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.

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Love song for George Osborne

 By Ashley Lister

"I just heard that another poor person froze to death this winter!"

 If the world was going to end

I’d want to be with you

It’s not because you are a friend

In truth you make me spew

You’re slimy and too privileged

You’re a humanoid lump of poo

But if the world was going to end

I’d want to be with you.

If the world was going to end

I wouldn’t be forlorn

Yes, we might lose all humanity

But we’d be rid of George Osborne.

I know that it’s not really cool

To joke about Armageddon

But I’m not the only one who thinks

The only good Tory’s a dead ‘un.

So if the world was going to end

I’d want to be with you

Your politics drove me round the bend

You didn’t have a clue

But being with you at end of the world

Is a thought that gives me wood

Cos knowing that George Osborne’s dead

Would make any apocalypse good.

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When Time Runs Out

Some of you will be aware of the war diary project which brings thousands of diary entries, reports and orders to the internet. The project is also attempting to tag relevant information so the pages can be searched and cross-referenced, and this is how I ended up losing time...

After a 10 minute tutorial on 'How to Tag' you're ready to get started. I found myself tagging late into the night, fascinated and shocked by words written almost a hundred years ago.

I was meant to be researching for today's blog post, but I haven't actually written what I had originally intended to post. Thus, today's post is sparse but I hope it might encourage you to access a resource which takes you to a world we'd struggle to imagine.

 http://www.operationwardiary.org/

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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It's the end of the world...as we know it

Sometimes when we think it's the end of the world it really isn't. It's actually a time for a new start, a new future. Here's a poem I read at LDGPS recently. I'm hoping to write something a little cheerier for the next one.

All the Fun of the Unfair

Pulled like candy-floss from its stick

 With lies, words woven so  slick

Your need to shine bright dulling me

Your every word derogatory

I stand still, sticky and dented

With truths, easily prevented

Others pick at tendrils, once proud

The sugar melts, the colours cowed

But now I stick to your fingers

Drawing dirt, my presence lingers

A chaos, from my residue

My anger, bound to you like glue

Phoenix from ashes and all that.

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Guest Post - Nigel the Blackpool Bard

This weekend we're beyond fortunate in having a contribution from local writer and legend, Nigel the Blackpool Bard

The End of the World - by Nigel The Blackpool Bard

It's all going to stop

The turning of this globe

One day it'll go pop

And we'll all have no home

The food will all be gone

No oil, gas or fire

Engulfed by a dying sun

A mass population funeral Pyre

But life will prevail

Out amongst the stars

The strongest will survive

Safe in the giant spacecraft

All the rich business types

All the top bankers

All of those with regal birth rights

All the political wankers

Will file on two by two

To the massive rocket arch

Laughing at the meek and the fool

Who failed to leave their mark

And off they'll shoot up into the distance

Never to return what they sold

Those left behind will sing and dance

Because we lied about the end of the world

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Keep The Hill

The end of the world does not mean the end of all things. I pretty sure you have all experienced an “end of my world” event. When something happens that changes everything and the world you once lived in now looks very different.

This short story is a test piece I wrote a fair few years ago now. I wanted to write about the end of worlds, how one life can stop and other come into existence only for the life to also change.

I tried to get that into a very short war story where the war itself could also be considered to be the lead up to the end of the world.

Please feel free to leave comments and criticisms. I do hope you enjoy it.

Keep the Hill

“No Simon!”

It was too late. Simon took that extra step and with a loud deafening bang, was transformed into body parts and red mist. I've been watching these fields for months, seen many people and animals come off second best to the mines. Some manage to pull back quickly enough so that only their legs gets removed in the blast, but these are the unlucky ones. The inevitable end comes to them as well, only it takes a few days. I've watched these fields for so long, I know there's no path through, yet the madness takes hold of some and they reckon they can make it.

Simon had just got that madness; the constant shelling and the knowledge that we were trapped took its toll on his sanity and, like so many before him, thought he knew the route out.

Silence followed the explosion. This was their tactic, throw shells and bullets at us for hours then give us a ten minute break before starting it all over again. This was our life now. A small troop of sixty men who, through the mines and the occasional direct hits, had been reduced to just seven; sorry with Simon that makes us six.

And why were we here? Why did they send a bunch of teenagers out with guns and bombs to dig trenches and shoot at an enemy who was out of sight? It's because some general in some office back home decided that this line was not to be crossed, that this hill behind us, that we couldn't even reach because of our own mines, had to be kept safe.

It was one of our mines that had scattered Simon to the winds. They lay under the earth behind us. The enemy mines are buried to our forward line while a mixture of the two sides devises blocked our flanks.

Now only six of us were left, the final resistance for the sake of the hill. We would have called for reinforcements but our radio was knocked out within the first few days. The powers that be don't seem to care, otherwise they would have sent more troops when they realized we couldn't be contacted, or maybe they thought we had lost the fight and just decided that more troops would just be wasteful.

The distant sounds of heavy artillery started again followed seconds later by the explosions of the shells making contact with the ground; here we go again.

I sometimes think of what life would have been like if we weren't at war. I was sixteen when I was drafted. I didn't mind, seemed like a laugh and I was doing my bit to help rid the world of this evil, protect my family and get the chance to be a hero instead of the layabout I was bound to become. I'm nineteen now, I was eighteen when I was deployed to these trenches six months ago. The lads tried their best to celebrate my birthday, we’d been reduced to thirty by then so it wasn't a bad bash.

In a twisted way I felt as if all the mushroomed flames of the falling shells were some kind of fireworks display. It helped for a moment, but the next day we all felt the same crash of reality. Back to shooting at nothing and watching others die wondering when it would be your turn.

Sometimes I forget who were fighting, and why? Christ there's only six of us left. This is madness, I've got to get out, get out, gotta get out!

Hang on I've got to get a grip, that's what happen to Simon, he counted how many were left then made a run for it. Though in a way I think he is better off now. Six privates against an army, yeah he's better off. I wonder who'll be next?

Steve has always been the strongest of us. When the captain bought it he was the one who took charge. We had three sergeants and six corporals but it was Steve who seemed to have his wits about him. I think he'll end up here on his own and when the war machine comes in to take their prize he'll be here yelling abuse at them.

Ian on the other hand amazes me that he's still alive. From day one he was always throwing out negative comments. I thought he'd be the first one killed, by our troops. Now he sits silent most of the time only screaming out the word "why" every so often in the midst of the shelling.

Dave always has a joke to tell, usually bad ones but I'll give him credit, when it comes to trying to keep the spirits up he does his best. I don't know how he manages to keep such a positive note on things. He knows as well as the rest of us that we are going to die here yet he still carries on smiling and joking.

Chris keeps himself to himself. He'll join in with the conversations but doesn't give anything away. He says the less we know about him the less we can say if captured. Though being captured is a hopeful thought. I think he loves this, like he was born for it. He's the only one that still fires the bombs off.

Sammy I think will be the next to try and run, he has that look in his eye that says he'd rather die trying to get out of here than die just sitting on his arse. I give him two days before he goes for it.

Then there's me, a layabout teenager turned into a man by the army. Sold on the idea of freedom and righteousness and now I sit watching the fields and listening to the bombs. This is my lot and this is where it will end, I kissed the book, took the shilling and packed my bag for my place in history. I only hope that something will be learned from this and in the future others won't have to endure this lonely life of getting used to death.

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