I’m heading to what feels like the other end of the world for Christmas – Blackpool. Dubbed the Las Vegas of northwest England, it’s famous for the Pleasure Beach amusement park, Blackpool Tower (featured in BBC One’s Strictly Come Dancing Blackpool Special), and for extreme poverty. It has become known as the most miserable place in the country after recent NHS figures showed it had the most people suffering from pain and mental anguish in England.
It’s no wonder I feel trepidation as I pack the car with all of our suitcases and Christmas presents. Honestly, I’d rather stay in Notting Hill – the west London area where I live. Just before we hit the M1 northbound, I dash into my posh local deli for one last oat milk flat white, grab a final acai bowl from Juice Baby, and drop in for some luxurious handmade chocolates at Melt. I know that where I’m going, the vibe is very different.
Blackpool has the lowest average life expectancy in the UK. Men living in Blackpool will live until just after their 73rd birthday on average, according to the Office for National Statistics, while it’s 79.1 years for women. The highest life expectancy for males is 83.7 years in Hart, Hampshire and 87.1 years for females in Kensington and Chelsea – my local borough. It’s no surprise my neighbour waved me off this morning, saying jokingly: “It’s grim up north.”
A 3.3-magnitude earthquake rattled homes in Lancashire only weeks earlier, while latest government figures show 28.4 per cent of working-age adults in Blackpool are economically inactive. And one in every 52 children in Blackpool is in care compared with one in 140 across England, according to a report by Health Equity North in 2024. Not to mention that the seaside resort is hardly the Maldives at the best of times, let alone during winter.
But it’s where my children’s grandmother lives. My late partner Alex – the father of my children – grew up in Blackpool. His mum, Carol, was born and bred here, and is a huge fan of the place. She still lives off Blackpool promenade, where we’ll spend most of Christmas, although we’ll be staying 10 minutes up the road at Alex’s cousin's house in Lytham St Annes – a more affluent area.
This year, as I’m estranged from my own family, it seemed like the perfect place to be. My children, Lola, nine, and Liberty, seven, and the dog Muggles, 11, can’t wait. They love visiting their grandmother, and have always had fun on our previous trips up north during the summer. But I can only last three days before bolting back to London, and this time we’re going for a week – in December.
While I’m soaking up my last moments of Notting Hill, they wait patiently in the car until Lola shouts, “Hurry up, mum, for God’s sake. We want to see Grandma!” I get a grip and set my sat nav to Blackpool. We sing along jollily to Christmas songs on the radio as we head north. The service stations get worse and worse the further north we get, until Preston, about four-and-a-half hours later. That’s when we spot the sign for Blackpool – and Lola and Liberty start cheering.
It's not the place to do last-minute Christmas shopping, that‘s for sure. There are fish and chip shops and tattoo parlours on practically every corner. The Metropole Hotel, a historic Victorian landmark on the promenade which once offered the promise of seaside glamour, is currently closed to regular tourists and is being used to house asylum seekers, attracting flag-waving demonstrations. Along the roughest Central Drive, there are rows of boarded-up takeaways and squalid housing.
I’ve been here in the summer when it’s packed with tourists, but in December it’s empty as we drive through the Blackpool Illuminations that stretch for six miles with their dazzling lights, including a hanging Sootie and mermaids. We pass casinos, arcades and a huge reflective disco ball on the seafront. I can’t help wondering what the hell I’m going to do here.
It’s a relief to arrive at the quiet tree-lined street where we’ll be staying. Blackpool is a symphony of electronic sounds, character voice clips, flashing lights, and coin-dispensing from the arcade games being played. There are no restaurants or cafes that look enticing, and Wetherspoon’s isn’t on my to-do list.
But we can walk the dog on the beach by the Victorian St Annes pier. We drop in to the amusement arcade offering traditional seaside games, penny slots, and family entertainment, a quieter contrast to nearby Blackpool, where Lola and Liberty win tickets which they feed through a machine and are then exchanged for prizes in a toy shop.
When the girls keep losing a plush dog toy in the claw machine, which I am sure is rigged, I complain to the manager, who very kindly opens the machine and hands them two gifts. The kids eat fish and chips in the arcade entrance. I’m starting to look bedraggled.
It's not the place to do last-minute Christmas shopping, that‘s for sure. There are fish and chip shops and tattoo parlours on practically every corner
We do regular trips to Booths, which is a type of Waitrose, where we aimlessly walk the aisles just for something “normal” to do. The night before Christmas, we make a mad dash to Primark, the only clothes shop I recognise, for a pair of festive PJs for Lola, but it’s shut by the time we get there. I head to the M&S food store in Lytham St Annes to buy all the Christmas food. The great news? My food shop is mind-blowingly inexpensive compared to London.
Christmas Day is spent with family playing charades and eating mince pies without the usual tense dynamics that I’m used to. The trip is worth its weight in gold just for that. But Lola and Liberty soon get bored.
On Boxing Day, with not much else to do, we go back to St Annes pier amusement arcade as the kids cash in on more teddies. The next day, we plan a big trip to Blackpool Tower, which at night is lit up in red.
It’s a major tourist attraction that used to house a collection of wild animals, including lions, tigers, and bears in cages on the top floor from its opening in 1894 until 1969. Conditions were often criticised, and its closure led to the animals relocating to a new zoo.
As we exit the elevator into the ballroom, I feel like I’ve arrived in Oz to see the wizard. A man sits facing away from the audience on a dramatic gold stage with a Renaissance backdrop at a huge organ playing ballroom music. We’ve arrived just in time for a tea dance, with white-haired couples twirling around the dance floor or sipping tea on little tables around the side.
“It’s so boring, why are we here anyway?” cries Liberty, who wants to go back to the arcades. I can’t help but marvel at the ornate gold ceiling with a pigeon flying around to “Sweet Caroline”. The girls’ aunt offers them a bribe of £10 to dance with me, which Lola reluctantly accepts – and we cha-cha across the floor. Time to go! Over the road is Blackpool's Tower Festival Headland, which has been turned into a winter wonderland with fairground rides, but I manage to divert the kids back home.
Day four, and the girls’ grandmother drags us out of the arcades to Blackpool North Pier to witness the starling murmurations. Massive flocks create breathtaking aerial dances at dawn and dusk, before roosting under the pier. It’s breathtaking to watch as the sun sets in a huge orange ball over the Irish Sea. The only thing I miss is a reading with Romany Gypsy Petulengro on the seafront. She’s been accurate for me in the past, but I've overdone it with psychics this year and don’t want to confuse matters.
We have been lucky with the weather; only blue skies. In the rain, there is nowhere more depressing than Blackpool. It’s a hard place to survive – not just at Christmas. It is currently undergoing a major £300m regeneration project led by Blackpool Council, which will take years to pull off. A £90m housing investment programme approved last year will transform Blackpool's rundown inner areas.
We were only visitors, but with a family connection. It meant we glided through Christmas, embracing Blackpool for what it is – a declining and unique seaside resort. And despite the lack of acai bowls, it was far better than I imagined it would be. We came back feeling surprisingly refreshed, rather than depressed, thanks to Lancashire’s wild coastline – and of course the arcades.
But the best part? Having a good time at Christmas with family, with no arguments.
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