Notes from Blackpool, 2030

WELL, reader, it’s been some time since I sent my last dispatch from my life in Blackpool.

Not much has changed in this little “resort” town, which is honestly the left asscheek of the English-speaking world. But it is my home, so it’s my left asscheek.

I haven’t had any time off my shitty clerical job to go on any trips (even ones as shitty as Wigan), so I thought I had nothing to write about.

But even the most mundane elements of life as a refugee in the Kingdom of England and Wales can lead to bizarre and thrilling adventures, as I just recently discovered.

My shattered-but-somehow-operating smartphone, which I’ve had since before I left for England, had finally given up on me. My coworker recommended a small electronic store where I could pick up a simple device for cheap. Really cheap. I was pleased. Until he mentioned that it was in Little Shankill.

Now, for those of you who haven’t been keeping on British affairs in the past couple years, after Northern Ireland was expelled from “United Kingdom,” many of the Protestants came over to Britain, mainly to the cheaper (and shittier) cities in the North and West. The ones who went to Blackpool were notorious for having o fought in both Troubles, and still have a burning hatred of the southern Republic. The area is called, charmingly, Little Shankill, after the Shankill Road in Belfast where the nastiest Unionist terrorists lived and congrgated.

I had no interest or inclination to ever set foot there. But now I was desperate for a deal, for that one piece of technology that will be a reliable hook up to the digital world. So I took the tram there.

The ride was weird, as I could instantly tell when I crossed into the neighborhood. British flags started filled second-floor windows. Graffiti was splattered on the side alleys with acronyms like UFF and UDA. Pubs didn’t have the usual Guinness and Jameson signs. Just Bushmills, which as we know is the most Protestant beverage.

I got off the tram and found the store, which wasn’t hard with its bright orange awning in front. PAISLEY’S COMPUTER PARTS. Whether the name of the store was a coincidence or a deliberate reference to the infamous Ulsterman of the 1970s, I still do not know. All I know is that it was an unseasonable warm September day and I needed a laptop and I wanted to get home fast.

I walked in, and it was dirty and dingy. Laptop boxes were thrown and scattered around different shelves, different tables in the center and back of the shop. Grimy glass displays of headphones and smartphones that were old when I was still in college were propped up on stands, obstructing your way around. I spotted the little smartphone I wanted, bare-bones, with a sticker saying it was 299 pounds, just as I hoped. I was giddy.

There’s a decent queue for the register, and I step up. Since no place in this country has air conditioning, it go warm in the snug store. The line was inching forward. I noticed a few pairs of eyes from the people behind me, and I could tell they were wondering why someone from outside the neighborhood was here (don’t these people know how good the deals are?).

The awkwardness made me sweatier. As I’m second in line I decided to unzip my sweatshirt. Just as I took it off did I realize my mistake.

My t-shirt was green. Dear reader, I was wearing green. I was now a symbol of Irishness and shamrocks and St. Patrick’s and Popery in this shop frequented only by the most hardened Ulstermen in the world.

Everyone began to stare. I realized my error and zipped back up my hoodie just as I headed to the main guy behind this counter. But i knew the damage had been done.

The cashier gives me a look of contempt. “Yer, eh, not from ‘round here, huh?” he asked. “Uh no, I’m American, actually, and — uh, now I live on Talbot Road now — ”

“American, eh? What kind?” He asked, clearly looking for blood.

“What kind? My grandparents were Italian, if that’s what you mean. Ya know, Tony Soprano?” I then made the hand gestures, trying too hard to sell it. Full disclosure, I only have one Italian grandparent and two Irish ones, but I’d be damned if I let those lads learn that.

The cashier cracked a brief smile. He scanned the phone in his case. 315 pounds and 90 pence. I looked in bemusement. Where’d this 17 pounds come from?

“Um, ‘scuse me — um, the label says it’s 299.”

“The rest is tax. Equal tax, to London, to the City, to the Council. But you Americans don’t know that, eh?” I was too scared to push my luck. I look to my left and two muscular guys by the door, looking as though they were itching for any confrontation. I swallowed my pride and paid the extra money. My grocery money for fuck sake.

I took the laptop and got the hell out. I head to the tram stop and tried to figure out where that money was. Sixteen pounds ninety pence extra. “Equal tax.” What the hell does that mean? 1690?

Maybe this was a year? When I got home and started up my phone, the first thing I did was search “1690” to see if there was some significance.

Oh, of fucking course. The year 1690. The year of the Battle of the Boyne in Ireland. For those of you who don’t know, King William III was a Protestant King who wasn’t to beat the Irish into submission, and he did. 1690 was the year he and his Protestant men beat the bloody Catholics. Somehow I fucking figured it out, and it was the dumbest possible answer.

I had to pay a Protestant tax! All because of a green shirt!

So I’m once again typing this on my shitty smartphone. After this I’ll be wandering other neighborhoods, preferably less unionist, for a charger. Good bye and good luck.