London-Blackpool

For reasons too complicated to describe I find myself in Blackpool early one Sunday morning, with Toby and a rented car. The waterfront is very attractive in a crumbling, almost Eastern European sort of way. As an archetypical working-class resort, Blackpool is overrun by hen parties in improbable outfits on their way to drunken oblivion at 10.30 in the morning. It is also quite rough and full of topless, manky, pale, tattooed, swaggering chavs who slap their bling-wearing, peroxyd-blond, betablocked screaming girlfriends in front of their hyperactive, raging, clueless kids.