It’s the Blackpool Punk Festival.
Interesting, exciting and intriguing four day event with a great atmosphere. I hang out but I don’t go to the ‘festival’. It attracts a lot of Europeans, including Dutch and German punks. They are all sweet and lovely and polite. A lot of local punks don’t go to the festival, they just hang out by St. John’s Church or around the Winter Gardens. People want to bond or socialise or relate with like minded people. I had a chance to see P.I.L who are headlining on Sunday but I turned it down. Why would I want to see John Lydon in the flesh? He would only disappoint me. I have no interest in seeing my ‘heroes’, I would feel that it would be a let down in some way. I had a chance to see Theatre Of Hate tonight, but I have C.D’s and videos of them. Plus I’ve seen Kirk Brandon before. I don’t really get the ‘live’ thing. I just don’t get it. If I could have a decent, lively, intelligent conversation with these people instead, then I’d prefer that. What I’m concerned about though, is the young punks who are so drunk (by 9 p.m) that they can’t walk straight and are dropping their money and hairspray and lighters….and I’m wondering how they are going to get through the night. And I worry about them. I suppose I’m getting old and mothery.
There was one guy tonight and his mohican was very flaccid. He staggered over to the glass window of a shop (one of those behind me in the picture) He used it as a mirror and put hairspray on and kept dropping it. He was very drunk. He looked over at me once or twice and I wish I’d have just gone over and helped him put his hair up and sent him on his way. I really regret that because he was all alone and seemed a bit vulnerable. I hate it when I wish I’d helped people and didn’t because I dithered or procrastinated or was too slow.
Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow.