BEN reporter, Karen Stephen spent a weekend in Blackpool along with her 90-year-old grandmother and offers this personal view. Both have vowed never to go there again MY nan hadn't been to Blackpool for about five or six years and always held happy memories of previous visits.

She'd decided she deserved a weekend away so my husband and I booked us all into the Savoy Hotel for a couple of days.

Nan, who's a relatively active 90-year-old, was excited at the prospect of a mini holiday, especially in a town she remembered for its promenades, summer shows, shops and seaside.

I was a little more sceptical, knowing Blackpool is now a haven for masses of hen and stag parties.

Nevertheless we set off on a Friday evening and arrived in Blackpool around 6-ish. As we drove through the town centre my husband concentrated on avoiding the hundreds of yelling, staggering men and women, clutching bottles of alcohol who seemed intent on playing "chicken" with the passing traffic.

I glanced round at my nan who had suddenly gone very quiet in the back.

Haven

Happily, our hotel was far up on the north shore -- a quiet haven away from the melee of the town centre. We decided to dine there that evening.

The next day was a scorcher so after breakfast we took a tram and then walked "along the front" as my nan put it.

I'll never forget the look on her face when she saw how her beloved Golden Mile had changed.

By lunchtime the drunken masses had returned to continue their onslaught of the town's bars and pubs. And to make sure they didn't miss the clubs, bikini-clad girls gyrated in doorways enticing the very sunburned and very drunk blokes inside.

Music blared onto the street and tannoys asked "fellas to come inside for the time of your life". It could only be described as sleazy. And with streets littered with bottles, chip papers and burger wrappers, the place stank.

The beach was just as littered, but with bright red lobsters sleeping off the effects of a day's hard drinking and we had to side-step one girl relieving herself of her liquid lunch.

Tea-time came and by now my nan had had enough so we decided to head for Harry Ramsden's for fish and chips -- she'd been looking forward to this all day.

It was 5pm and we were surprised to see a chap stationed at the door. His role appeared uncertain, but we never saw him carrying as much as a cup and saucer.

But we were glad of his presence after we realised we were sharing the dining room with yet another gang of very loud, drunken and extremely offensive blokes who obviously couldn't string a sentence together without the inclusion of four or five expletives.

Aside from these primates, other diners included OAPs, families with young children and young couples. But I doubt any of them wanted to hear the language and see the antics of the monkeys on the middle table.

Thankfully our chap on the door asked them to leave and, because he was bigger than them, they did in fact go. But, come on, this was Harry Ramsden's. And it was only five-o-clock on a Saturday tea-time. What was going on?

To say Blackpool has changed is an understatement. Of course many places do, they understandably need to cater for the masses and Blackpool's masses are quite obviously the young out for a good time.

I'm no prude, and neither is my nan, but I was sickened by the sights of this so-called family seaside resort.

It's dirty, sleazy and extremely shabby. Las Vegas it ain't.

A spokesperson for Harry Ramsden's in Blackpool said: "We do not employ doormen, but we always have someone stationed at the door to meet and greet people." She denied that rowdy customer behaviour was the norm, but stated that such incidents witnessed here would be dealt with by asking them to leave. 'It could only be described as sleazy. And with streets littered with bottles, chip papers and burger wrappers, the place stank.