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This blog is closing, please move to the checkout...

Thanks to all who have read and commented over the past few years.

However, I'm going away.  To Africa, to teach, along with my lovely wife.  Hence, this is now an ex-blog.

Au revoir.

schools' quiz and honesty

Any society or community needs certain rules to work properly and everyone needs to abide by those rules.  Such rules include honesty and trust.  Adults, especially parents and teachers, have a duty to model such honesty to children.

Until last week I had always been pleased with the honesty seen in school quizzes - considering that there are plenty of opportunities for cheating.  I had heard rumours of dodgy doings from a few schools but never actually seen it.

This has changed though.

To my left, the spectators and teachers of St Bernard's school.  To my front, their team.  The occassion - a table-quiz.  The problem - any time their team are stumped by a question they stared at their friends who mouthed the answer or gesticulated in some way.

One girl in the team even turned round to the audience and had a conversation with her friend about one of the questions.

A number of people from other schools, myself included, looked at each other and looked at the cheating team with disbelief.  The sadder fact is that the cheats didn't appear to think anything was amiss or that they were going to steal another team's place in the next round.

The quiz-master reminded the audience not to discuss the answers as they could be heard by teams.  This warning was too subtle for St Bernard's who continued in their ways.  A round later, the team were warned by an official who then spoke to their teachers.  Sadly, their teachers denied all knowledge and insisted the officials were mistaken.  They were told if it didn't stop the team would be disqualified - and they insisted it couldn't stop as it wasn't happening.

Nonetheless, it stopped.  The team stopped scoring so well and a proper outcome was assured.

The sad fact is, the pupils of St Bernard's obviously think cheating is acceptable and so do the teachers.  Presumably this leads to interesting problems in the school when a child who copies homework is told off for simply following the example his teachers have endorsed.

On a brighter note, many teams did well that day and did so honestly.  The other (honest) teams were mostly well-prepared and enjoyed it - a day off school to celebrate knowledge, when the less-sporty were the school's heroes.  

The Woolies' have-a-go hero

Farewell to Woolworth's. Farewell to my supplier of cheap shoe-laces, shoe-polish, 7" singles and assorted knick-knacks. Alas for Woolworth's, they haven't seen enough of me or my ilk for some time - hence their current problem.

Farewell also to the place where I was briefly a 'have-a-go-hero', defending Woolies' wounded carcass from the vultures who sought to steal souvenirs instead of having the decency to pay (with 20% off, all stock MUST go).

Imagine the scene, a month ago. Wollies have the clearance notices up and shoppers are cluttering the place up with their bags and their need to stand in the aisles chatting about how awful it is. The DVD and music counter has been picked clean only 3-for-£10 compilations of cover versions remain. Homewares has a reasonable selection still available though I give up on trying to access it thanks to the rather fat lady and her half-dozen buckets and basins blocking the way. I wonder if she really needs to complete her collection of Addis homewares or if she is buying for the sake of it. I wonder where else stocks Addis homewares and make my way towards my real reason for being here.

I dodge a single-minded Granny carrying an ironing board under one arm and a dangerously pointy Christmas tree under the other and notice that for once I am not annoyed by the sound of Slade are wishing everyone a "MERRY CHRIIIIIIIIISSSTTTMMASSSSS" through the PA system.

Arriving at the Pick & Mix I am greeted by a thousand childhood memories of bribes for good behaviour while in town and treats bought with some spare change. I am not alone. A group of boys from a local school are in conversation.

"You do it!"
"No - you do it. I'll be seen."
"Don't be a chicken."
"Are you in or out?"
"Squaaaaaaaaaccckkk"
"Nobody will see you."

I keep glancing at them from the side of my eye while filling my Woolworth's Original Pick & Mix tub. The leader is looking my way, aware they are being watched. I reach up to grab a giant strawberry and hear a barely whispered "NOW!"

A trembling hand reaches towards a tube of sweets, grabs them and puts them into his pocket. He looks nervous, then relieved that he has not been struck down by lightning or mugged by store detectives.

"See, easy!" says his friend, "I told you nobody would see."

I tap the thief on the shoulder.

"Wha?" he grunts.
"Are you going to pay for those?" I politely ask.
"Pay for wha?". Part of me wants to tell him that the word ends with a "T".
"Those sweets."
"Wha swees?". Does he dislike the letter "T"?
"The sweets in your pocket?"
"I havan any swees in ma pocke."
"The Fruit Pastilles, from that shelf, that you put in your pocket around a minute ago."
"Oh aye, those swees, tha's jus for handiness. Of course I was gonna pay."

He puts the Fruit Pastilles back where they came from and leaves the shop, red-faced and muttering profanities to his friends. Meanwhile I pay for my own swees, go to the door and quickly look up and down the street for the aforementioned group of boys before walking (briskly) to my car.

Mini-chips, Monster Munch and playground bartering

I'm sure most people reading this are familiar with the playground tradition of "One-for-one". I give you one of my crisps for one of yours - sounds simple. One Golden Wonder equals one Tayto. After this, the fights begin - I remember debating (aged 9?) whether one Tayto was equivalent to 1, 2 or 3 of the yellow-pack cheapie crisps. I still remember my confusion when I was old enough to realise that not all crisps are created equal and yellow-pack were very cheap indeed. Two Tayto for one Monster Munch was a given. How many yellow-pack for Monster Munch though? Did Smith's salt-and-shake lose value if they had been salted? What if they were Free State Taytos?

The playground exchange rate was not limited to crisps. One Penguin for two fingers of a Kit Kat or a fun-size Mars bar. Was a bag of crisps a fair swap for a Penguin? What if they were yellow-pack crisps? What about Jelly Tots?

I'll lend you my comic if you give me a finger of your Kit Kat, or half your Hula Hoops, or your Matchbox car over lunchtime instead. Beano's worth more than the Dandy and 2000AD is like gold-dust. No, the car for my Salt and Vinegar isn't a fair swap but the car for John's Ready Salted might be - ask him. Oh - John prefers Ready Salted - well, if they were mine they'd be worth less. What about the car and a finger of Kit-Kat for my Salt and Vineger? OK, deal done.

These wonderings returned to me last night after a retro-moment saw my wife and I enjoying KP mini-chips and Space Raiders. How many mini-chips for a Monster Munch? Don't ask...

Happy National Poetry Day (Belated)

A couple of weeks ago our esteemed Head of English encouraged other teachers to read poetry to their classes, presumably to let them see that you don't have to be an English teacher to enjoy poems.

I chose If, by Rudyard Kipling. My Year 12 listened with far more attention than usual, hanging on every word. By the last line my hands were dripping with sweat (I don't usually do public readings of poetry).

What I didn't tell them was the reasoning behind my choice of poem. We were supposed to choose one that meant something to us rather than some random piece of verse. I had read If at school and had listened to Des Lynam recite it in 1998 after the World Cup (http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=tjuihw2q_Ts ). I had probably read how Kipling's inspiration was a friend who presumably rebuilt his life's work with worn out tools and lost it all on a game of pitch and toss, after knaves mis-represented him to trap fools.

Sorry, it left me cold. Maybe I wasn't ready for it.

In 1999 it did register with me. I was in a different frame of mind from circa 1990, looking out a classroom window at the rain. I was in a different frame of mind from 98's football overdose. I was standing in a hallway in the Royal Victoria Hospital, my grandfather losing blood faster than the doctors could pump it into him. While I waited for the botched-up post-op dressing to be fixed (and while my Grandfather patiently wondered if he'd get out alive), I paid attention to the artwork in the corridors and at one end If was posted up.

I was in a reflective frame of mind. My grandfather's op hadn't worked out (regardless of the failed stitches) and he had a few big problems to consider. He was speaking to me in a far more serious tone than before. Long gone was man-and-boy and forgotten, for a while, was old-man-young-man. These were "If anything happens - no, REALLY, if anything happens..." conversations. These were "I mightn't get a chance to say this, so I better say it now" conversations. It was heavy stuff, mixed with laughter and his on-going bet with the guy in the opposite bed (50p to the winner - when, exactly, would the dirt on the floor be swept).

His hopes - presumably that the world would be mine and everything in it and that -much more - I'd be a man, my (grand)son.

So poetry sometimes leaves us cold and sometimes the same poem strikes a chord. Sometimes a poem brings back memories of years ago, like a dusty corridor in an old hospital and an old man who was very much aware of his mortality.

What if?

I was accused t'other day of being a 'Frustrated English teacher' by someone who ought to know (she's a real-life, bona-fide English teacher). Maybe that was an option open to me at a time - she had an inspiring English teacher though, wheras I came to despise literature.  

'Ned' viewed anything that wasn't big-long-flowery words (of Franco-Latinish origin) as poor communication. The vernacular (Germanic/Scots-type words) was common and beneath his dignity (unlike our German teacher who got a kick out of linking German to Norn Irish dialect). Doubtless, Ned would view the revival of Ulster-Scots as a dreadful thing. I got fed up writing for little reward with "Words and phrasing you would use in speach, not written English" and abruptly ended my career in the Arts. 

Now that I am a teacher, I do realise that my own attitude played its part but I do hope I don't drain the enjoyment of school from any of my own students. It made me wonder about the seemingly small things that dictate our lives. If I had a little more ability to write a flowery essay I might have done slightly better in GCSE History (and studied A-level History instead of Physics). If I had been able to get past my teenage male hangups and see past Jane Austin as little more than Georgian Mills & Boon, I might even have seen it as more than lovvey-dovvey nonsense and not failed English Lit. Twice. Oddly, I had given it consideration for A-level in the far past, when my History teacher was trying to convince me of a career in journalism (and where would I be now, had I done A-levels in Computing, History and English Lit?).  

- What if my family had been slightly less disfunctional (or more so)?
- What if I failed the eleven plus?
- What if I had been more strongly convinced of the merits of playing Rugby? 
- What if I had gone out with a different girl during Sixth form (or dumped a particular one sooner than I did)?
- What if the  friends who moved away (or died) during school didn't?
- What if I had done something different from our church youth club on a Friday night?
- One grade better in my A-levels and I'd have gone to a different Uni (and all the knock-on effects of that).
- What if it wasn't just me and Jock who enrolled for the Philosophy module (that got cancelled because of numbers)?
- What if I hadn't worked in a certain firm where an ex-English teacher, turned programmer, sorted out my inability to put together decent prose in my documentation? What if she hadn't got fed up by inner-city school girls telling her to "F-ck off, Miss!" and sought a different career?
- What if I hadn't got into my PGCE at the first attempt? Would I still be a programmer (made redundant, twice over)?
- If I hadn't bothered buying a newspaper one particular day I'd never have got my current job, in a school I'd never heard of, and as a result have never married my wife. What if I hadn't broken up with the lady who was then my girlfriend when I did? What if she hadn't been living in the flat beside ours? What if her mate hadn't taken it upon herself to ask me and two others from our flea-ridden kip in for some crumpet (freshly baked)?
- What if I'd accepted the offer of another teaching job?
- 10 mins earlier/later in a particular place - would I have met my wife? If I hadn't, would I still be working where I am? If any of the previous options had gone a different way, would this one have been available? Hopefully we'd have met anyway!

- What if, instead of wondering "What if?", we got on with living our real lives in the here and now?

Predestination versus Free Will - discuss.

The Haunted House

When I was a kid we had a haunted house nearby. Depending on who you believed, some old lady lived there till she went mad. Or some guy killed his wife. Or someone was eaten by dogs. Or maybe some mad old lady was killed by her husband who was then eaten by dogs. Either way, we all knew for sure the house was haunted and none of us wanted to go near it.

Once upon a time, children played during the summer and took long walks. Inevitably there came the point where the only road left to explore was Factory Lane and we all knew where that lead. So we hummed and hahhed, took our bikes off somewhere else and the next day Factory Lane still beckoned. So we walked, like true men. Actually, we slowly shuffled and pretended to admire the view and hung around a tree-swing some older kids had made because, well, though we didn't want to say it the threats that haunted playing on the older kids' swing were preferable to the ghosts.

There's only so much you can do on a tree-swing when your mate's wee brother is yapping on about seeing the ghosts and you can't convince him it is not at all like the ghost train. So on we walked. So on we trudged. As an adult this walk takes ten minutes but we probably got an hour out of it.

Kids our age were walking towards us. They were from the next street and were returning from the ghosts, full of bravado and insisting the ghosts were afraid of them, while the whites of their eyes glistened with fear and told the truth about who was afraid.

Outside the massive house that was the size of the Munsters' house (in our minds, anyway), we got very philosophical. Surely dead people went to Heaven - so there were no ghosts to worry about. What about bad, dead, people? Surely they were in Hell, slowly roasting far away from our scared minds. What if you didn't do directly to Heaven or Hell and waited round for a while? What about A Christmas Carol? Proof if ever it was needed, that ghosts could come back from beyond. Someone knew a prayer that would banish ghosts, if they existed. We had a pee round the back of a tree (too much lemonade, honestly) and approached.... 10 yards to go...

Gradually.

Slowly.

We approached.

We possibly held hands.

We possibly recited a prayer.

We possibly were very silent.

Our stomachs turned (no possibly about it) until the silence broke.

"DID YOU HEAR THAT?" "SSSSHHHHHHHH you'll scare them off!!!"
"Ghosts don't get scared"
"I'm going"
"Don't be a fruit!"
"What was it?"
"It was a stick!"
"Sticks don't speak."

SILENCE - 9 yards to go.

"Ooohhhhhhh.... ooooooohhhhhh"
*slap* Dickhead, stop pretending to make ghost noises!"
"There's no such thing as ghosts anyway - why did you hit me?"
"DID YOU SEE THAT?"
"See what?"
"The curtain, it moved!"
"It's the wind"
"Look inside"
"OH SHIT!!!!! RUN!!!!!!!!"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

So we ran. To this day, I've no idea why we ran but I know the blood was pumping faster through my veins than ever before. We ran as fast as our legs could carry us and got to the back of the factory. None of us were actually scared though - we all thought someone else was scared and didn't want to be left down there alone, in case the big boys came along. None of us was scared - and if you dare tell anyone we were, you'll get a wedgie every day from now till Christmas!

A few years later we'd discover the farm, the park, the lake and the dam that lay beyond. For now though, our world ended 8 yards to this side of the haunted house where Mrs Thingumy killed her husband and ate his guts, or something like that.

Meeting my sister, for the second time (really!)

Regular readers will know about the grindingly awful experience that was meeting my so-called mother after 20+ years. Also at that meeting was my half-sister, 'Jan' who was the one who wrote to me several years beforehand.

After much "humming and haahing", Jan visited us last weekend. She stayed in a local B&B but most of Friday-Sunday was with wifey and me. As you may imagine, it was all a bit odd. The B&B was chosen in case it all went horribly wrong and we had someone we didn't like in our spare room.

Friday morning - I collected Jan at the airport and brought her to my hometown. While avoiding any remaining neighbours who might recognise her as the spitting image of her walkout mother and want to express their views, I showed her round my old neighbourhood. It was her mother's neighbourhood too, before she walked out and left me with my Grandparents. No, I'm not bitter (any more) but unlike my in-denial mother, Jan does understand that I might have reasons to be a little pissed off.

By the end of the day, she was the one showing signs of annoyance as she realised I had gotten a far better deal out of life. OK, the town isn't much (thank you, IRA) but it's improving and like any rural town is within a few minutes walk of the countryside (not so for her, in inner-city England). The traffic's not too bad and crime is not a problem (apart from migrant workers hurting each other!). She noticed lots of churches that were still, well, churches - and not pubs, 
houses and such like. Where she's from, church is a dying habit. We enjoyed the view from the top of the town and walked on to my primary school (similar to hers) and then to my secondary school.

Like most towns it has a couple of grammar schools and the one I went to was fairly typical - old buildings, a sense of history, pitches galore, and around 700 pupils that most of the teachers have a chance to get to know. She wondered how I could have gone to such a place as where she's from it would cost thousands of pounds per year. She wondered more when I told her all I had to do was pass an exam, aged 11, and that such schools are open to anyone who passes the exam, regardless of background. She was anonymous among thousands in a couple of dodgy inner city comps and was held back by the wasters. The ones who failed the exam went to the mega-comps, she wondered - nope - same size of school and teaching at their level and plenty still going to Uni/Tech afterwards. She 'did well' to get several Ds and Es at GCSE, such was the level of expectation. To her credit, she's working hard to make something of herself now.

Lunchtime saw us bump into a guy I was at school with (the second such meeting of the day).  "Hi, this is my half-sister you've not heard of before...." For such reasons I had tried to avoid the old neighbours earlier!

I took her to her grandparents' grave and she seemed interested. I explained a bit about them and - from my perspective - what might have prompted her mother's running away. We took a walk round the town park's lake (with its island full of giant rhubarb - another talking point). Thirsty, we had a cuppa and looked round an exhibit showing off the now collapsed linen industry. Then off to her B&B in my car (the car is only 2 years old - another talking point).

Saturday saw us potter briefly in town and head to Portstewart/Portrush - somewhere her mother told her to check out. Alas, there's not much to do in Portrush on a wet weekend and once we had a pleasant cuppa and walked round Barry's (see below) we were running out of ideas. Behold Nicky (now free of the psycho woman), an actor who loves to entertain! Off to his house we went for more tea and a couple of hours of him ad-libbing. He's single, lives alone and finding tapes of Annie and Dirty Dancing raised (hilarious) questions. I got to know him when he rented my spare 
room, I explained, and unlike two previous lodgers was not removed because of poor hygiene.

That night we ate out. In a lovely restaurant with sea views we got onto a more serious conversation about her mother (who still thinks she did nothing to cause me annoyance) and the rest of her (dysfunctional) family. We also made fun of the loud American golfers sitting a few tables away.

On Sunday morning we went to church (she noticed a good spread of ages), had a lovely walk round a cliff, poked round a seaside exhibit (and she got her photo taken by the local paper!) and had lunch. Then it was off to our house with its garden and plenty of space inside (neither of which she is used to). More tea, wedding DVD, airport, hug at security and off she went.

She arrived a stranger, she left as a friend. She got the family upbringing I lost out on and maybe not much else. I've hit the jackpot on most things since then.

There's lots to think about.

Is your town becoming Belfast

Regular readers may recognise this one.  Don't complain to me - Fiona was asking after it and *shock* Google couldn't find the original posting.

If I was writing it today then I would have to add the new Olympic-size swimming pool to the list of "How do you know if your town is becoming Belfast".  Unfortunately the pool replaced a new motorway junction at short notice...

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Is your town becoming Belfast?

 

Not that long ago, the distinction between towns in Northern Ireland was simple. Anywhere outside of Belfast was 'the country' and viewed with disdain by those in Belfast. Rural 'culchies' (agricultural types) saw Belfast as an over-industrialised hole full of complete tossers with no sense of reality.

Unfortunately the people in Belfast realised what the culchies knew all along. The city itself was mostly ok, but ruined by the people who lived in it. Of course all of the Sammies (as they were then known by the culchies) thought other people were to blame. No Sammy viewed himself as a problem.

To escape the grim reality that was Belfast, some Sammies decided to move out. They went really far - 5 miles up the road to Glengormley, viewed as the edge of the world because the local bus service stopped there. For a few years this was fine - the Sammies lived among ordinary hard-working folk and learnt how to be nice to others. Then the other Sammies realised there was life outside Belfast and followed. The Glengormley people went to Ballyclare, Antrim, etc to get away while Glengormley itself became an extension of Belfast - full of little tossers with no sense of reality, all out to fiddle the dole, con other people and generally put one over on the system that they think is there to help them never do a day's work.

Over time, more nice Sammies moved to places like Lisburn, Portadown and even as far as (London)Derry. Unfortunately it only took a few years for the scummy types to find them and what used to be nice towns have now been taken over and become an extension of the state of mind known as 'Belfast'. Bizzarely, educated types from culchie backgrounds have gone to study at Queen's Uni in Belfast and found it a nice place to live. The simple reason is that due to a mass exodus, most Sammies (these days known as Spides) have deserted their ancestral home. Those Sammies that remain have turned to drug dealing in order to afford somewhere to live, as DHSS benefits cannot keep up with property prices in the City.

So the question is, how do you know if your town is becoming Belfast? Here are some ways to tell.

1) Formerly quiet bars are no longer safe to sit and have a quiet pint. Instead the sensible people have been replaced by loud, brash tossers who pour pint after pint down their throat and challenge anyone near them with "whatdyathinkyerlookinat, like?"

2) Street corners are now populated by spides - uneducated thickos in shell suits whith lots of gold chunky jewellry from Argos or H Samuel, often sharing a bottle of cheap cider / spirits. They do not speak to each other, but communicate with seagull-like noises (like "ay-ay-ay", quickly said) People who walk past are laughed at for dressing normally.

3) You cannot enter a shop without hearing the loud Belfast accent arguing with a shop assistant "Like, the this is too dear, like, the shop down the road, like, does it for half the price, like"

4) In the event of (3), above, you marvel the person in question can recognise the difference between a high number and a low number.

5) Sensible minded people cross the road in fear of Millies. These are female spides, but prone to turning on anyone whose ability to read threatens them.

6) You enter JJB Sports (or B&Q) and ask for a pair of running shoes (or a hammer) and the person stares at you blankly and replies "huh?". This person is not a spide, but has been in school among spides who have refused to be educated and who intimidated those among them who wanted to learn to read and write.

7) You often hear spides referring to former school friends who "like, thought they were, like, too effin good for us, like." This refers to the person in question learning to read, write and think and realising they had to get far, far away for their own good. A common escape route is university in GB.

8) In the event of (7) the person in question, if they have remained local, may drive 'like, a big swanky car, like'. This is the reward for their hard work as a dentist, accountant, etc. It is hated by those who drive a more simple car, paid for by benefit fraud.

9) The people in (8) often refer to "Like them effin farrenners like come here and take our jobs like and get like all the help they can like in getting a house". This is translated as "Those nasty foreigners come here to work hard, pay their taxes and not be a nuisance and show us up for the lazy bunch of dole scroungers with no intention of working that we really are."

and,
10) Like, people all around you, like, speak in this, like whiney accent, like and can't, like, stop saying, like, between words, like.

 

 

A trip to Barry's, Portrush

I first visited Barry's on a family holiday when I was around 3 or 4. Most years after that, till I was around 10 or 11 it was a must-see on a Sunday School excursion. Nowadays, it's a bit of a novelty that adults pretend to shun but really enjoy and only pretend to use the excuse of children to visit it. Maybe it's because for us, it is a trip back to our own carefree childhoods as the place has hardly changed a bit since the Queen was in nappies.

On Saturday past I 'reluctantly' allowed myself to be dragged (plus wife and a selection of nephews, nieces and their parents). For the sake of their anonymity I'll refer to them as Wife, Grandparents, Parents A (plus Nephew 1 and 2) and Parents B (plus Niece 1 and 2). It was the highlight of a family weekend to celebrate the Grandmother reaching 60 and retiring.

We trooped in the door en-masse and (as ever) were shocked at the prices. To prevent staff having to deal with lose change, all rides are priced in 'tokens'. Each token is 50p (Wife and I got a mini-pack of 24 for a tenner! Woohoo – 4 free!). Once the haggling / shock at realising this could become an expensive few hours was over, we followed our traditional route up the left-hand side of the long hall. To our right was the Experience (more on that later), overhead were the mechanised trapeze artists that were ancient when I was a lad, ahead lay.... THE HOBBY HORSES!

The Hobby Horses are a terrifying prospect, for a two-year old (Nephew 2). Nephew 1 was excited at first but after the first lap of gently going up-and-down, he looked bored. By the tenth lap, he looked embarrassed. “Been there, done that,” I thought, casting my mind back to the same spot in 1981 when I concluded that I had out-grown it. Nephew 2 got used to the thrill and squealed with delight. Nephew 1 assured Niece 1 that there was better to come. 2 tokens each (£1).

The better things were out the back door. While Nephew 1 coolly played down his lack of height, the adults squabbled over who would mind the children while the rest went on THE BIG DIPPER. Meanwhile, I wondered if we'd be safe as a less-than-distinguished ex-student of mine was involved in running the thing (he did not end his time at school of his own free will, if you get my drift...). As it happened, he was quite polite and has obviously matured since we parted company. This is not the scariest roller-coaster you'll ever come across: up we go, round the bend, 45 degree drop, back up a bit, round the bend and up a bit more, loop-the-loop, round the bend and stop. Two quid. It's all a bit rickety too – no nice smooth curves here: rather, every joint in your body feels this thing and you know before you get on that it hasn't changed one bit since you were a teenager, but we all go anyway and enjoy it.

After the adults had their fun, the kids squabbled over who would ride on the front of their roller coaster. Nephew 1 and Niece 1 got the prime spot for THE HUNGRY CATTERPILLAR. It's a typical kiddie ride with a massive apple in the middle and a 'scary' incline to race down. Nephew 1 loved it, Niece 1 wasn't so sure and Nephew 2 (aged 2), safely in car #2 with his Dad was glad to get off and head for THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE! This fearsome ride is a train that loops round on ground level a few times, with a slight side-to-side wobble. “A baby ride”, as Nephew 1 put it when refusing to go near it out of shame. Nephew 2 laughed with delight and sat with his Granny.

At this point we ignored what can best be described as a 40m tall swingboat with seats that also rotate. No idea what it's called. Didn't care. With hindsight, it would probably have been a better experience than The Experience (see below).

Next up: THE CYCLONE!! In brief, there are a number of arms with attached seats on which you sit 2/3 abreast while moving quickly on the horizontal plane, roughly tracing out the shape of a star – back and forth, back and forth. Gravity meant I kept being thrown into my wife at the edges (to her lack of delight). As we dashed to one particular side, we could reach out and almost touch Nephew 2 (who thought this was very funny). Also enjoying this one were Niece 1, Nephew 1 and their mothers. This ride has not changed a bit in years but it is still popular!

Next – waste a few 2ps on penny falls machines. I won 4p and lost 10p. The perils of gambling!

Then... THE EXPERIENCE - and what an experience it was. The central column held three arms, on each of which were seats and harnesses. I allowed myself to be talked into it (to keep Mother B company). I should have realised that any ride that required victims – I mean customers – to remove shoes in case they are thrown off is a bad idea. The mop and bucket sitting beside it also failed to deter me. Step 1 – start rotating gently in a horizontal fashion. Step 2 – arms tilt to 45 degrees. Step 3 – keep rotating while arms go up-down-up-down. At this stage we were still able to talk and it was mildly amusing. Step 4 – seats start spinning. Talking was no more.

Around two hours earlier I enjoyed a cup of tea and a white chocolate and raspberry scone in 55 North. Delicious – simply delicious. For what seemed like half an hour on the Experience (more like 20 seconds), they threatened to re-appear. Hmmmm.... I'll not go back on this one.

Eventually, it ended. The contents of my stomach remained intact and I got off, dizzily. I walked, if you can call it that, round the ride looking for my shoes – much in the style of a punch-drunk boxer who unsuccessfully trying to find his corner at the end of a round. My wife asked me if I was alright, I think. I said I was, I think. Someone asked me about the ghost train, I think. The idea of a seat appealed, I think.

THE GHOST TRAIN..... does what it says on the tin. Through the doors, a sign says “Welcome to Hell”, a pile of automated ghosts and back to daylight. My senses by now had returned.

We stopped for ice cream on the way out, apart from my wife who wanted candy-floss. The children didn't fancy it – they wondered why she was eating cotton wool. They walked back to the car with half-eaten ice creams dribbling down their arm, apart from Niece 2 who slept in her pram for most of our time in Barry's.  

There's something tacky about it – though there's something generally tacky about Portrush. There are parts of Barry's that haven't changed since my Grandfather went to the Port – which I suppose is its charm. We adults remember enjoying it as kids and knew the children in our midst would have as much fun as we did on our annual pilgrimage. In due course they'll visit Alton Towers and conclude Barry's is a bit naff and by the time they are in their 20s, they'll have fond memories of Barry's and bring their own children to enjoy it as they once did.

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