‘Have you heard the news?’ he says. But I can’t concentrate. I can’t see anything but his receding hairline and greasy skin. Spots on his neck. His forehead shining under the lights. And all I can think is how am I back here? How come I never got out of this shit-hole when I had the chance?

‘Sorry? What?’

‘The news,’ he says, louder this time. ‘They’ve gone and sold Blackpool tower off for scrap.’

I don’t know what to make of it. For a minute I think I must have misheard. He’s waiting for my reaction.

‘Really?’ I say.

‘Scout’s honour. Lancashire County Council signed the deeds this morning.’

I take a sip of my drink and try to make sense of it. He’s grinning at me like a maniac. Like he’s waiting for something. The truth is I don’t really give a shit. They can melt it down and send it to the moon for all I care. There’d be a big crowd of tourists if they were really skint enough to do it – scratching their arses and taking photos, sucking sugar dummies and sticks of Blackpool rock. The creaking metal, and all the bolts wrenched out. The brown sea behind them. Full of God-knows-what.

‘April fools,’ he says, poking my leg to get my attention.

‘Oh God, Gary. How many times?’ Mike is back from the bar standing over us with a pint in one hand and a shot glass in the other. ‘Do us all a favour and find some new material.’

Gary’s smile fades.

‘Oh, right,’ I say, I’d forgotten about the date. ‘Right. You really had me going there for a minute.’