The Sea - My Bit of Blackpool

 When my parent's wish for a pub on Blackpool promenade was granted, I had the joy of having a front bedroom facing the sea. I was fascinated by the view. The summer season was just starting, people were strolling past and each day seemed busier than the last one. Trams rumbled by, horses clopped along pulling landaus, bells rang out from the donkeys taking their place on the beach and squeals of delight or screams of fear came from the nearby Pleasure Beach. These new sounds were exciting but nothing compared to the noises of the sea. On a still and quiet day, with hardly a ripple on the incoming tide, there might by a gentle splash as the last wave met the sand. On a breezy day, the sea was louder and the tide came in with lively, white waves. One of my first memories of that room is of a sunny morning, the curtains half open and the nets billowing into the room on the fresh, salty breeze. In those early days, I shared the room with my little sister who was still in a cot and I would wake up properly to hear her calling my name and holding her arms up to be lifted out. I think she was two years old, which would put me at nine, nearly ten. I don’t know when she moved into a room of her own, though at some point she did.

My grandparents were regular visitors, leaving their pub to oversee ours – it was a family joke. Grandad would go and take an interest in the cellar lay-out and everything behind the bars. Nanna planted herself in the bay window of our private lounge and watched the world go by, tutting at some of the sights and loving the view of the sea. She would smoke her Park Drive and drink tea. Her knitting would remain untouched as the outside goings on captivated her.  I expected to be part of those goings on when I was old enough. I wasn’t, well, not quite.

We spent hours watching the illuminated trams when Blackpool Lights shone. We could see for miles up and down the promenade. My sister and I would be taken out by Dad in the car to enjoy a proper look and see the fabulous tableaux towards Bispham. Many years later, a story and a poem of mine featured along there, amongst others. Who could have known?

When the Illuminations end, Blackpool hibernates. The view from my window is dominated by the sea with no distractions. Trams, less frequent, thunder along but the horses and donkeys have gone. Gale force winds and high tides send waves crashing over the sea wall on to the tram tracks, into the road and often into our cellar. It wasn’t flooded completely, but Dad would need his wellingtons on. I watched the sea with my mum, from the comfort of our lounge. The noise of the sea would frighten me, roaring, pounding and fierce, rising at its most scary like some great water monster. It still scares me. I like to watch without being too close.

I loved that bedroom. Our family changed after my mother passed away and my bedroom was promised to another. I moved to a back room. I should have refused. That’s life.

During the full lockdown, I wished I lived close enough to the promenade to have a walk and a look at the sea. Suddenly, I missed it, everything, the sounds and the taste of salt on my lips. There was one very hot, sticky day during the summer when there was only one way to cool off. After tea, my husband and I drove to Anchorsholme and found a quiet spot. We had a short walk then stood by the railings, looking at the sea that was right out on the horizon. A gentle breeze was pleasantly cooling, swirling my summer skirt and loose-fitting top. We stood for an hour enjoying the fresh air, watching seagulls and the people in the distance. The Blackpool I like is the vast coast-line and the changing of the sea.

My chosen poem, a favourite from John Cooper Clarke, with a nod to John Masefield. It brings to mind the Golden Mile, 

i mustn't go down to the sea again

Sunken yachtsmen
Sinking yards
Drunken Scotsmen
Drinking hard
Every lunatic and his friend
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The ocean drags
Its drowning men
Emotions flag
Me down again
Tell tracy babs and gwen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The rain whips
The promenade
It drips on chips
They turn to lard
I’d send a card if I had a pen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

A string of pearls
From the bingo bar
For a girl
Who looks like Ringo Starr
She’s mad about married men
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The clumsy kiss
That ends in tears
How I wish
I wasn’t here
Tell tony mike and len
I mustn’t go down to the sea again.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

Photo from Blackpool Gazette

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The Best Decade - My 1960s

I like to write historical fiction. I get a lot of enjoyment from researching specific eras. There is so much to learn and I never tire of it. I’ve spent a long time, in fits and starts, on a project that begins in the early 1960s and I’d love to see it completed, though it may have to stay on the back burner until I am able to dedicate more of myself to it. I expected to be retired by now, me like many others, and I planned to treat my project like a full-time job and see if it went anywhere. Let’s wait and see if I’ve still got a functioning brain by the time I get my pension.

I’m choosing the 1960s as the best decade that I have known and I’ve chosen through personal experience and not my research. I was born in the mid-fifties into a wonderful, close family of strong minded women and hard working men. I appreciate how fortunate I am to have had the love, security and grounding of a decent up-bringing. I’ve always been mindful that not everyone is so lucky.

In the mid-sixties we moved to Blackpool. Life got even more exciting. My parents had their dream pub on the promenade and clearly loved it. South Shore beach became my playground, with my younger sister, buckets and spades and either our mother or our adored housekeeper, Auntie Kathy to look after us. We watched the whole world from our upstairs windows, holiday makers dashing off the beach as a storm came over the sea, silly hats, illuminated trams and gangs of what my dad called Beatniks. As soon as the illuminations ended, that was it, Blackpool prom died. The winter view was one of an empty, bleak wilderness, but it was fascinating watching the waves come over the sea wall and crash on to the tram lines during a fierce gale. If only I could see it all again, but thinking as an adult now, I would be worried about the rattling sash windows blowing in. The summer of 1968 is still my favourite, even though my mother embarrassed me by telling singer/songwriter/busker Don Partridge how much I adored him, as we were being introduced. He didn’t seem to mind but I certainly did. He was in the Central Pier show for the summer season and we, that is me and my mum, were front of house guests and back stage guests on separate occasions. I was enthralled to hear him sing ‘Rosie’ and ‘Blue Eyes’ live on stage and I still love those songs. We had a summer of shows and meeting people including Engelbert Humperdinck. He was headlining at the ABC theatre. I was speechless.

My poem is an old one of mine, written with love for those bygone days. It reminds me now of a late friend, Christo Heyworth. When he read the poem, he told me that the ‘grumpy deck chair man’ could have been him, though, as I said at the time, I couldn’t imagine Christo being grumpy.

 

This Was My Blackpool In ’68.

Taking a tram from North Pier to Starr Gate.

A summer of fun and staying up late.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Anne, Auntie Kath and me, all holding hands

Crossing the Prom to get on to the sands

Where the grumpy deck-chair man always stands.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

We were young ladies with panache and style,

Playing the penny arcades for a while,

Frittering our spends on the Golden Mile.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Spinning the Waltzers three times in a row.

Make it go faster, we don’t like it slow,

And then the man said, “That’s it, off you go!”

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Out to a summer show, straight after tea.

Engelbert tonight at the ABC,

A back-stage delight for my mum and me.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

Got to get ready, there’s no time to lose!

My trendiest outfit is what I will choose…

A pink mini dress with bright orange shoes.

This was my Blackpool in ’68. 

A time of peace, love and Flower Power,

Charlie Cairoli and Blackpool Tower,

Seaside and sunshine for hour after hour.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Pamela Winning,   2013

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blackpool Illuminations: A Visitor Appeal

A Visitor Appeal

Have you been to the Illuminations?
There's apparently some in Walsall
The Blackpool of the Midlands- houses falling apart
Is it fair to compare? Not at all. 

But the world famous Wurlitzer organ
Have you heard one of those played before
We've a fine specimen, even Brucie has seen
Come and dance on the Tower's sprung floor.

You look like you might need a chuckle
Try the comedy carpet for size
We've no handprints of stars but there's jokes over ours
Guaranteed to bring joy to your lives

Whilst you're here, take a ride on the Big One
See the lions and tigers at' zoo
There's so much to be done, we can promise you fun
With all this, you'll find something to do. 

So I ask again, have you seen t'lumies
Stretching out from Starr Gate seven miles
You could drive, take a tram, spend some time with your gran
but just come, bring your money with you. 


Thanks for reading,
S.

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Pretty Lights

This week's theme is Illuminations. I looked into my heart; gazed at the tower burning; watched a firefly die.

I have stood on the verge of the abyss that is my mind. The vast chasm that leads to the innermost workings of what it means to be me. I asked the librarian to offer me something to read regarding this theme. She just laughed at me and told me to feel.

I wrote from the immediate mind.

Whatever that means? 

Pretty Lights

I walk

Above me hangs the forgotten dreams of a billion stars

Night hugs the air and cars drive past

Wonderment in the eyes of infant passengers

A spectrum of waste

Exploding in a million ideas

I like the blue sparkles

I see

Beneath me water protects the stone from prying eyes

Clouds released their wet prisoners with audible signs

Showing us the door to another place

Parallel universe.

The damp reflects

I like the mirror world

I hear

Beside me laughter pours from the excited vessels

Young canvases for colour to be experimental

Dancing plastic shines too bright

This unfeeling entertainer

Automaton doing what it's told

I like the playing bears.

I taste

In front of me sugar screams as toothless crones throw them in oil boiling

Breaded rings crying out to be someone else’s precious thing

Potatoes wrapped in fat soaked paper

Ungrateful hands grab

Consume for little energy

I like the hot dogs

I smell

Behind me souls of the faceless swam attracted by the light

Sweat of parents desperate to see through their past child's sight

Hope of warm winters from the money takers

Corruption of the voted managers

Desperation of the broken

I like the pretty lights

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Still but Stardust.

Morning all. The theme this week is 'The 1980s' which initially posed a problem for me.

I'm 25. I'm 25 and a quarter actually, give or take a week. I was born in 1986 and so, putting the initial horror thought aside, I must have been created some time around now. I decided that whilst this was a slightly worrying concept to run with for a piece of writing, it could lead on to something and so, I took Tuesday's blogger, the lovely Lara out for a bit of a drive.

Ponder, ponder, ponder then click- it dropped in. I wanted to reflect us- then. Before I was a thought, before the cogs had begun to turn on my own life, the period in the mid-80s when my parents must have been dating. Anyway, I've written it straight in to my notebook (which I have finally started to fill with poems) so will probably be reading it at an event sometime. Once again, it has been a pleasure, I hope you like it.

Still but Stardust.

Was it a night like this

A night somewhere deep in the mid 1980s

The stars as bright as Blackpool lights

to mark, there, the moment.

I imagine myself- shaggy hair,

jumper just like in the photo,

falling in love. I wonder- to look

through the window of time, if it was

like this. On one night

just like this.

Catch you next week,

S.

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Blackpool

by Nikki Magennis

I’ll approach by night on greasy, choppy waters, as they lick along the front of the Pleasure Beach. Maybe by pedalo. Perhaps with a flick-knife clamped between my teeth. I’ll spidercreep. Avoid eye contact. Hide my face behind a mound of candyfloss.

I know what I’ll find. I know those greased pavements, those blasted faces, those see-saw seagulls circling over the smatters and smears and the flotsam and jetsam that washes up on beer-scented, frothy-tipped waves. I know these places like the inside of my own guts. Booming and seething and thronging.

It’s possible to drift invisibly among a multitude of fluttering, drunken tourists, dazzled by neon and intoxicated by the sea air, heads tipping back to peer at the braced heights of the Tower. The Illuminations’ll cascade around me, it’d be like the end scene in Apocalypse Now, only with the smell of fried fish wafting over the water.

Red and white striped life-rings, lipstick-red rock with a snow white centre and letters shot through it. Sunburned bingo wings, red on top – creamy white underside. Glittery nipples dotting the tip-top of tits. A fight, blood bursting from a nose, scattered over a clean-pressed white shirt. Clown-faces, jelly-doughnut mouth, chalkwhite cheeks. The neon. The stars.

I’ll carry a poet with me, ask him to translaaaaaate the accent, yer see-saw back and forth, drawn out like toffee, wade through those long vowels, scrape the swearys off yer shoes.

Lac Noir. Piscina Negra. Stagno Nero. Schwarze Lache. Loch-Dhu.

***

Nikki Magennis is an author and artist. She has never been to Blackpool.

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