“Bugger Bognor!” as King George the fifth said on his deathbed. Well,
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been. But “Bugger Cleveleys!” works as well.
“There’s nothing there worth saving now,” to paraphrase John Betjeman,
Just car parks, concrete, shops and racist bent nonagenarians
Who fill the streets in rugby scrums of wheelchairs that have no brakes
And draw first blood at jumble sales with walking sticks. Make no mistake
It’s Purgatory, one rung down, hell’s bilges emptied on the streets,
And rows of meat on wooden benches, shrivelled rancid in the heat.
DiSAmBiGuaTiON 
July 29th, 2013 at 12:59 am
I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for dinner. Bleh.
July 29th, 2013 at 4:54 am
Hopefully this is not misinterpreted.
July 29th, 2013 at 9:23 am
If it was, would I know?
July 29th, 2013 at 9:21 am
You weren’t eating Soylant Green, were you?
July 29th, 2013 at 2:19 am
oh a Market Day in the sunny square – This sceptr’d isle.
You’d be great on Grumpy Old Men, and heaven help us when yourself needs a stick or a chariot, you’d be the worst. I am nearly there myself and know I shall.
Keep ’em coming Kvetchjman.
July 29th, 2013 at 11:57 am
I’ve had to use a stick a couple of times, Annie. One after I’d had my gallbladder out, and the other when I had gout. (I now have tablets for the latter, so the stick’s been resigned to the hook on the bedroom door.) It came in very handy for whacking teenagers out of the way in crowded places.
July 29th, 2013 at 5:07 am
Is this another place I should NOT visit when I get there someday? Bugger!! See, told you…into using the word!
July 29th, 2013 at 9:24 am
Cleveleys is where old people go to die.
August 1st, 2013 at 5:21 pm
Many wheel themselves round to the library before taking their last breath. I remember a few keeling over when I worked there, the Grimm Reaper was a regular visitor with his own library card
August 1st, 2013 at 6:09 pm
I’m constantly amazed that there aren’t more fatalities in Cleveleys, what with Rossall Road running through the middle of it like it does. It’s the equivalent of running a motorway through the middle of a lounge at an old people’s home. Perhaps there are more fatalities, but nobody’s noticed them amongst the usual corpses yet.