Dave turns the van up Dickson road but it is no use.
Another roadblock ahead, another sea of yellow vested Police have blocked the side streets, surrounding us.
I watch as four cops gallop past on horseback, the clatter of hoof upon cobblestone conjuring up some bygone era of knights battling dragons or some such stuff of legend.
But it’s not knights or swordplay here today, brother, as those geniuses at The EDL (English Defence League, think of them as the UK version of the Proud Boys without the Fred Perry polos) have decided to throw a protest–yeah, you got it–on the very weekend fifteen thousand punk rockers gather in jolly Blackpool.
It would be like the Klan planning a rally outside the Kendrick Lamar Juneteenth pop out.
It’s been a leisurely Saturday drive up from Newport, just a stop to fuel and stock up on our beloved Cheese&Onion triangle sandwiches at the roadside WHSmith.
That old familiar exciitement grows as we near Blackpool, a palpable adrenaline rush akin to pulling off the 101 at Sunset or seeing the glow of marquee and sleaze as the 15 finally drops into Vegas.
We have a long van discussion of just how many Rebellion fests this makes. Maybe 7? 8?
(This is counting the Wasted festival when it was in Morecambe 2005, as well as that one wild offshoot fest in Amsterdam.)
Whatever, this is the big one, the jewel of the year.
Our very favorite international punk fest.
We return to Blackpool like birds pulled back to the nesting grounds by irresistible migratory pull.
We’ve hit the town a night early, and good thing as the B&B has emailed to cancel all the rooms.
Seems some naughty punker has left the tub running while he slept off his Buckfast breakfast, and now a whole floor is darkened by electrical short.
What’s he thinking anyway, bathing during a punk fest??
There are rumored rooms still vacant at the Best Western, but we remain at standstill between Police and protesters, punkers and the sea.
I slide open the door and jump out then, yell over my shoulder that I’ll check the situation and meet up with the lads at Wintergardens, and start running toward the hotel..
Now, I know riots, having seen my fair share of helmeted LAPD goons marching through the roller rinks of my youth, and I am frankly disappointed by this mild standoff on the streets.
I’m tempted to at least throw a bottle into the crowd of racist nutjobs, and get this pit going, but I realize I am just a guest in this country.
Best to keep moving. (Reports come in later that a group of punkers streamed out of the fest and confronted the EDL, effectively chasing the cowards out. And the heart just swells.)
The rooms are finally sorted, the band tucked into one of those corporate joints way South of the Tower.
Then we run into the Wintergardens like children let loose at recess, catching up with old pals, goofing off on this night off.
There’s just time to catch Lene Lovich with the family, and then some songs by the wonderful Bad Manners crew at the Casbah before hitting the chippy and then to bed.
It’s back to the Wintergardens early Sunday, as the Literary Fest has graciously invited me to chat about the book.
This is one of those things, along with the art gallery, acoustic hall and daily punk bingo (!!) that sets this festival apart.
I find the gentleman moderator Marc Jones backstage and we have a nice little pre-interview chat, and then it’s out to the darkened set.
We are seated comfortably (between two ferns!) for our chat, and I am relieved to find that quite a few folks have set aside a bit of time to come listen.
I am so grateful for everyone who came out and listen to the stories behind the story, and at the Crafts Hall afterwards we sell out every copy of the book that DiWulf had shipped over,
If this was it, if my short week of playing-literally playing-up the knobby spine of the United Kingdom was now over, I would be a happy man.
But we still have our set to play, so we say our goodbyes to the Literary crew and make our way down to the Empress back stage.
I take a quick duck out the doors to check on the village.
The clouds part, just for a moment, and the seagulls wheel about in the sunny skies.
The last of the misguided protesters pout along the seaside, licking their wounds as well as their rainbow candy floss.
The punk rockers mill about and take smiling selfies with the beautiful Police horses.
Order seems restored, and though there was always a real threat of violence on the streets of Blackpool, it is back to the holiday at hand.
And those cobblestones, they don’t run red with bloodshed, but are baptized only by the charming vomit and urine of the overserved revelers.
And all is right with the world.
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