It was supposed to be fairly simple – travel to Blackpool from London, then pop to my mum’s for a couple of days on the Wirral, before returning to Tottenham. But train strikes, personal disorganisation, and chance encounters with kind strangers turned the trip into a tour.
And so it was that I set off for the concert. The train to Blackpool from Euston on Friday morning was delayed, or as the person at the information kiosk placatingly put it, “re-timed”. One more in a series of cursed visits to the town. The last visit was marred by food poisoning the night before I had to travel there for work earlier this year. The time before that was over a decade ago with a mate, his mum, and her fella. You can guess the rest.
A brutally honest announcement on the train conducted the mood, declaring a “cock up” and demanding everyone complain for refunds. I used the journey to look at coach tickets to take me back to the Wirral on Saturday where I’d stay at my mums for a couple of nights, but I’d left it too late and they’d all been booked up.
I took to the HMHB Facebook group and after sending a plea into one part of social media that didn’t feel like an ether, I connected with a guy called Mark. One of his group had dropped out and he had a spare seat on the way back to Middlewich. A bit of a detour to get me back to the Wirral, then, but Mark told me he’d been in a similar situation as a kid. “Just pay it forward.” he said. We chugged on, to Preston, where I’d change for Blackpool North.
I was greeted, like everyone is arriving into Blackpool, by the massive Sainsburys. Did they manage to get buy-in for the building, now colonising the site of Basil Newby’s Flamingo and Flying Handbag, because their corporate colours are similar to the football team? Who knows; stupid question. I headed for the hotel I was staying in, via the tram.
Mark said to meet him in the Cask and Tap before the gig, so I thought to get something to eat before the inevitable pint. I remembered speaking to a guy called Josh, the owner of ‘Cosy Jazz Cafe’, while doing research for a project I worked on a while ago and I’d promised to visit his place next time I was there. It was a 5 minute walk from the hotel, so I made my way.
Josh was the type of person who made purposeful eye contact with you. Someone who sought to connect with every human that came into his sanctuary. The atmosphere he created in his cafe was of chaotic precision. Instruments, pictures, projections, books, ornaments; all everywhere, but with apparent purpose. The couches along one side were designed so you had no choice but to lean back. You felt slightly disoriented, but comforted.
The same could be said for his food. He recommended the vegan jerk chicken and rice. I’m no vegan, but I wolfed the first few mouthfuls and sat staring at the food as Josh was talking to me, completely oblivious to what he was saying. After I finally came round from the combination of flavours, I asked him about the dish and he told me he’d“been working on it for years. You could tell.
When he’s not running his cafe, Josh likes to get out on his boat on the River Wyre, which is moored in nearby Skippool. When he’s not working, he tries to take his boat out onto the river and just meditate. Recently he’s been getting a bit of a desire to do it more often.
In came a regular, and friend of Josh’s, called Adam. We got talking and he told me that he used to live in London before a breakup and then the desire to live by himself, and the sea, brought him to Blackpool.
When Adam was in London, he fell and hit his head on Holloway Road and suffered a head injury and post-concussion syndrome. There was a time where it would be dangerous for him to cross the road. He either simply forgot to look, or his brain didn’t process information quickly enough. If he watched a car go past from right to left, he described only seeing the first and last frame. He’d see it on the left and right of him, but nothing in the middle.
Since the accident, he said he’s felt the same, but just couldn’t express himself as well. Playing football has helped his recovery. I took Adam’s details (I already had Josh’s number), then shared a warm farewell with them both – until next time.
Northwards, up the windy prom, to meet Mark at the Cask and Tap. He was wearing a Dukla Prague away kit, and was sat with two friends, Mike and Steve. We shared our favourite Half Man Half Biscuit lyrics, trivia and songs. I was prepared to shout a request to the band for A Lilac Harry Quinn, Mark had a whole set-list he’d predicted, Mike suggested HMHB would come out to Rockford Files, and Steve was there for the ride.
As we got onto the third and final pint, and loosened, it came up that 3 out of 4 of us had lost our dads early. I don’t think I could have picked a better group of people to meet up and walk to the gig with.
The Winter Gardens was gorgeous, and worth a visit even without an event on. We weren’t waiting long before Nigel, Neil, Karl and Carl walked out to Rockford Files, and played A Lilac Harry Quinn as their opener. As I sang the refrain of “Sturmey-Archer Campagnolo”, I moved to the front.
Like Josh’s food, It would be daft to try and fully explain the gig musically, you just need to listen to them or look at the set list on the fan-run website. But they played pretty much every song I wanted to hear, and were tighter and clearer than most bands you’d see.
I sang along and joined in with the gentle (at first) mosh pit, and had a few moments of just looking around and taking everything in; people dressed as references, people moshing, couples, father and son pairs, day trippers, nonplussed friends and partners. Everyone here had been waiting for this gig for two years, after Covid-induced postponements, and it showed in our faces.
There was only one guy with his jaw out the door, and as he caused a bit of havoc in the mosh pit, I locked eyes with someone and we both raised our eyebrows at each other, sharing a smirk. At one point, a kid no older than twelve joined the mosh pit with his mum, utter glee on his face.
Despite the joyous occasion, during the rendition of ‘Trumpton Riots’, I couldn’t help but notice a sense of frustration inside me. People have recently spoken of the similarities of the situation we’re in now and the period when the song was released under Thatcher’s Prime Ministership in 1986.
And, although it parades as a satire about a children’s cartoon, Nigel Blackwell singing about flying bricks and overthrowing aristocracies while I was amongst bouncing bodies, for a second, had me dreaming a way out of the future being forced on us by the current government.
At the end of the gig, I parted ways with Mark, Mike and Steve, headed back to the south shore to my hotel, and slept well. After waking up early and taking a walk in a deserted breaking dawn Blackpool, I packed my things and headed to meet Mark and his silver Skoda, Steve and Mike, and travel home.
After Mark dropped off Mike and Steve, me and Mark navigated a maze of backed up A and B roads to the M53, chatting about family past, present and future until we got to mine (which was well out of his way). This was all interspersed with the occasional Biscuit reference, of course – once you’re in company of a fellow fan, you have to make the most of it.
We turned down my mum’s road, and finished off a chat about Mark and his son taking trips to Cadair Idris to watch fly-bys of military aircraft, where his son takes photos. Mark described a time when a pilot of a Tornado did their last fly-past and really put on a show. He told me that he’s probably had the best time of his life on that hill.
We said goodbye. Mark went home for a takeaway, and I got into bed and came to the conclusion.
George Powell 