My Janathon has relocated to the coast. Leaving behind the M6 snow chaos, we’re in Blackpool for our annual rugby dinner.
Tonight will be posh frock, shiny shoes and waiting for that moment where I utter the inevitable words “oh alright, just a little one…” and everything goes a bit wobbly. I’ll not bore you with the details of the night, if you want to know more, look back at the last weekends of the previous two janathons. The format of the night has been the same for over a decade and if it changes drastically tonight then I’ll bare my bum in the tower ballroom.
Despite indulging in both 90 minute happy hours and spending all my money on raffle tickets trying to win a giant stuffed Pingu, I was startlingly perky at 8 this morning. Ginge, bless him, didn’t smother me with a pillow when I announced we were off out and we braved the strange stares of other weekenders to hit the slushy, slippy pavements.
First up was North Pier.
Past the Tower and the big seedy leafy sculptures that wobble in the breeze.
And onward to South Pier…
…and the Big One.
Before having a listen to the Blackpool High Tide Organ.
And then slip sliding all the way back, too late for breakfast but with the smugness of an early 6 miles.