As previously mentioned, young Master P and his mates took themselves off to Blackpool today. Should have been straightforward and I was pretty cool about it. Yes, he’s a young lad, but he’s bright and can surely cope with the vaguaries of the British transport system.
‘Bring, bring’ at about four o’clock. M telling us that he would be catching the seven or eight o’clock train, home by nine or thereabouts.
Skip forwards a few hours and the remnants of the Parrot brood are enjoying a takeaway. ‘Bring, bring’ again. Master P on the blower telling us that they have reached the station, but don’t have enough dosh to pay for the tickets. I have a chat with the very helpful ticket bloke who lets me pay for them by card. And doesn’t even add the usual £10 service charge. Top marks on their part.
It reminds me of one of my Nana’s jokes, which I’ll repeat for light relief:
It’s Wakes Week and two Lancashire lads take themselves off to Blackpool for some fun. They have a week’s wages in their pockets, and an eye on the lasses.
Come Friday, the day before they’re meant to return, their pockets are empty. And not a train ticket to get them home.
Jack has an idea and by Saturday morning they have a tent set up on the beach. Outside is a bit of cardboard on which is writ in charcoal: “Roll up, roll up! Come and see the Fairy Shite! Only 6d!
By nine o’clock there’s a queue snaking down the sands and the donkeys are feeling neglected. And as the clock strikes, the first folk are let in. And they see… nothing.
“Whears this fairy shite then?” demands father of the family in Yorkshire tones.
“What’s tha see up theer?” answers Jack, pointing at the ceiling.
“An ‘ole,” replies the Tyke.
“An’ what’s tha see through t’ole?”
“Why, it’s Blackpool Tower.”
“Well that’s a fairish height i’nt it.”