By Arthur Mwenkanya | www.unaatimes.com | The last time I wrote about my nocturnal escapades my dear friend from our boarding school days at Kings College Budo Vicky N. Muli fired off a missive from her Omaha Nebraska residence chiding me for not learning the lessons of dressing well for a social function. Well, after that communication and others, I will yet tell you of another episode where this time I feel that I did well all factors withstanding. However, I have been warned that should this instalment be published, I will be hanging from the balcony at work. Weighing that threat with the freedom of speech, I have decided to take the reckless decision to try an unravel some of the mysteries that are a lads weekend out in Blackpool, the most famous seaside town in North West England. If you do not hear from me in a long time, please ask Lee where I my remains are.

Blackpool for the uninitiated can be a daunting place. The promenade, running from North to South is nearly three miles long. It is a loud place day and night. Bright lights, the ride on the Pepsi Max roller coaster will make even the hardiest stomach flip, amusement arcades, pubs, the crowds of humanity and every conceivable form of entertainment is on this stretch of road. Yet amongst it all, one will find hotels where people are expected to have a restful sleep through the din. The beauty of it all for some of us who would rather have some peace and quiet is that a few yards away from the formidable sea wall towards the murky cold waters of the Irish sea, one can find some solace due to the sheer size of the beach. Of course there are donkey rides. But that is a staple of the English sea side. And the tide is murderous. It rushes in faster than the pace of a walking man through channels in the sand banks. So watching the tide coming in from the sea does not mean that one is not already cut off.

A few months ago, a group of friends , I included, decided to go and celebrate life with a lads weekend at Blackpool. When I told some of my other friends that I intended to go for the weekend, I was met with cries of indignation and disbelief. I was warned that I could not manage the raucous nature of Blackpool. Someone told me that the whole place was a bit common and naff. I made clear that I wanted to go. I had after all survived a stag do in Riga, Latvia. Why not Blackpool? I know that I prefer empty beaches where one can wonder aimlessly but once in a while I do like the change. A group of “partners in Crime” was hastily arranged, names being written down on a list and we chose a date to go. At this point, I will try and preserve my independence in writing by concealing the true names of my friends. So the names are made up. But the physical and character descriptions are true.

There was this lad who was sort of the lead member, Lee, a 33 year old Stoke On Trent lad was the soul of the party and led us in a wild way, drinking any liquid that had the slightest trace of alcohol. Lee made sure that things happened especially if it involved downing copious amounts of alcohol. He is the sort of person who will make everyone drink more booze than what is clinically possible. His intake was phenomenal and for a while I tried to keep up but quickly realised I could not.

Then there was another man called Dave 45(again not real name). He is a strapping 6′ 2” and was one of the only other three black men in the group. When I had just joined my present company, I sort of tried to befriend him first because of the his race. But for the first six months, he completely ignored me to my irritation until I got the point that he only made friends with people for who they were not what they were. Dave has the presence of character because of his height and when he laughs, every one within twenty yards will know about it.

Then there was “Nudge” 52. Nudge has a deceptive nature especially because of his slightly greying and receding mop of hair. He can come across as quite unassuming and shy. It is in this way that he has the ability to be the centre of commotion yet feign ignorance of it all. Should he be caught up in the middle of a hurricane, I suspect that he would escape it without a hair out of place. Its however those unguarded moments, where he is caught with a sideways glance at a provocatively dressed woman that make him an interesting character. For everyone suspects him of that sneaky look but to catch him at it one has to be sneaky as well.

“Steve” 53 is one of those men that who one can associate with a naughty Uncle. He still looks good for his age with a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye. I have this feeling that his family place the family matriarch next to him at family dos for his and everyone’s safety. A kind man, he still has the energy of a man ten years his junior on the dance floor and later on would become a flavour with the ladies.

“Rob” 29 managed to run a parallel line of destruction. He was like a milling machine going through all that Blackpool had to offer. The booze, the food, the slot machines, everything! For a few scary minutes, two rather large women zeroed in on him and the group held their breaths praying that Rob did not become a “Miller” with them two. The booze? Yes. The food? Yes. But those two? No. A collective sigh of relief descended upon us when he left their table on his own accord.

A trio of brothers, the Gamble brothers, were also in the group. Imagine three six foot men their arms larger than the average man’s torso. The first time I saw these three, I thought that I was better keeping my distance. Better not to “Gamble” my safety with them. They are huge! But as I have got to know them, I have realised that their size does not mean they go bashing every one in sight. Better still keeping on their good side.

The last member of the group I notwithstanding, is an enigma. We all called him “Dancing Dave” and that description will become more clear later.

We set off from Stoke On Trent after emptying one of the local booze shops. I was thinking that we had enough booze on board to last us the whole weekend. How wrong can one be? 90 miles into the journey and our vehicle was dry. While I had managed a can of Stella Artois, the rest of the group had nearly gone through a tonne of alcoholic beverages. And yet they were just ticking over. As most of us work in very safety critical industries, the chances to go and have a drink are very limited. On this occasion, we had three days off. So with this odd long weekend, for all of us to have a skin full was the next logical thing.

We checked in at an hotel, The Kings Hotel on the South Side of the Promenade. Blackpool is teeming with these small to medium sized hotels. The Kings Hotel is a medium sized one. My first impression was sparse luxury. But I quickly recognised its strengths. Most times that people stayed they came to go and have a good time in the resort not sit around lounging about in the hotel. It is an intimate place where one may mistakenly think “lets trash this place”…..until the proprietor John walks into the room. He is a man mountain! But with the most kind heart. And for parties like ours, he quickly became part of us. While the others downed the devils nectar, he swigged from a Man Mountain sized bottle of soft drink. He joined in with the male testosterone banter to the chagrin of his wife who works at the front desk.

I was a little apprehensive going out to start on the pub crawling and hitting the night clubs. On the way, I had demonstrated what a light weight I was. Two cans of beer and I was rushing off to the little man’s room. The others were soaking up the booze with ease. Lee was nearing about twice his own body weight to my belief. Rob was nearly there as well, polishing of sambucas without hesitation. The Gamble brothers were going through a dozen lagers every round. Steve and Nudge were performing well. And yet they never seemed to be affected yet. Dancing Dave was taking things steady. The chaos of a night in Blackpool is truly amazing. Everyone is in a hurry to go to as many pubs as they can in the shortest possible time. The girls are hardly dressed. The boys have hardly made an effort in T-shirts and jeans. But the atmosphere is electric. I even had my photo taken by a group of girls on a hen weekend. Was it because of my Denzel Washington looks? Maybe.

I have written about my bad dancing before. To my trepidation we went from night club to night club. The problem was further compounded by the music being played from the 1970s in the last club where everyone decided we stopped for the rest of the evening. Most of the clubs that we had been to were playing reasonably recent music. This one was anything before 1980. Our friend Dancing Dave, who up to this moment had pretty much remained in the background now was in his element. I could see that he had finally arrived to dancing nirvana. Three hits later, and like a jolt from the blue, he struck a pose! That Saturday night fever pose! And then it was like he was possessed. For the next couple of hours, he was the main event. People around us stopped dancing just to look at him doing splits, press ups and rubbing himself up and down the mirror. He pranced about like a ballerina proceeding to stripping himself nearly naked. Dancing Dave seemed almost completely oblivious to to anyone else. I have learnt since that his suffering wife has given up on the embarrassment he regularly visits upon her.

Meanwhile as Dancing Dave provided that show stopping performance, another of our group used it as a convenient distraction. In another corner of this glittering night club, our kindly Uncle Steve was proving that he is not an old rock gathering moss. All manner of women folk were heading in is direction for a dance like he was the pied piper. Young and Old, Fat and thin, women of all colour (and I mean that with make up included) were all wanting a piece of him. Uncle Steve obliged the whole lot! He danced with vigour yet unseen before only stopping to have a quick drink from his glass. I started getting worried that he would get into a spot of bother were he to spurn the advances of one of the maidens under his spell. I made sure that the Gamble brothers were at hand to quell any disturbance. Uncle Steve remained a gentleman, never even asking for a phone number. Had he requested for any, he would have had a more definitive directory than British Telecom.

Just before two in the morning, I suggested to Nudge that I wanted to head back to the hotel. It was way past my bed time. Dave (not the dancing one) was still desperately trying to get drunk. I think he had started doubting the potency of the beer on offer. He could have been lain out on the counter under the tap were he given half the chance. The Gamble trio, though drunk at the time were still a welcome feeling of safety. No one was going to try and pick a fight with our group. Uncle Steve was now being hounded by two cardigan wearing, post menopause ladies. There was a twenty something damsel in the wings still waiting her turn!

As for Lee, we decided to take him home with us for his own safety. My faith in biology had been restored. Earlier, I had thought that this man could drink himself out of an Olympic sized swimming pool were he forced to do so. Now, after hours of severe alcohol abuse, he was incoherent and totally unaware of his own existence. His body had started to shut down. Lee kept asking questions, making funny remarks and generally making useless conversation. One question however caught my ear. He asked Nudge whether it was true he had “them dodgy video tapes as people say”. Nudge clammed up, stalled and was pretty vague and elusive with his response. I am still waiting for an answer.

Dancing Dave was now trying to do some serious injury to himself. He had stripped to a rather revealing fishnet top (where he gets things like this only God knows) and was trying to impale himself on some hand rails. Rob “the miller” was wondering about with another pint of beer, his eyes glazed over by the alcohol asking himself how the hell he had got to such a pathetic state. He raised his glass and drunk some more. We headed home.

Next morning, I decided to take an hour long walk down on the beach before everyone woke up. I dreaded what the breakfast table would be like what with all those men nursing splitting headaches. I arrived to find all of them awake tucking into Johns’ world famous belly bursting, heart attack inducing breakfast. None looked hangover. How they had managed to pack away so much alcohol and yet rise so early I am yet to get an answer to that. Steve, to my relief was in the room. As for John the hotel proprietor with whom we had enjoyed a drink or two with raucous male banter, for all his bulk he was still “in the dogs house” His party antics with us the guests were yet to be forgiven. He is probably still paying penance to this day. But I did enjoy the lads weekend out and learnt that when you can not fully fit in with the men, do not try. I will always have my one pint and head back to bed just before midnight to watch the last evening news.

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