Fish, Chips and the Great Blackpool Penny Heist

Saturday 24 October 2026

There are some evenings when you make sensible decisions. And then there are evenings when you walk through a Blackpool storm to spend £5 in an amusement arcade, convinced you might come home rich.

Ours began with fish and chips.

A proper northern supper

We found ourselves at C Fresh on Princess Street, where the portions looked big enough to feed a small village. One glance at the other tables was enough.

“Shall we share one?”

Dana and I agreed. Luke and Ellen made the same decision.

The fish arrived in thick golden batter, surrounded by chips, mushy peas, gravy and a pickled egg. Dana also had bread and butter. Apparently, there was still room for more carbohydrates. A mug of strong white builder’s tea completed the feast.

Outside, rain hammered the window and wind howled along the street. Inside, we were warm and happy.

“That’s horrible out there.”

Another chip disappeared into the gravy.

“Absolutely dreadful.”

Nobody made any attempt to leave.

The five-minute expedition

Eventually, we needed to reach Coral Island, about five minutes away.

“Uber,” suggested Luke.

“We could go from bar to bar,” I offered. “Have a drink in each until we get there.”

Dana gave me a look. The plan was not approved.

By the time we stepped outside, the rain had stopped. Unfortunately, the wind had decided to make up for it. Gusts were reaching around 70 mph.

We leaned forwards, battling to take each step. Then the wind changed direction and pushed us along faster than we wanted to go. Ahead, Luke and Ellen were running, stopping and suddenly speeding up again, like a comedy sketch.

I was laughing so much I could hardly breathe. Although the wind wasn’t helping.

At last, we reached Coral Island. Luke’s hair had developed a spectacular just got out of bed look. Ellen’s was matching nicely. We looked as though we’d crossed the North Sea in a rowing boat.

First, a drink to recover. Then the serious business.

Four people, £5 each

The rules were simple. Each of us had £5 to spend in the arcade. Whoever won the best prize would be champion.

I felt confident.

This was my first mistake.

The great camel race

We started with a camel racing game. Roll balls into numbered holes and your camel moves along the track. Four of us put in £2 each.

I rolled a ball. Good score. Another. Even better.

I glanced up. My camel was almost still at the starting line.

Meanwhile, the others were charging across the desert. I rolled faster. Finally my camel began moving.

“Number four!”

A winner.

“Number six!”

Another.

“Number seven!”

Dana, Luke and Ellen had all beaten me. I came fourth. Out of four.

Dana, who admitted she didn’t really know what she was doing, had won. She chose a large cuddly tiger.

Fifty 2p coins and a lesson in patience

Next, we changed £1 into fifty 2p coins.

When I was little, penny waterfalls required skill. You lined up your coin, watched the moving shelf and released it at exactly the right moment.

These days, you can feed coins in one after another, like a tiny metal army. Faster, certainly. But where was the skill? More importantly, where was my chance to explain how to do it properly?

We watched coins teeter on the edge, refusing to fall. Then the machine started giving us tickets.

“What do tickets make?”

“Prizes!”

We won about five tickets, only to discover that even ordinary prizes required hundreds or thousands. Five tickets might just earn us a sympathetic smile.

Luke versus the dinosaurs

We moved to a dinosaur shooting game. My gun wasn’t working, so I watched Dana, Ellen and Luke.

Luke took the instructions very seriously. Shoot dinosaurs? He shot every dinosaur he could see.

His own dinosaurs. Dana’s dinosaurs. Ellen’s dinosaurs.

The girls barely got a chance.

Eventually, the game gave the girls another go without Luke.

“You need to shoot the dinosaurs,” he explained helpfully.

No shit, Sherlock.

They’d been trying to do exactly that before Luke wiped out the Jurassic period.

The machine that wouldn’t stop paying

Then we spotted a teenage boy leaving another waterfall game with an enormous pile of tickets.

This looked promising.

Ellen and I took our seats.

“Don’t spend too much money on this,” the boy warned.

I put in £1. Tickets began appearing. Then I won a bonus.

But Ellen’s machine went completely mad.

Coins tumbled, lights flashed and tickets poured out so quickly that they started covering the floor.

“What have I done?” Ellen wondered.

Nobody knew, but it was magnificent.

We gathered the long strips of tickets. Surely we’d won enough for something spectacular. A giant teddy bear? A games console? A small car?

Four hundred tickets, one tiny spider

We fed the tickets into the counting machine.

Finally, it stopped at just over 400.

Ellen hurried to the prize counter and discovered she could afford a small ball or a plastic spider.

Four hundred tickets. For a spider.

She could probably have found one for free behind the sofa.

Then Ellen noticed a little boy nearby. Without making a fuss, she gave him her winning ticket.

His face lit up. He was delighted.

And suddenly those tickets were worth rather more than a plastic spider.

And the winner is…

Dana had won a cuddly tiger, despite not knowing how to race a camel.

Luke had saved the world from dinosaurs, including several belonging to his teammates.

I had finished last in a camel race and spent £5 learning that arcade tickets have about the same buying power as Monopoly money.

But Ellen had won the most tickets and given them away to make a little boy happy.

That made Ellen our champion.

Outside, Blackpool was still being battered by the wind. Inside, Dana had a tiger, Luke had a new hairstyle and Ellen had made someone’s evening.

As for me, I’d spent £5 proving I wasn’t particularly good at gambling.

Which, come to think of it, was probably the best £5 I’d spent all weekend.