... blong?

Blackpool is a seaside holiday resort filled with rollercoasters and sweat. Its rich heritage consists of Victorian peasants and workers staying there for the weekend to laugh and shout and piss in the sea. Everyone there nowadays is mighty unhappy; the single recent sighting of someone having fun in Blackpool resulted in a massive overdose on a combination of sea and other people's envy.

Let me tell you a tale of this rich cultural centre: a tale of adventure.

Mr. Al was a typical Blackpool resident; he had sat and saddened patiently next to a teddy bear during his childhood whilst a clown taught him the art of mime. Instead of washing, he relied on the salty sand-stung wind to erode dirt from his skin faster than it could accumulate. The bleached seaside planks and roadways were his only friends. Whenever he got lonely, he'd sit at the end of the pier talking to the seagulls, but even they only ever shat on him.

In short, he was dissatisfied. Too lonesome without human contact, Al stuffed his bags with a day's supply of sand, packed his pockets full of fish and went on his way to London.

When he arrived in London, he was confused. See, they do things differently over there. Instead of their food being served up by Nature herself on a beach full of seagull shit, some of their food has plants and animals in it. Instead of fish, they have cars and dogs and prostitutes and children, some of whom you have to pay to stick your penis into. Truly, this was not the free city Al had been expecting.