crematorium. Next left. Phew...still time to catch the end of the service. We'll slip in the back as if we were there the whole time. As we turned left the gates of the level crossing in our way were lowered. You're having a fucking laugh. A fucking level crossing! Fuck my life.
After a minute or two the train whizzed past and I shoved my gear stick into first and pressed down on the accelerator. The gates were not rising. The gates were NOT rising. There's two fucking trains isn't there!? I put it back in neutral and my head slammed against my steering wheel in frustration. A minute later the second train whizzed past and finally we were allowed to continue. We pulled into the car park at 3.30. A four mile trip had taken us an hour and 18 miles. We tip-toed into the place slowly and opened the door. It was empty. The service was over, we'd missed it. I'd not seen my Grandmother since I was about 17 and now I'd missed her funeral too.
A glance at a side door and we saw everyone had congregated outside and were consoling each other and generally looking reflective and upset while we remained in the corner feeling like Del Boy and Rodney in that episode of Only Fools and Horses where they show up to a wake dressed as Batman and Robin.
Technically, this was not my fault, but in hindsight it might have been a prudent measure had one of us secured directions to the place before the off. I'd been so pre-occupied with not talking and making any insensitive remarks or any kind of faux-pas at the house that I hadn't given any thought to the latter stages of the day and to further potential for disaster. No one seemed particularly angry at us, and my Granddad who I was most concerned about obviously had other things on his mind, but I'm sure this hasn't endured me to all those family members who haven't seen me for so long. They all seemed to remember me as a naughty cheeky little child, now they must think I grew up to become the adult equivalent which is an inconsiderate little southern gob shite.
After the reception I spent a little time back at my Granddad's house with my parents before heading back to my hotel. Granddad seemed pleased at how the day had gone which is all that matters really and I was pleased he seemed content. I headed back still feeling guilty and weird and shit though, but it was over and I consoled myself with the thought that my Grandmother had a pretty good sense of humour and had she been watching us blasting our way round the streets of Fleetwood trying to find the place to say our final goodbyes to her, she almost certainly would have been pissing herself. If you're reading this Grandma, I'm fucking sorry. I mean I'm really sorry. D'oh.
The plan later that evening was to return to the G-Casino and have a crack at their £2,000 guaranteed £25 freeze-out which seemed incredibly good value considering only 14 people had shown up the night before. I left my Granddad's house at 6.30 and made the 6 mile journey back to the hotel in just under one and half hours!! Fuck my life.
I don't even know how to explain this part of my nightmare. Obviously I got lost again. In the dark. I also backed my car into a lamp-post. Had I been stuck in the maze of Blackpool's residential streets for ten minutes longer I would almost certainly have succumbed to the level of lunacy reached by Jack Nicholson's character in the Shining.
Most of the time was wasted because I failed to realise the cross street I needed to turn onto was actually above me. The street I was looking for should have been after Pudding Lane, but I'd go past Pudding Lane, then under a bridge and then into a wilderness. Three or four times I doubled back on myself before I finally realised the road I needed was on that fucking bridge. My Google maps was not clear about this. When I finally did make it back to my hotel I zoomed in as far as it would go...only then did I realise my mistake.
In total I should have driven 18 miles that day and it should have taken me about 50 minutes when you take into account the speed limits and the fact that we were a funeral procession. I actually drove about 42 miles and it took me about two hours 30 minutes and with a dented bumper thrown in for good measure.
I didn't make it out to the casino. Paul couldn't make it and well, I just didn't feel lucky for some reason. I just didn't feel like it was going to be my night. I sat in the restaurant ordered myself a beer and something to eat; meatball pasta. I'd had it the night before and it was lovely. I was starving too having not eaten anything all day but a few chips at the reception. I sank half of my beer and cut into one of the meatballs and shoved it in my gob. It was fucking cold.
I'm back home now. I Mario Andretti'ed myself away from Blackpool this morning and never looked back. The journey home was swift and nothing even remotely bizarre occurred. As I turned off the A40 at the Carterton exit I saw the RAF base in the distance and Fox FM started playing "When you're gone," by Bryan Adams and Mel C. No shit, I almost shed a tear. The lyrics summed up my trip completely. That was the first time I can honestly say I've missed Carterton. I was elated to be home. Emotion was flooding from me. I started singing along with Bryan and Mel and I dedicated it to my home town. I'm sorry for everything I ever said about you Carterton, let's never leave each other again.
I was managing well. As members of my family arrived, most of whom I had either not seen for decades or never met at all, I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but was keeping myself out of conversations and had yet to offend anyone. Eventually the under takers arrived and after seeing my Granddad and mother into their limousine I sat in my car with my Dad and one of my cousins waiting to follow the procession of cars to the crematorium.
I'd managed three hours without upsetting anyone or making any knob gags and I felt I was home and dry now as the reception would be in a pub where everyone would be more relaxed and I'd be able to be myself again and at the service itself I'd have my head down and not mutter a word so unless I farted I'd be fine. Or at least, I would have been had I actually made it to the service.
A funeral procession travels how fast? Ten miles an hour? How do you lose a funeral procession? Ten fucking cars. Not sure but I did. We were at the back you see and some how two random cars had gotten between me and the last car of our funeral party. Then some traffic lights separated us. As the lights finally changed to green we rounded a corner only to find to our horror a fucking roundabout. Which way did they go? None of us had any idea where the damned crematorium was. Fuck!!
We went right. They obviously went left. It was 2.35, the service was at 3.00pm. Plenty of time. We knew it was only 4 miles away. It was close to chucking out time for the schools so the streets were littered with lollipop ladies. The first one gave us directions which all three of us forgot immediately after thanking her and setting off. We then asked an old guy walking his dog who happened to be a minister. Phew, he'll know. He gave us directions, but had we followed them explicitly I think we'd have ended up in Burnley.
Our second lollipop lady was great and after repeating the directions back to her this time so we could be sure, we were on our way. It was now 2.45, but we still had time. After ten minutes we rounded a corner only to drive right past the first lollipop lady we had consulted and end up right back where we started. Panic set in at this point. We considered asking Mr Whippy the ice cream man but he was busy with a queue of school children and our ordeal was starting to resemble a sick joke about a funeral, a minister, three lollipop ladies and an ice cream man.
At about 3.05 we'd driven about now randomly for about 30 minutes until a fourth lollipop lady came into view and to our relief and surprise informed us we were two minutes away from the place and after 30 seconds ,to our utter relief, we saw a sign for the crematorium. Next left. Phew...still time to catch the end of the service. We'll slip in the back as if we were there the whole time. As we turned left the gates of the level crossing in our way were lowered. You're having a fucking laugh. A fucking level crossing! Fuck my life.
After a minute or two the train whizzed past and I shoved my gear stick into first and pressed down on the accelerator. The gates were not rising. The gates were NOT rising. There's two fucking trains isn't there!? I put it back in neutral and my head slammed against my steering wheel in frustration. A minute later the second train whizzed past and finally we were allowed to continue. We pulled into the car park at 3.30. A four mile trip had taken us an hour and 18 miles. We tip-toed into the place slowly and opened the door. It was empty. The service was over, we'd missed it. I'd not seen my Grandmother since I was about 17 and now I'd missed her funeral too.
A glance at a side door and we saw everyone had congregated outside and were consoling each other and generally looking reflective and upset while we remained in the corner feeling like Del Boy and Rodney in that episode of Only Fools and Horses where they show up to a wake dressed as Batman and Robin.
Technically, this was not my fault, but in hindsight it might have been a prudent measure had one of us secured directions to the place before the off. I'd been so pre-occupied with not talking and making any insensitive remarks or any kind of faux-pas at the house that I hadn't given any thought to the latter stages of the day and to further potential for disaster. No one seemed particularly angry at us, and my Granddad who I was most concerned about obviously had other things on his mind, but I'm sure this hasn't endured me to all those family members who haven't seen me for so long. They all seemed to remember me as a naughty cheeky little child, now they must think I grew up to become the adult equivalent which is an inconsiderate little southern gob shite.
After the reception I spent a little time back at my Granddad's house with my parents before heading back to my hotel. Granddad seemed pleased at how the day had gone which is all that matters really and I was pleased he seemed content. I headed back still feeling guilty and weird and shit though, but it was over and I consoled myself with the thought that my Grandmother had a pretty good sense of humour and had she been watching us blasting our way round the streets of Fleetwood trying to find the place to say our final goodbyes to her, she almost certainly would have been pissing herself. If you're reading this Grandma, I'm fucking sorry. I mean I'm really sorry. D'oh.
The plan later that evening was to return to the G-Casino and have a crack at their £2,000 guaranteed £25 freeze-out which seemed incredibly good value considering only 14 people had shown up the night before. I left my Granddad's house at 6.30 and made the 6 mile journey back to the hotel in just under one and half hours!! Fuck my life.
I don't even know how to explain this part of my nightmare. Obviously I got lost again. In the dark. I also backed my car into a lamp-post. Had I been stuck in the maze of Blackpool's residential streets for ten minutes longer I would almost certainly have succumbed to the level of lunacy reached by Jack Nicholson's character in the Shining.Most of the time was wasted because I failed to realise the cross street I needed to turn onto was actually above me. The street I was looking for should have been after Pudding Lane, but I'd go past Pudding Lane, then under a bridge and then into a wilderness. Three or four times I doubled back on myself before I finally realised the road I needed was on that fucking bridge. My Google maps was not clear about this. When I finally did make it back to my hotel I zoomed in as far as it would go...only then did I realise my mistake.
In total I should have driven 18 miles that day and it should have taken me about 50 minutes when you take into account the speed limits and the fact that we were a funeral procession. I actually drove about 42 miles and it took me about two hours 30 minutes and with a dented bumper thrown in for good measure.
I didn't make it out to the casino. Paul couldn't make it and well, I just didn't feel lucky for some reason. I just didn't feel like it was going to be my night. I sat in the restaurant ordered myself a beer and something to eat; meatball pasta. I'd had it the night before and it was lovely. I was starving too having not eaten anything all day but a few chips at the reception. I sank half of my beer and cut into one of the meatballs and shoved it in my gob. It was fucking cold.
I'm back home now. I Mario Andretti'ed myself away from Blackpool this morning and never looked back. The journey home was swift and nothing even remotely bizarre occurred. As I turned off the A40 at the Carterton exit I saw the RAF base in the distance and Fox FM started playing "When you're gone," by Bryan Adams and Mel C. No shit, I almost shed a tear. The lyrics summed up my trip completely. That was the first time I can honestly say I've missed Carterton. I was elated to be home. Emotion was flooding from me. I started singing along with Bryan and Mel and I dedicated it to my home town. I'm sorry for everything I ever said about you Carterton, let's never leave each other again.
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