I used to work for a company based in Preston, and every year the Xmas bash was at the Grand Hotel in Blackpool.
Imagine walking along the Promenade on a cold rainy late saturday morning in December because you have had to vacate the room, your head thumping because you didnt make it out the hotel bar till 4am. The smell of cheap fried food and the din of largely empty amusement arcades blarring out to make your hangover even worse. Candy floss, ice cream, laughing model clowns in those glass cases, those ridiculous machines where you try to get a teddy bear with a mechanised arm thingy. Overweight knuckle dragging families probably from Manchester, waddling along in their tacky catologue clothes and eying up tacky souvenirs of the bloody tower. You try to make it across to the beach, nearly getting run over by a bloody tram with a stupid clanging bell on it. You need to get some fresh sea air and clear your head, but are overcome by the smell of donkey shit strewn across the sands.
You think why am I in this state and in this stinking hell hole, I think i want to kill myself.
And the only reason you dont go and walk straight out on the North pier and jump off the end is because....things can always be worse, I could be stuck in Rhyl.
