Читать книгу Look who it is!: My Story - Alan Carr, Alan Carr - Страница 10
ОглавлениеEveryone has a place that seems to draw them back to it, whatever life choices they make, whatever they do. After a few years they can bet their bottom dollar they end up back there. My place is Blackpool. Like a piece of foil to a filling, I end up attached to it, which inevitably turns out to be a painful experience. Our move to Blackpool wasn’t my first time up there: Gary, Mum, Nan and I had gone on a weekend break with Dad’s friend Ted who, with some of his friends, drove us up in a minibus. The weekend was pretty uneventful. It was only a few years later, when Ted got arrested for running an unlicensed brothel in the next village and we recalled that all our fellow holidaymakers had been ropy women, that it dawned on us we’d had a weekend break with a minibus full of hookers.
It was a great weekend, to be fair. We had gone up to see the Christmas Illuminations. We had a fantastic view of them at the front of our hotel, and it was a real novelty to have the lights flashing outside our window. I suppose some of the girls would have been used to that.
The one thing that does spoil the whole Blackpool experience – apart from the architecture, food, cleanliness and quality of entertainment – is the weather. The wind is so merciless and bitter, it’s almost frightening. We had a jolly Santa swinging outside our window one night; he was shaking so violently in the wind that I thought his sack was going to come through the window and electrocute Nan.
The other time I’d been there was with my mates, and they’d booked us all into Thompsons Hotel. While most Blackpool hotels have a selection of pamphlets on the front desk advertising the Winter Gardens or the Tower Ballroom, Thompsons has the latest North West STD figures and a sachet of complimentary lubricant. Apparently in the summer of 2004 gonorrhoea was more popular than Bobby Davro. The place was basically a knocking shop, with no locks on the door and the smell of sex permeating every nook and cranny and, believe me, there are a lot of crannies. At least we didn’t have to be disturbed by the chambermaid in the morning asking if we needed teas or coffees; no, she could just refill the basket through the custom-made glory holes in the wall.
Of course, I was disgusted and outraged, but it’s funny, isn’t it, how after three bottles of wine and copious gins and tonics you get used to the minor design flaws and out-of-date curtains. That Sunday morning I woke up in Thompsons with the worst hangover I’d ever had. I didn’t have my glasses on, but even through my myopic haze I could see that the man lying next to me had special needs. Then I felt someone turn over on my other side, a man who looked relatively ‘normal’. Oh no! Please, dear God, please don’t tell me I’ve had an orgy on a Sunshine Coach.
The helper reassured me that it had been only him and that the special needs man had his own room, but sometimes he couldn’t sleep so he gets into bed with him. Although I couldn’t remember anything at all, I was happyish with his story and didn’t really want to pick it to pieces too much – yes, ignorance can be bliss. I thanked everyone involved, picked up my clothes and left Thompsons, got on a tram and went somewhere to have a wash.
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Blackpool for me just throws up drama after drama, a bit like the sea does with sanitary products. It’s a place that I just can’t visit without ‘something’ happening to me. That ‘something’ happened again, recently. I was there filming a pilot for Channel 4, The End of the Pier Show
