I sometimes describe Blackburn as ‘Sunny Blackburn’ because it’s rarely sunny and so in doing so results in humour, but today was very sunny in Blackburn and I arrived feeling happy about after a beautiful drive through the Yorkshire and Lancashire countryside from Halifax. Happy the man, I pondered, that has no more pressing an occupation on a Thursday afternoon than to potter the highways and byways of this pretty area of Britain.
But arriving in Blackburn and driving about looking for a hotel, a home truth about the place came home to me; Blackburn has no hotels. There’s one out on an industrial estate by the motorway but I didn’t really fancy the idea of that and wanted to be in distance of the theatre. But no, there are no hotels in Blackburn. I’ve always taken it as a friendly enough place, and I’ve nothing against the town, but it’s a bit of an indictment on anywhere if there isn’t a need for anyone to want to stay. That’s like somewhere without a tourist information centre; they’ve come to terms with the fact that absolutely nobody is going to come for pleasure, and so having one would be redundant. The hotel thing is odd though. Blackburn isn’t Vegas, but you’d think they’d be enough demand for the odd one.
Eventually, I found a street with three B+B’s on it and only one had vacancies. The others were only large enough to contain, oh, ten rooms perhaps? So we can now conclude mathematically that Blackburn requires about twenty to thirty hotel rooms per night to satisfy demand. There are twenty people, or couples, wanting to stay in Blackburn on any one evening.
I walked up to the house that advertised vacancies and rang the bell. I don’t like B+Bs on the whole, they always seem to revel in all that’s rubbish about the UK. The sort of places where orange juice is still considered a starter. Which comedian noted that? I’m also a hotel snob, and so have an automatic aversion to the 70's décor and rough sheets. The door to this one was opened by an extraordinary looking man. He was quite old, bean pole thin and very tall, had a head like a small coconut, was Indian, had a long white robe, a hair cut very much like Hitler, and a confused stare on his face, which was fixed at me.
“Hi. I’d like a room please.�
He looked at me with added confusion and shrugged to suggest he didn’t understand me.
“A room please? For one night.�
He peered at me, and eventually said “Room?� in an unsure voice. It was quite clear he didn’t speak any English. The arrangements at the front desk were equally confusing and stunted before a woman appeared who knew a few words and it was made slightly easier. They would only accept cash but I didn’t have enough on me for the cheap room and was told to go to the local garage where there was a cash machine. I found myself walking down the street, shaking my head, rather wearily concluding that this was madly typical of my experiences in B+Bs. And without wanting to come over too right wing, it also seemed a bit crazy to me that no one could speak any English because you’d expect that to be quite important in the running of a hotel.
Where they in India one day when someone said “So what are you thinking of doing when you get to Britain?’
“Oh well we thought me might set up a small hotel in a town called Blackburn.�
“You know nobody stays in Blackburn? It has no need for a hotel. They hate hotels. They loathe them.�
“There is a need! About twenty to thirty people a night sleep there. And there are currently only about twenty rooms, so we’re going to accommodate the overspill.�
“That sounds like a plan. One thing though, wouldn’t it help to learn a bit of English?�
“Why?�
“Only most of the people that will be staying in your hotel would only speak English, and therefore it might come in handy. I’d go so far as to say it would be pretty essential.�
“Nah, it’ll be fine.�
“Well, if you say so. Going to get a credit card machine though, aren’t you?|�
“No, that’s the beauty of this place we’ve seen. There’s a garage down the road with a cash machine.�
“Oh well you’re sorted then.�
My room was revolting and there was a communal toilet in the corridor. I went back to reception and asked the woman if she had a room with a bathroom and she said it would be an extra five pounds. I gave her a ten pound note but she said she didn’t have any change, and that I should go to the garage.
“No, I’m not going to the garage again. We’ll sort it out later.�
There seemed to be a little confusion about this but I explained the best I could that she couldn’t expect me to keep walking to the garage, and that I’d definitely pay her the extra five pounds when either of us had any change. This was agreed.
I had two hours sleep in my new room, which had three beds, before hitting downtown Blackburn. My friend Sarah was drinking with friends at a pleasant bar and so we sat in the evening sun before heading down to the King Georges Hall and watching Moz. Strange show, it was going really well and the man himself seemed to be enjoying himself before he started talking about animal rights campaigners and someone told him to ‘f--- off’. That was essentially end of show. He sung the songs but had completely shut up shop, didn’t say another word, and didn’t say goodbye. It’s rather a shame he took the actions of one idiot out on the rest of a devotional crowd but there you have it. It was half a gig.
The Jubilee pub over the road was belting out Smiths records after the show and a pleasant evening was had by all into the wee small hours. I don’t know what time I got back the B+B. The room had a clock, but it was broken. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.
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