The Fun of the Fair.

I was thinking about my childhood today, and the immense fascination fairgrounds held for me. I think it was mostly the riot of colour that did it – the gaudily painted stalls and the coloured glass that seemed to proliferate everywhere. But it was also the music, the energy, the thrill of the rides, and even the prospect of winning a goldfish if I could only get one ping pong ball to land in the bowl. It was a fantastical world, as different from mundane reality as a feature film but all the more real for being directly accessible.

When I was ten I took up fishing, and the appeal of that soon became as strong as the fun of the fair. For a while they ran in tandem. I was fourteen when I went on holiday with my parents for the last time, and it was one of the best. We went to Great Yarmouth, a popular resort on the coast of East Anglia, and I divided my time between fishing on the Norfolk Broads during the day and spending every night in the fairground. But fourteen was a pivotal age for me, and the eternal Great Preoccupation began to show itself.

There was a group of four girls who also went to the fairground every night, and one of them took my fancy in a big way. The problem was, I didn’t know how to approach her. I’d had a couple of relationships with girls by then, but they’d all happened by accident. I’d never had to make the first approach before. It just so happened, however, that I’d befriended an Irish lad of seventeen who was also on holiday with his parents. I assumed he would have more experience in these matters, so I asked his advice.

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said with confidence. ‘Just go up to her and say “are ya coming, then?” And so she will. No problem.’

I went to the fair again that night steeled with my new knowledge. I spied my chance when Miss Bloody Gorgeous was standing apart from her friends. I walked over and said the magic words. She looked at me, sadly it seemed, shook her head and went back to her group. Then they walked away. Whether her look of apparent sadness had been one of pity or regret I shall never know.

It would be an exaggeration to claim that I was devastated, but I was certainly a bit put out. I decided that my Irish friend was skilled only in the gift of the blarney, and not in the art of wooing. I set about devising my own rather more subtle method, and it worked. By fifteen I was hardly a seasoned veteran, but I was at least an advanced novice.

The world changed, and so did the role of the fairground.