Blackpool, Liverpool, Southport and family.

 Blackpool, Liverpool, Southport and family.

Blackpool used to be, and probably still is, the Las Vegas of Northern England. Such ridiculously exaggerated comparisons have always been regarded with a healthy scepticism. Blackpool, the Las Vegas of England is a comedy routine in a working men's club. It is a daft analogy and one that should be dismissed with all the contempt of somebody who loves to write satirical articles in Private Eye. So it's time to bury this discussion in the dustbin where it so rightly belongs. 

And yet after a leisurely family visit to see your wonderful son Sam and his equally as lovely daughter in law Lucy you were taken back to your childhood or your son and daughter Rachel's formative years. It was a time of innocent enjoyment, darting in and out of amusement arcades, being delightfully taken to every machine that pumped out hundreds of tickets and then sliding onto the dance floor after dinner when the red coats of Butlins and the blue of Pontins were poised and ready to entertain the toddlers.

Many years ago my wife, a rock and wonderfully loving, supportive presence, was always there in the evening, sitting at our usual table with full glasses of Coca Cola and gazing adoringly at our children. We knew the years would pass rapidly because when you have children time flies at the highest altitude and with remarkable speed. One day we both woke up and found they were consenting adults, allowed to vote and drink before venturing into that big, wide world where everything could happen and did. 

The transitional point between childhood and adolescence can often be fraught with difficulties such as unavoidable accidents at home, painful struggles with homework at times with just an episode or several of tears and tantrums. No one can predict our futures or map out their direction but holiday time for our children was the ultimate in escapism, a break with the norm, the most exciting adventure they could ever have experienced. 

But on one of our days out, Blackpool was our chosen destination of seaside. Then we took ourselves to Southport and Liverpool but that's for another paragraph. We chose Blackpool because it had the famous Golden Mile, a handsome stretch of road that seems to go on indefinitely. Along the Golden Mile are flashing, stunning, blinking lights that keep going for the best part of the day and night, you suspect. There are a stately procession of amusement arcades, machines so musical and blissfully noisy that it's rather like being witness to one of the greatest light shows of all time.

Then Blackpool lets itself to go. There are seemingly thousands of fish and chip shops and a vast multitude of bed and breakfast hotels, five star hotels, four star hotels and three star hotels. There are an abundance of souvenir shops, striking cafes and attractions that go crash, whoop and tinkle, ringing, hooting and a whole host of childish noises. It is now that you begin to realise that any resemblance to Las Vegas is just fanciful thinking. Besides, Las Vegas has got those very lucrative gambling casinos, the Hollywood great and good, the glitz, glamour and the hotels with wondrous fountains and the very latest in sophisticated technology.

Now this is not to suggest that Blackpool is lacking in both class and sophistication because quite clearly it does have both. It does have the big, fancy and lavish cabaret, the best in singers, groups and hugely talented musicians. Admittedly, it can no longer boast the likes of Danny La Rue, Britain's most opulent of drag acts, a man so androgynous that even whole decades of women would flock to see him every year at the Winter Gardens. But Blackpool is wholesomely attractive, brimming with life and vitality. It can still serve its hot meat pies with unashamed delight. It can always laugh at its old fashioned charm that is utterly timeless and Blackpool Tower

My precious family even booked tickets for the Blackpool circus. Inside the magnificently imposing Blackpool Tower there is the famous ballroom, recently the home of BBC's Strictly Dancing for one week shortly before Christmas. And of course the circus. You remember taking your children to the circus roughly 20 years ago and the place still has that inimitable magic. For a while your belief can be suspended in much the way that the daring high wire trapeze acts demonstrated on our visit.

Blackpool is a dazzling dream come true. The ladies and gentleman who trod gingerly across a high wire deserved unqualified admiration. Then they sat on each others shoulders with only a collection of white poles to maintain their equilibrium. Balance and danger came face to face with each other, as they edged nervously and confidently from one end of the wire to the other. As a collective family. they were just sensational. Then there was the proverbial clown with the red nose and the children were in joyous uproar.

Then there was our day out to Liverpool. Now everybody knows about the glorious heritage and history of Liverpool. We've all heard of course about that legendary boy band who did rather well for themselves during the Swinging 1960s. You could hardly avoid them or any mention of their name. They were the 1960s, the essence of the decade, dominating our every waking thought and imagination. They were the Beatles and here we were in their spiritual home, their backyard, their playground, their domain, their patch of land.

The Beatles Story Museum is situated slap bang in the middle of the Albert Dock, once one of many Britain's maritime, naval hotspots and proud homes. The boats are still moored romantically in the Dock itself but we were here for the Mop Tops, the Fab Four. Headphones in our ears we were regaled with a comprehensive tour of the Beatles back story. Slowly strolling around acres of descriptions of the boys school we learned of three of the lads lack of qualifications and then discovering that Sir Paul McCartney was the cleverest of the four with five O Levels and one A Level whatever they mean now to anybody in particular. 

But we were informed that both John Lennon consistently larked around after school but did go to art college and did have an aptitude for song lyric writing. Hence we were stunned by stirring renditions of Yesterday, Hey Jude, Sergeant Pepper's, Get Back, Paperback Writer, Love Me Do, Please Please Me, Ringo Starr's endearing Yellow Submarine. Each section was illustrated perfectly with huge paragraphs of text and information and you could only wonder at the sheer wonderment of the whole experience. By the time we came out of the Beatles Story you almost felt as if the 1960s had never gone away and the 1970s was simply unknown territory with few signs leading towards another tumultuous decade.

And finally there was Southport, possibly overlooked by what some would perceive as its older and younger brother or sister depending upon your point of view. For a while we lingered by its bracing waters and decided to take a boat trip around the resort watching with some apprehension in case the gulls swooped down and nicked the human fish and chips in our capable hands. Thankfully we didn't actually buy the said food and our feathered friends could only watch in despair.

Finally we headed to a family friend who lived in Redcar. Here we did yet another long and invigorating spot of seaside walking, sedate browsing in the local shops and sampling the delicious pasta and fish of our friend's hospitality. Our genial host Maria treated us to a hearty breakfast, tea and private conversations that were both amusing and hilarious.

We bid farewell to the North of England, pleasantly relaxed and revitalised. But then we remembered Blackpool because you can hardly forget the seaside, the continuous and harmonious squawking of gulls, the shrill whistling and then the amusement arcades getting louder and louder, the lights now shining and flickering with ever greater intensity. Oh how we did love to be beside the seaside.