Bi-Polar Blackpool

The Love-Hate Affair with Britain’s Marmite Seaside Town

Ah, Blackpool. The jewel of the northwest. The Vegas of Britain. The only place where you can win a goldfish in a bag, eat chips on the beach in gale-force winds, and finish the day sobbing over a burnt sausage roll. It’s my childhood holiday destination and, somehow, my grown-up photographic obsession.

Why? Because Blackpool has two personalities. In the summer, it’s all candy floss, neon lights, and donkeys wearing hats. Families frolic on the beach, hen parties stagger down the promenade, and the piers are alive with the sound of slot machines devouring pocket money. It’s kitsch, chaotic, and quintessentially British. It’s a sensation.

But in winter? Oh boy. Blackpool in winter is a dystopian nightmare. The donkeys are gone (hopefully to somewhere nicer), and the beach transforms into a wasteland of cigarette butts, soggy chips, and seagulls plotting world domination. The Golden Mile feels more like a Sad Mile. And the rats—dear God, the rats. They look like they own the place, and frankly, they probably do.

Photographing Blackpool is like dating someone with a terrible personality but amazing cheekbones. You know you shouldn’t love it, but you can’t stop staring. I’ll wander down the desolate winter promenade, snapping photos of abandoned ice cream vans and faded posters of half-forgotten cabaret stars. It’s grim. It’s filthy. It’s art darling.

And then summer rolls around, and suddenly Blackpool becomes Instagrammable again. Families eating Mr. Whippy in the rain (because of course, it’s raining), brides-to-be dressed as inflatable penises, and the iconic Blackpool Tower glowing in all its gaudy glory. It’s a feast for the eyes, even if your nose is overwhelmed by the scent of fried food and cheap lager.

So here’s to you, Blackpool: the town I love to hate and hate to love. You’re a bipolar beauty, a mess and a muse. You’ve ruined my childhood memories and made me a better photographer. And for that, I’ll keep coming back—camera in hand, nose held firmly shut.

P.S. To the rat I saw dragging a Greggs pasty across the tram tracks last week: You’re the real deal

So come along for the ride - a sort of social documentary on The Jewel of the North