Wings Over Sealand

A real advert currently showing on TV:

An older version:

I wish I didn't have to write what I'm about to write. There's no possible benefit to it for me. All it will bring me is hatred, abuse and threats, some from people whose feelings I care about. It won't make any difference to anything, because only a handful of people will ever read it and most of those who do will be outraged by it. But I have to do it anyway. I'm trapped – trapped by conscience, trapped by sanity, and trapped by the words of the smartest, most perceptive writer who ever lived.

"Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: everything else is public relations." (George Orwell)

On the 15th of April 1989, ninety-six people went to a football match and didn't come home. They died in hideous scenes which were broadcast to the world and splashed across newspaper front pages, and they died as a result of a catastrophic combination of circumstances, which had any one of them not been present would have averted the disaster. Yet of all those factors, there's one that nobody is allowed to talk about, despite the fact that it's the one that actually killed every single victim.

Damn everyone whose cowardice means that the burden of saying so has landed on someone as stupid, inappropriate and hopelessly ill-equipped for the task as me.

Warning: the following piece contains distressing images.

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As the sun made its first appearance of the summer at the weekend, Wings over Sealand wasn't slow off the mark. On the "B" of the "BANG!", we leapt onto a train for a scenic two-hour journey to the seaside, specifically the lovely south-coast town of Weymouth. It's a remarkable place, changing character every time you turn a corner.

The front is a traditional resort promenade, with beaches and ice-cream stands and arcades. Just behind it is a picturesque working harbour town, tatty fishing boats mingling with some extremely fancy millionaires' yachts. (Don't miss the tasty and gigantic battered faggots at Bennett's On The Waterfront fish and chip shop, by the way, the closest thing you'll find to haggis in an English chippy and heavenly with a splash of onion vinegar.) Adjacent to both is a scruffy but bustling town centre, almost entirely free of the empty shops littering every other urban conurbation in Britain.

And if you embark on about five minutes' leisurely stroll from the western end of the prom or the busy, noisy harbour and marina, you'll find the town's only sizeable area of public green space, in the form of the beautiful and peaceful oasis that is The Nothe.

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