This weekend we have the Most Tragically Sad Lacklustre Fun Fair In The World camped out in a dismal semi-circle on the football oval. Even the hardened ex-cons running the rides seemed to have given up making an effort to look hardened or sinister, gloomily putting their flattened-beer-can vests away in back drawers as reminders of a glorious past in favour of tired old t-shirts. I am positive that the woman running the "pop the balloon" booth was Eeyore reincarnated. The only remotely sinister carny type in sight was perhaps the spotty rat-haired boy running the showbag booth; he had slightly glittering, baleful eyes, the face of someone who would only smile when putting razor blades in the candy bags.
There was a jumping castle, a tiny ferris wheel thing which went about three feet in the air, and some dodgem cars. Gary and I were tempted by the dodgems, but realised that most of the riders were those rotten ginging rock throwing kids and we would probably end up laughing gleefully while driving them on to the live electric poles.
The only other features were a stall that sold candy and plastic dart rifles (great, just what we need here in Meeka) and three booths with equally uninspiring shoot-it-in-the-head challenges, all run by clinically depressed people who were probably being forced to work there as an alternative to jail time. "Well, I guess I should shoot something's head off & win you a prize," said Gary. "You want me to shoot a clown or a duck?" "Only if you want to share my bedroom with one of those unspeakably grotesque day-glo faux-fur toxic-polyester-stuffed giant cartoon rabbits or gorgons or whatever they are," I said, hugging him. With a fond mutual glance into each other's eyes which we both knew meant "beer", we gave up on the fair and went off to Paddy's Flat, where we ended up gazing at the spectacular starry arc of the Milky Way while cleaning dead centipedes and green scum out of the pool.
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