Blackpool Turns To Dignitas

Blackpool Tower:  Mecca for cretins.

There is an enormous plantpot magnet at the top of Blackpool Tower, and it's been there for ages, it emerged yesterday.

As hundreds of locals simultaneously slapped their foreheads and screamed "Well that fucking explains it, then!" at the top of their voices, Blackpool resident, Gary Rooney, 19, had this to say:  "Eeeeeyyaaarrrrrr knob 'ed!  Pincha smoke off ya?"

It is believed that the magnet was first installed by hilariously unhilarious racialist comedian, Joey Blower in 1994.  Blower installed the device in order to attract audiences with the required sequence of chromosome deficiencies needed to appreciate the tired, loathsome, self-serving, pile of fetid worm spunk that is, The Joey Blower Show.

Blower after reaching a Plantpot landmark.

Since that fateful day, Blackpool has attracted over 39,000 new plantpots, putting them in with a growing share of the population (27%), shortly behind are crackheads (19%), traffic cones (13%) and members of metal bands (11%).  Inevitably, not all of these pilgrimages have happy endings.  Five percent of immigrant plantpots are killed or maimed within 48 hours of arrival, usually by another plantpot protecting his territory or by eating from one of the town's fast food establishments.  
A further two percent are incarcerated and returned to the secure institution from whence they escaped, or 'hotel' as some of the brochures like to say.

The sharp rise in the plantpot population has led Swiss firm, Dignitas, to consider opening a clinic in the town.  
Assisted suicide for immigrant plantpots is still a somewhat divisive issue amongst Blackpool residents, but some are failing to see an alternative.  "If it's a straight choice between getting covered in saliva every time I leave the house or putting everyone in a pair of detailed jeans to sleep, then I know which side my bread is buttered!"  Says Randolph Saxonburg, head of Plantpot Management for Blackpool tourist board.  "They come over here, with their STIs and gingivitis, not a pot to piss in, spew up all over our streets, drinking the over-priced witch piss that the myriad of Mitchell & Butler pubs here have the temerity to call 'lager', then decide that it's just so wonderful here that they have to stay.  Well, not on my fucking watch!"

Mr Saxonburg's comments came as Blackpool Council released details of the scheme in which Dignitas are to be made 'Key Investment Partners' in the town:  "What we are proposing," said councillor Frank Emptihead, "is a solution that works for local residents.  The lifeless cadavers from the new Dignitas clinic will be taken to The Sandcastle, which will be filled with formaldehyde, where they can be kept until needed as winter fuel for our impoverished residents.  It's a lot easier than us creating jobs.  Obviously, there will be a council tax rise required to fund the scheme.  Ha ha ha ha!"

The Tache:  Four hundred grand's worth of dangerous misery.

Opponents of the Dignitas scheme include Tache Nightclub proprietor, Ron Blunden, 97, who claims the plans are ill considered:  "I run a club which is full of 500 wannabe necrophiliacs every single Thursday.  You put a huge pile of preserved dead bodies within walking distance and you're going to have a problem.  All I'm saying is; I can't guarantee that some of the corpses wouldn't end up as part of my regular clientele.  And if you can smell formaldehyde in there through the overwhelming stench of piss, sweat, blood and yeast infections, then you're a better man than I am."

As news filtered through that The Tache is finally going to be demolished anyway (Yeah, right - 'council offices' Bet that's what Hitler said Dachau was gonna be.), the future looks bright for the Dignitas scheme, with the former Tache site ear-marked as a possible location for the clinic.  "It's close to the station, it's got a big fucking fire exit that we could turn into a conveyor belt.  Why not?"  Asked Councillor Emptihead, not even rhetorically.

Public opinion in Blackpool was hard to collate.  The entire population of Blackpool basically lives a life of tortured, jobless, alcoholism, occasionally interspersed with a council tax rise that means they can only afford to drink Brasso for the last two weeks of every month.  Buckfast and Special Brew here are viewed with suspicion, as though they were frankincense or myrrh.  All the town's gold is now stored in Cash Converter's vault.  There are more closed down shops than there are open ones, and the town does not have a supermarket.  Street traders, hawking rubber rats on fishing wire, litter the pedestrian areas like black marketeers in a besieged Sarajevo.  All around buildings crumble and decay, so that the High Street resembles Shane McGowan's mouth.
The overbearing stench of fecal matter fills the lungs as I wander on to the Promenade.  An Iranian illegal migrant tries to sell me a partially cooked bat in a green barmcake.  I decline.  Politely.  A gypsy approaches with a sprig of heather in tin-foil.  I assume it is a low-cost alternative to heroin and make my excuses.  A bus pulls up.  There is no destination on the front.  For there is nowhere to go in this town.  There is nothing to see.  It's starting to rain, I drift inside an amusement arcade.  Lights.  Noises.  I stand in front of a fruit machine and stare at the lights.  This is all they have here.  Will you take the gamble?  Will you be the lucky one?  You can win big!  Please insert coin. 

Johnny Plantpot

FPWK