It had been 12 or so years since I last frequented Blackpool, gateway to the Irish Sea and home to General Brody of the once Horse Shoe Bar (may be its still there who knows). This hole of a place was the only establishment where you could drink cheap ale and challenge the big fat wrestler in the ring where a dance floor once stood. Stay in the ring with him for more than a minute and you cold win £200 pounds, a mouthful of sick and a black eye. I had managed 45 seconds, but my plan of running from the giant failed miserably as I tripped on my turn-ups and was tossed from the ring like a Wellington boot.

As a student of Blackpool back in the 1800's I would often frequent the student bars in bright frilly shirts chatting up ladies drinking Cider and Blackcurrant with the promise of dance, and perhaps a sweaty slap. I did return to the Pool a few years after leaving college with my friend Chris. But that ended in the discovery of Alco Pops and sick on my Corduroys..
The memories of shirts and cheap booze came flooding back as I strolled the Miracle Mile and then up onto North Pier. With the wind on my smooth bonce and sun in my eyes, it felt good to be alive and well standing where I once threw up multi coloured chunks after too many fruity cocktails.. And then it came, not the sick mind you, but the security telling me I couldn't take pictures because the pier was private. I tell you this, I laughed in his face, this time refusing to give in to such lunacy, I mean a public pier and you can take photographs!. Those days of avoiding confrontation are over. I took the little swine to task and he took a huff and left.
I wont go into my next confrontation with the coppers twenty minutes later while standing on a wall making an image of a half derelict house (it was a derelict house not a flaming military base).
Neither will I bore all three of you with such sorry tales, but safe to say, the public fear what they do not understand.....