Mams hate Goose Fair too, y'know. The only reason they go to Goosey is because they're terrified that if you go with someone else's parents, they might sell you to some gypsies for as many free goes on the Pirat as they like. They won't go on any rides, they don't want to see all the cool freakshow stuff, and they visibly shudder whenever they see a sign that reads Cock On A Stick.
However, there was always one thing that they were drawn to at Goosey, like the fly to the excrement; Bingo, the sport of Mams.
To the hardcore Binglist, Goose Fair Bingo was more than a chance to recapture the not-very-distant joy of shovelling 10ps into a Prize Bingo slot at Skeggy. For one, it was Bingo - in a field. With flashing lights, blaring music and all sorts. To say it was the equivalent of football on Astroturf or floodlight cricket doesn't even begin to cover the thrill of it. It was more like Rollerball, if Rollerball involved loads of women with fags on, flicking bits of plastic like laboratory rats while their kids mithered them for another 50p.
The most vital thing about Bingo at Goose Fair, however, had nothing to do with the above. Oh no. You may have been Queen Bitch at your local hall, causing lesser women to shoot evil looks at you behind their salmon-coloured tickets and spread vile rumours about you knocking off the caller because you keep winning so often, but the real challenge was to head for the Forest and face off against the champions of Carlton, Bulwell, the Meadows and St Anns for the honour of the estate.
What glittering bounty awaited! A veritable Aladdin's cave, it was (assuming that Aladdin wasn't an Asiatic lad with a lamp, but someone whose mate could get him stuff out of a warehouse where Argos rejects go to die). The top prize was always a bottom-of-the-range East German portable telly, and it could be yours - just as long as you won every game that was played over Goose Fair weekend. For the next five years.
Still, your Mam's effort was not in vain. After blowing twenty quid or so, she came home triumphant with a keyring shaped like a little Guinness can, or a hunk of ceramic that sort of looked like a clown, or one of them Pepsi bottles where the glassblower pulled the neck right out so it stood three feet high. And would shatter into a million shards as soon as anyone looked at it.
I'm not sure if Bingo at Goose Fair is still going, but it's being forced out by that horse racing game where you have to get the balls into the holes. And if it still survives, I bet they don't use the lingo anymore, either.
Next: Being warned by your Nana not to go on a Saturday night!
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