Cilla Blackledge Gets Silly in Blackpool

Hello Fun Seekers! 

I borrow the catch-phrase of the very late and very obscure American comedian, Jackie Vernon. Sad, glimlet-eyed and overweight (he regularly purchased the services of prostitutes), Jackie's act was almost a sorrowful satire on the futility of seeking happiness. The futility of seeking happiness in Blackpool had me eager to write an article for a third rate newspaper.

I asked the Grimsby Telegraph to fund my article on Blackpool. Said the editor, pausing to take the pacifier out of his mouth, "We specialise in news about Grimsby, including suck-up articles on bad local restaurants." 

I said, "An article on a resort would be a change of pace. The only thing that happens in Grimsby is some poor clot is victimised by a sudden act of violence." And to prove my point, I slapped the editor in the face with a rolled up 8x10 of Tommy Turgoose. The editor was quite broken up by this, as I'd glued shards of glass to the photo. 

While the paedo idiot actually LIKED being slapped by the photo, he got upset about the bleeding. He raced out into the street shouting at passing women, "Any of you have a sanitary napkin to spare?" 

A woman who had just purchased a fish began slapping him with it. This did stop the blood. I walked by them, singing, "We piss on your fish, yes we do!" 

I smiled and said, "Oh, by the way, go to blazes...meaning, your office. Before I left, I set fire to your desk." 

Indeed, his entire office was lit up like an effigy of Cameron on November 5th of last year. Oh, the poor man began waving his arms like an offshore wind turbine, crying out, "Lord have mercy on a poor paedophile like me." He began grumbling that the fire may have destroyed all his downloaded YouTubes of Tommy Turgoose, his locker room photos of Mariners players in their jockstraps, and his prize Polaroid of David Gest showing off his anal prolapse. Which did not compare to the Grimsby editor's own anal prolapse, as the Grimsby editor is much more of a giant bloody asshole. (I hope this doesn't seem rude. I always try to be fair.) 

As to my proposed article, "Blackpool: Las Vegas of the North," I had wasted so much time in Grimsby, I arrived too late. I missed the last performance of the last play of the season. I did walk around and see fat slobs eating crisps, morons rattling paper bags of sweets, and tons of morons taking selfies, so I had some idea what it was like to be in the theater that night. 

Most of the rides were closed for the season. A long queue waited for a ride on Leah Petulengro's face. The ladies could simply snuff themselves down on Leah's prominent nose. The men could plug in, sticking their dicks down her throat. Children could simply bounce up and down on her face. Funny, for a psychic, she never seemed to know when a child was about to have an accident.  

Sad to say, I arrived too late to really do the place justice, which would've been to blow it the fuck up.  

Thanks to taking a bus to a train to a bus to another bus to a train, I barely arrived while it was still daylight. In fact, the only picture I snapped, was this one:

It was a gift from Yoko, which had been rejected in Liverpool, and carted here to Blackpool. 

Within an hour, it had gotten dark, which at least made it harder to see the poster. There were long queues. I said to one idiot, "What are you waiting for?" He said, "This is the queue for getting on another queue. From there, we get to experience a walk through exhibitions of horror and terror." "What, Madame Tussaud's museum?" "No, the Adam and Eve Hostel." 

Just then, it got blacker than I ever remember it being in Blackpool. I was in front of a group of Somali immigrants. At least, that's what I thought. 

One of them began to wipe off some of the black, muttering, "This is what happens when you sleep on sheets at the Adam and Eve Hostel." 

I decided I'd better get away from the tourists, before I heard any more horror stories about the Adam and Eve Hostel. 

I accidentally bumped into a tourist from Mexico. How did he get to Blackpool? He was very stupid. He began running across the border into America, but he faced East, not North. He ended up swimming across the Gulf of Mexico to Florida, taking a bus up the East Coast, then a train to a plane to the U.K.  He was welcomed happily into the country, was given benefits, money, and a free ticket to Blackpool, including a pass to go on all the rides and several white women. 

"I really have a craving to have a meal of British fish," he said. I replied, "Don't look at ME when you say that, you greasy Herberto. Take a bus to a train to Bristol, and see if Saskia might bend over for you. But don't be surprised if her twat tastes a bit Mexican, as she's the young Joan Baez. Her twat smells like cheese and some very greasy beef. It's also packed with about six ounces of shredded lettuce. Somehow she shoves a head of lettuce between her legs, and it gets shredded. Don't ask me how she does it." 

Sapristi! 

And that was the Goon Show, a BBC recorded program written by Spike Milligan and Larry Stephens, orchestra conducted by Wally Stott, produced by Knickerless Pain. For a good time, buy shit on Amazon, and camcorder yourself unwrapping it and hoist it to GooTube. For a bad time, read the Grimsby Telegraph.