Blackpool: At World's End.

Last night, I got a sum total of two hours sleep. Forced to top it up this morning with an extra long lie in, I’m about caught up now- although I didn’t make it to the allotment, the shops or for the afternoon walk I was planning. Why was I up? Ask Blackpool Council.

For those of you that don’t know, I live in the town centre. Next door used to be holiday lets- that is thirteen flats, each with a little kitchen, bathroom and living area enclosed- until a businessman known only as Danny bought the place last year.

We weren’t asked by the council if we had any objections to this. We were assured there was no reason to complain and nothing we could do anyway as they didn’t need permission to change from temporary occupancy to permanent lets and so, nothing was thought of it.

We now have a property next door where the walls fall down every night. The police have been round five times in four days (twice last night, actually) and there has been blood, domestic violence, screaming, shouting and threatening in four different languages, at seemingly any time of day. Last night the madness started at about 23.30. There was fighting in corridors, fighting on the street, banging and clattering, slamming doors and the usual threatening, midnight language of a Saturday.   By 1.30 one of them had kicked their own alarm in and, since the promised ‘live in manager’ doesn’t exist, someone finally came to turn it off at about 4am- by which point we were all up and seriously pissed off.

Our best guess is that one of the thirteen flats is either running a knocking shop or a drug farm based on the numbers of people going in and out. We don’t know if there are trafficked slaves in there because we don’t know who is in there- well, apart from the small innocent children crammed into one of the tiny flats. What I do know is that with a hotel full of pigeon enthusiasts, we don’t need foxes in the coop next door.

And so why did Blackpool council grant the permission? Three surrounding properties made objections and refused to allow the little old guy on the other side of us to change his hotel business into 2 residential flats and this guy on the other side has got 13. The only deduction I can make is that there was a backhander paid somewhere, and so this blog really is a thank you note to whichever smug little cockroach is sailing around the Seychelles on that money. I hope your boat is rocked off course, smashed into an iceberg and, like the tourism industry of Blackpool, you starve to death. That, at least would be some justice.

Rant over: here’s a poem about just how petty I am being. The world is ending you know.

Before the World Ends

Give me the apocalyptic

The tales of desperate strife

The prom queen who can’t find her lipstick

The man who can’t help beat his wife

I want all of your tales of terror

They’re all valid, let’s give them a whirl

If we die and don’t tell them, we’ll never find heaven

Let’s document this rotten world.

It is ending, that’s one thing we’re sure of

With each spin we mark time passing by

Perhaps someone could put us a war on

Give us something to do not online

We’re the bastard kids of the Nintendo

A dazed, confused generation X

So we spend all our time with a whinge and a whine

Leaving nothing for those who come next

Yes, we’re fed up of being told one thing

Just to see that they’re doing another

Whether reds or true blues, there’s resources to use

If you can’t afford them, you’re in bother.

So come down and share your apocalypse

Post it up on a wall or timeline

You could gripe about grapes that are rotten to taste

Join the fun, we’re all drinking that wine.

Thanks for reading,
Sleep deprived S.