Bournemouth

Bournemouth is a Victorian invalid ward that got a nightclub licence and never looked back. A man planted pine trees here because he'd heard the smell cured tuberculosis, and two centuries later the town is still selling fresh air to people who arrive from somewhere worse, only now the fresh air comes with a stag party attached. The beach is genuinely one of the best in the country and the town has spent a hundred and fifty years trying to build things in front of it, most recently a smoked-glass lump so hated the locals voted it the worst building in England and then knocked it down. What's left is a place that cannot decide whether it's a retirement home or a weekend bender, so it does both, on the same street, at the same time.