Blackpool

If I die and wake up in Blackpool, I will know that I have led a very bad life. They say that Hell is of one's own making and in this case I would believe them. Blackpool constitutes everything that is awful about England, with none of the redeeming features. It is cold, wet, dismal, even in summer. It is a tacky, rip-off cesspit of cultural detritus. Hotels that stink of stale cabbage and somehow, even in an age of smoking bans, stale cigarette smoke; they make Fawlty Towers seem positively radiant! It is almost as though they are deliberately attempting to simulate the privations of WWII ! Some places are so bad, they are good...but Blackpool is so execrably terrible that it goes beyond the second good, right into badder, on into third good and continues to baddest! With a level of irony that only the British can understand, they call it a Pleasure Beach, complete with plastic palm trees, fake pirate castles, soggy chips, over-priced candy floss...oh, stop, it hurts!