Sea, sand, spotlights, and a free party

At 8pm when the lights come on it’s a magical moment.
But Blackpool Illuminations isn’t just about bulbs – it’s a celebration of community.
The other people; on the prom, driving by, or in brightly lit trams are part of the show.
Other towns – like Walsall – have illuminations in the park.
But these are the baddest and the best.
Look one way and there’s the cold, brooding northern sea. Turn around and there’s the warmth of the lights, the chip shops, and the children’s smiles.
It’s like a dayglo Dickens.
Everything is normal on the prom. People carry big pink sharks and inflatable aliens – won on the arcades – without a second glance.
The downside is the gradually developing drunkenness. The hens add to the spectacle in their sparkly deely-boppers. But the stags are more intimidation than illumination.
So it’s a sensible move to put all the kids’ displays – Noddy, Treasure Island, haunted houses and the like – half way to Fleetwood and away from all the karaoke bars.
This year there’s an interactive Warholean touch – with some lights made out of pictures of ordinary folk
The illuminations include more than a million lamps, more than 500 floodlights, and spotlights that stretch nearly six miles.
And it’s all free – though there is a non-pushy collection if you want to donate towards the cost.

Shakespeare's day out in Blackpool

Blackpool prom's a stage,

And all the hens and stags are merely players;

They have their hotels and their B and Bs;

And one man in his time drinks many pints,

His limit being closing time. Just like the infant,

Mewling and puking in the best man’s arms.

And the whining school-boy, with his bucket,

Spade, and weather beaten face, dragged from beach

Unwillingly to bed. And then the lover,

Drunk with Guinness, buys a new tattoo to
Match his partner’s pierced eyebrow. Squaddies,

Full of oaths, and bearded like the Taliban,

Guard drinks and girls, swift and quick in quarrel,

Look for trouble and a reputation

Even in the p’liceman’s face. The pregnant teen,

In fair round belly. Primark crop top lin'd,

With eyes severe and hair of Spice Girl cut,

Full of cold sores and modern e-numbers;

And so they play their part. The sixth pint spills

Onto the floor and soiled pantaloons.

With spectacles askew, throws up outside;

His youthful hopes, to cross, a road too wide

For his drunk shanks; and his big manly voice,

Turns back to order treble vodka, pies,

And whiskies in his round. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Go home by coach to mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Hat tip to William Shakespeare for All The World's a Stage.