I have been to Blackpool and I had a bloody marvellous time. The weather was perfect, I wrote the entire show (pretty much) walking along the sands, I began to be able to see the ideas that were faintly crowding around me, and ended up in Anne Summers trying on some really short black PVC shorts from their "bondage" section. For why I have no idea. Oh no, hang on. I do know, sort of... or at least I can justify it. One of the rules is that the body or part of it must be bound or contained. Blimey. Doesn't the subconscious work in mysterious ways...
I suppose that I had been worried that dear old shabby seedy run down old Blackpool could only put me in touch with bleak(er) emotions. But, of course, it didn't because I used to go to Blackpool long long before the world I now know came into being. I went there when I was a kid and a teenager and had inflated dreams of my own future greatness ... but mainly just enjoyed dreaming. And I remembered all the good times I had there. Strangely, it was the textures under foot which brought back the most concrete memories, rather than anything I saw or smelled... the hard ripples in the sand, the squishy traces of the lug worms, the warm concrete bits of sea wall, the planks on the pier that give slightly as you walk, the ornate and peeling railings that you can rest your back against.
And I realise now that I have dreamt these things ever since. And also that I am the same person now as I was then, because I noticed all the same things. Felt like an onlooker: other people's screams. Not mine. Which was oddly affirming.
Yeah yeah yeah. Any road, I went on the Pepsi Max Big One at The Pleasure beach, which is fucking ginormous. It cost eight pounds and was worth every last penny. Finally! To have my insides matched with my outsides. To have emotion dwarfed by the physical. To have my body thrown about at such speed and with such unpredictable violence, that my heart gave up it's strong hold on my soul and I laughed till the tears rolled down my face... I have a souvenir key ring to prove it. It's massive, and so, in a land where worth is frequently measured by size (think prize winning leaks), I did quite well for six quid...
I bought a very important prop for the act and then went to see a Gypsy to have my cards read. She said that I had some opportunities coming up that I should seize. The "future" cards were the devil, the tower and temperance. So I'm gonna meet a randy fella with a great big pointy tail (I hope), give up drinking (not so sure) and chuck myself off Centre Point (er...)
So anyway the Blackpool "rule" has proved to be a turning point for this particular rulesieregger.
I was explaining to my charming new friend only yester eve over a stiff gin, that I'm beginning to understand my process in terms of being a big fat sitting duck being shot at for several weeks by my own bad ideas... it's not over yet.
I was at a great advantage. Blackpool didn't make me sad because I was sadder than Blackpool. So it gently lit up, took the weight off my chest, and at one point, filled me full of pure and unadulterated joy. Blackpool Rocks.
