Let Me Off

The place, Blackpool.

The year, 1988.

I am a robust nine year-old looking very much like Hayley Joel Osment – only cuter. We’ve been travelling for hours on the well-worn route between London and Aberdeen, returning from visiting my grandmother. Given us siblings are getting a little restless my parents decide to break the journey with a trip to the playground of the north; several hundred miles out of our way.

If you’re unaware, they breed them tough in the UK. Even with the temperature topping a stifling 12 degrees celsius and grey clouds threatening to let loose an apocalyptic storm the residents of Blackpool had stripped down to their bikinis for an afternoon on the beach. And why not? It was after all July, the height of summer.

Unfortunately my parents frowned on my attempts to chat up a particularly vivacious looking brunette by dragging me and my siblings to Blackpool Pleasure Beach. As I wandered away from the two-piece wearing teen I wondered just what delights this ‘pleasure beach’ held.

Quite a lot, really.

Regardless of what people say, there’s something appealing about speeding down giant slides on sacks before leaping into pits full of plastic balls. So whilst we played, my parents sipped coffee. And the moment their backs were turned, something magical caught my eye.

Something perfectly round, perfectly formed and…just…the biggest roundabout I’d ever seen! Manned by a burly looking man with the greatest beard in the history of facial hair. His legs as thick as oak trees; perfect for spinning everyone within the roundabout at a reasonable speed.

Handing over my perforated ticket I hopped over the side of the ride and took my seat for the gentle spin I was expecting. As I did, my parents re-emerged from their caffeine hit and stood watching me with confused smiles on their face.

“What are you doing?” They asked.

Ummm, going on the roundabout? “Going on the roundabout?”

“Roundabout?” They said again. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” The pleasure in their voice conspiratorial. “Have fun,”

I will!

Two seconds later I was spinning at a leisurely speed with a grin on my face.

Twelve seconds later I was spinning at a brisk speed with a frown on my face.

Twenty-two seconds later I was spinning at 278,000 mph with vomit dribbling from my mouth screaming let me off at such a volume I’m sure the girl on the beach would have heard. Hell, I’m fairly sure people in Luxembourg would have heard!

This wasn’t, as I had expected, a normal roundabout. The bearded man was not going to be spinning it with his hands and legs but simply press a button with his hairy finger and let the uranium fueled motor do the work.

Two minutes later the machine was slowing and I was finally able to focus my vision on my parents; my father was doubled over with laughter and my mother was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Staggering off the contraption I walked in the opposite direction I’d wanted to go, fell over the bearded man and knocked a woman and her popcorn flying. As I failed to regain balance control my mother appeared and, just in time, pulled a brown paper bag from her hand bag which was promptly filled with the contents of my stomach.

I didn’t talk to my parents until we reached Dundee. Partly because I was too busy clearing the contents of my stomach and partly because I was annoyed that they’d used me as a source of entertainment instead of informing me of my poor decision-making process before the event.