Slippery Fiction
Published in

Slippery Fiction

Spewing and Wind in the ‘Las Vegas of England’

There is so much to like about the depressing Northern English town of Blackpool.

The Doctors said that I had an underdeveloped sphincter — not the anal sphincter, thank Christ — but the sphincter of the throat.

Growing up, I was always contending with Blackpool’s famous horrendous wind.

The sight of the human-like turd made Carlos want to quit surfing forever

Death by weather is common in Blackpool. Another unusual way it occurs is when it snows heavily in winter.

I would often fake sickness at school so I didn’t have to go outside in the torturous wind.

My parents bought me my first guitar when I was nine.

Before going corporate, even Elon wanted to be a rock star.

We had two groupies and a show now, our rock-n-roll future was written.

Less than three years later, I was in Waterloo Platoon, trying to get the fuck out of the British Army before my unit was posted to a dangerous part of Belfast in Northern Ireland.

I went back to visit Blackpool just before coming out to Australia.

The famous Blackpool Tower — often, strangely, mistaken for the Eiffel Tower

We should have stayed at home that day.



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