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COMING UP BLACKPOOL
GARETH DAVIS
looks after all the editorial content at Travel Channel and
runs the website. So if you've any comments or complaints, he's
the one to get in touch with! He also produces and presents
on the channel, primarily the series THE TRAVEL BUG and THE
TRAVEL CHANNEL GUIDE TO … And when he has a spare minute,
he writes for the travel section of the Sunday Mirror in the
UK.
Four years ago I was given the choice of
filming in either Blackpool or Italy. Much to the shock and,
in some cases, outright disgust of friends and colleagues I
opted for Blackpool. It's not that I'd lost my sense of taste
or proportion. Quite simply, I'd always wanted to visit Blackpool
and the bucolic joys of Northern Italy's lakes and mountains
seemed better saved for a time when getting safely from the
hotel lobby to the coach unaided will constitute an activity
holiday.
I've since spent many weekends in Blackpool.
It's one of my favourite destinations. If you're the type of
person who thinks the whiff of a deep fat fryer will ruin your
Armani top or you're as uptight as your brand new Gucci loafers,
nothing I say from here on in will make any sense or difference.
On the other hand, for those willing to let their hair down
and engage with Blackpool on its own terms, the jewel of the
Fylde Riviera is a great getaway that dishes up a few surprises.
 Blackpool is designed to be enjoyed in
the company of good mates. So this summer, on the back of a
three week stint in Jordan, I put the glories of the desert
and the Dead Sea behind me, and headed north in the company
of Dr Tim, an old friend who has himself competed many times
at the Tower Ballroom in his days as a teenage Come Dancing
wannabe.
The famous illuminations weren't on; they
are now, through to the end of October. In fact, it was the
illuminations that put Blackpool on the map.
Back in the 1930s, the town's good burghers,
with almost prophetic foresight, anticipated a time when the
British seaside resort would lose its charms. The fact they
also wanted to keep the holidaymakers' cash flowing in through
the autumn months is by the by. In 1934 the illuminations made
their debut. And they worked. Today, the tourists start tramming
in from July but October half-term remains Blackpool's busiest
week. In 1934, Blackpool had already acquired its other signature
landmark. The Tower was built in 1894 as an homage to that
one in Paris, and as a practical entertainment centre where
visitors could escape the uncertain northwest climate. The Winter
Gardens - the clue's in the name - served the same purpose though
nowadays they're more famous as the scene of political jousting
at the great Labour Party Conferences of the 60s, 70s, and 80s.
In the near-century that's gone by, Blackpool
was the annual two-week stalwart of the Northern and Scottish
working classes and is now the stag and hen weekend destination
of choice where would-be brides and grooms seem intent on drinking
themselves into a state of matrimony. British tastes have shifted
overseas and attractions like the Sealife Centre seem shoddy
by comparison with the aquariums of Monterey and Barcelona whilst
a bout of bingo is as du jour as a game of Buckaroo.
Still, Blackpool battles on, with plans
to reinvent itself as the Las Vegas of Northwestern Europe,
replete with lakes, parkland, and mind-boggling casino resorts.
This is subject to the government arriving at a decision on
the exisiting gaming laws that prohibit entertainment and accommodation
in casinos. The decision is currently earmarked for 2005. In
the meantime the town is as you'd expect; a squall of fish and
chip shops, drunken lads, cackling girlies, and humongous sticks
of rock that seem unfit for any human orifice. The beach may
have given up the fags, condoms and other detritus which not
so long ago resulted in a health warning but there ain't no
one going to swear that sea is clean.
And in the midst of it all, like a drop
of rain in a desert, a culture that often seems more Dry Martini
than deeply meaningful has carved a niche for itself. We've
snuck in, and the gay scene that's emerged seems as integral
to the place as a Wobbly Willie lollipop. There are clubs, bars
and entertainments to service the higher and more fundamental
needs.
Dr Tim being a man of taste and discrimination,
this time round we decided to empty our cosmetic bags at the
grande dame of Blackpool hotels, the Imperial. Benignly she
sits on the North Promenade, a proud Victorian lady. There is
a health club but even so, the old love's looking a bit frayed
around the edges. She needs some TLC and the Paramount Group
that own her deserve a kick up the proverbial. The bar is of
interest. It's aptly called the No.10, its walls a tabloid of
past Premiers, Labour and Conservative, who've spent time there.
The Imperial of course is not a gay establishment though bearing
in mind the goings on which have no doubt echoed along its Axminstered
corridors at party conferences past, I'm sure nary an eyebrow
would be raised at a couple of the boys checking in.
 Blackpool has 13 gay-friendly hotels recommended
by the Tourist Board but THE gay layover is the Trades Hotel
on Lord Street. A couple of terraced 30s houses have been knocked
up into a pleasure palace to rival the court of Nero. Opulence
however is not the keynote feature; worn and tired would be
more accurate, which is exactly how you'd feel if you'd had
your door handle rattled through the night by après-clubbers
in search of anyone they can get their hands on. On past visits,
my hairnet has obviously been enough to frighten even the most
desperate as I usually get the response "Oops! Sorry love, thought
this was the loo." Trades big USP is the residents' bar and
disco which often swings on 'til 7am and it's where residents
and "guests" decant once the clubs have closed. And in Blackpool,
that's 2am.
By day, Dr Tim and I head for the Pleasure
Beach. I love amusement parks and having been fortunate enough
to have been declared dead on some of the world's great rides,
a few of Blackpool's bring me as close to the grave as I care
to be at my age. Even the "woody", as aficionados call vintage
wooden roller coasters, is enough to get the bones rattling
and adrenalin pumping. My faves are the Big One, Europe's tallest
and fastest roller coaster which by the way offers fantastic
views across the town, and Valhalla, a six minute journey through
the Viking afterlife with plenty of fire and ice effects. Dr
Tim unfortunately doesn't have the constitution for thrill rides
so we made do with the Log Flume, which was fun but succeeded
in upsetting me. I got my hair wet. Time at the Pleasure Beach
however is time well spent in my book if only to assure me that
my nervous system is fully functioning. A ticket that provides
access to all rides as many times as you want comes in at £26.
 By night, the ignorant would suppose that
diners have little option but to head for the nearest chippy.
Well, I'm far from being a fan of the fatty little buggers and
I'm not happy about Dr Tim indulging his vices so early in the
evening but luckily, to the consternation of the uninitiated,
Blackpool has some restaurants serving top nosh. There's September's
Brasserie on Queen Street. Perched above a hairdressers, a small
dining room serves up the likes of foie gras, scallops, and
Gressingham duck at £19.50 for two courses, £22.50
for the full monty. Portions are generous though the service
can be a bit amateur. And that white building which rarely registers
with the tourists at the entrance to the Pleasure Beach is home
to the White Tower Restaurant. A lift to the 2nd floor takes
you to a space which gazes out up the prom through a swathe
of curved windows like some chic dining room in the prow of
a cruise liner. The food veers from cous-cous to monkfish, the
service is impeccable and two courses come in at around £20.
And yes, they do serve chips though at the White Tower the fatty
tatties are presented in a nifty mini frying basket.
And then, Funny Girls. The presence of
a world-class drag extravaganza that beats even those on the
real Riviera may seem incongruous but when you bear in mind
all those seasonal end-of-prom goings on and Lancashire's great
tradition of camp best exemplified by vintage Coronation Street,
Funny Girls seems the logical conclusion. And its mainstream
pedigree is exemplified by the fact it's mainly popular with
straight audiences made up of people like my mother - which
is how I came to hear about it. Funny Girls' curtains go up
around 8.30pm and come down around 11.30pm. That's not to say
the show bangs on interminably for three hours. There's plenty
of time for drinking as it consists of a series of set pieces
performed every half an hour or so. The show changes four times
a year. The one I caught had a hysterical rendition of High
On A Hill Lived A Lonely Goatherd involving some very shady
goings-on with a toy goat, and a foretaste of the Broadway hit
Thoroughly Modern Millie in which prima diva and choreographer
Miss Betty Legs Diamond seized the leading role and gently massaged
it to life between her well-exercised thighs. Admission to Funny
Girls starts from £4.50 for standing room on a Friday.
In April 2002 Funny Girls relocated to
what was until recently a derelict cinema on Dickson Road. It's
now a camp complex, beautifully restored, with a gay club called
Bar B's accessed via an entrance on the side of the building,
and eventually, it will be home to Blackpool's most famous gay
nightspot, Flamingo's.
The old Flamingo's and its partner in crime,
the Flying Handbag Pub, are being knocked down in the next two
years to make way for a shopping precinct. In the meantime,
the bird battles on. It's a huge multi-level space which in
its time has hosted the Mr Gay UK final. We visited on a Friday
night when it was obvious that most punters had opted to be
elsewhere, and a Saturday night when I could barely squeeze
through the hot bodies and dry ice. I thought I was back on
the Valhalla. With our dancing days behind us, and no one willing
to partner Dr Tim in a paso doble, we actually preferred Bar
B's where the space is less overwhelming, the music less driven,
and the clientele less preoccupied. Not counting the two dykes
on stage who could've engulfed Holland. It's what you would
call an entertainment club. Men's men, or as near as you'll
get, head for Pepe's on Talbot Road. It's a basement bar where
the stairwell doubles as a stripper's gallery. Yes, that what
Pepe's does best. The nearest Blackpool's gay scene gets to
the tens of straight drinking holes littering the prom is Mardi
Gras just up from Pepe's. This is a working men's club with
a gay clientele where the crowd is gently and deftly worked
by the gaargeous Miss Stella Artois. We loved it.
Blackpool is an acquired taste, the acquisition
of which remains sadly for many a dubious pursuit. Personally,
what sets Blackpool apart for me from the likes of Torquay,
Bournemouth, and that other trendy Regency resort down south,
is the people. When a straight-faced waiter whispers in my ear
"I wouldn't touch the soup, love, it's shite," not only do I
laugh, but I also know I'm in safe, warm hands. And there comes
a stage when that's all any of us can hope for.
FOR MORE INFORMATION
To find out more about Blackpool visit:
To find out more about the Imperial Hotel
visit:
www.paramount-hotels.co.uk
To find out more about Blackpool Pleasure
Beach visit:
www.blackpoolpleasurebeach.com
What do you think of Blackpool? I'd love
to hear any advice you may have DROP
ME A LINE
September 2005 |