I got dragged, kicking and screaming, into a “much-needed” few days away last week. Hence my silence, you filthy readers. The destination? Skegness. Yeah, Skegness. Why the fuck not? A coastal cesspool where the air smells like backed-up drains and despair, and the local MP is none other than Richard Tice, that Net Zero-hating, Dubai-loving, tax-dodging prick who’d rather stir up hate than face a tax return. This is the guy who’s made a career out of hiding his millions in offshore accounts while preaching “patriotism” to the sunburnt masses. If Mrs. Spider catches me typing this instead of pretending to enjoy this hellhole, I’m a dead man. So let’s make this quick and ugly.
Skegness is a fucking disaster. Nothing works. We parked everywhere for free because the parking machines are all busted, their screens flickering like they’re auditioning for a cyberpunk dystopia. The whole place reeks of sewage, like the town’s arteries are clogged with decades of neglect. Half the shops are shuttered, their windows caked with grime and broken dreams. The other half? Packed with zombies shoving 2p coins into rigged arcade machines that wouldn’t pay out if you held a gun to their circuits. But I’ll give credit where it’s due: there’s a chippy by the clock tower that’s a greasy, stinking slice of heaven. The place is a dive—grease dripping from the walls, gurning junkies in the corner—but the fish and chips? First fucking class. I’d crawl through the chemical sludge of this town for another bite.
Speaking of sludge, let’s talk about the locals. Skegness is a parade of the walking dead. Pissed-up bastards clutching brown paper bags, eyes glazed over like they’ve been mainlining cheap vodka since breakfast. Pill-popping, tooth-grinding wretches staggering through the streets, outnumbering anyone who can still form a coherent sentence. You try to stroll down to the sea for some fresh air, and what do you get? Your feet sink into the sand, and you come up covered in black, stinking slime that clings to your skin like it’s got a personal vendetta. Looks like you’re wearing boots made of toxic waste. I don’t know what kind of chemical cocktail that was, and I don’t want to know. The sea might look pretty from the pier, but get close, and it’s a trap.
Then there’s the locals booing the RNLI as they drag their boat out to save some poor bastard from drowning. Yeah, you heard that right—booing the lifeboat crew. Apparently, that’s a thing here. Took ‘em five minutes just to get the boat to the water, so whoever they were off to save was probably fish food by the time they got there. Efficiency, Skegness style.
But here’s where it gets rich. Skegness is a neon-lit monument to fraud and failure—arcades with grabber claws that drop every time, lights flashing to lure in the desperate, and no one does a damn thing about it. And yet, in the middle of this shithole, you can’t escape the irony. Solar panels are everywhere. On the arcades, the pier, even the little boat-hire shack that looks like it hasn’t seen a customer since 1983. Look out to sea, and it’s a forest of wind turbines, spinning lazily in the breeze. This place is more Net Zero than half the bloody country. And who’s the MP presiding over this eco-paradox? Richard Tice, the guy who’d rather burn coal than admit climate change is real.
What’s got Tice so twisted? Is it the fact that his little fiefdom is greener than he’ll ever be? That he’s stuck lording over a town that’s accidentally stumbled into sustainability while he’s off in Dubai dodging taxes? Or is it just that he’s powerless to stop it, so he takes out his impotent rage on anyone who dares mention “Net Zero”? This is a man who’s built his career on bullshit and hate, but Skegness is giving him the middle finger with every solar panel and turbine blade.
This place is a microcosm of everything wrong with the world: broken systems, zombified people, and a hypocritical prick at the top pretending he’s got answers. I’m done here. If I stay any longer, I’ll either sink into the sludge or start a riot in the chippy. Skegness, you’re a shithole, but at least your fish is good. Tice, go back to Dubai and leave the rest of us alone. I’m out.
Spider Thompson, signing off before Mrs. Spider breaks my fingers.
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