Dads

01/01/2001

Al Needham takes a look at some of the things missing from modern day at Goose Fair

Dads, on the whole, hate Goose Fair. Now they've grown up, they fail to see the point of Goosey, seeing as they only used to go when they were teenagers to try and pull. They hate having to go there, they hate having to go on rides, they hate having to spend money, they hate having to try and win stuff to stop their kids from mardying, and they hate it when their kids vomit down the back of their necks on the way home after eating one of them sugary cat's heads.

My Dad was no exception. The minute the wagons started piling into the Forest, he'd get the right arse. "I tode yer last year, I'm not tekkin' yer ever again. It's a bleddy con. Goo wi' yer fookin' Mam" he'd point out. "Ah, pleeeeeeeese Dad, tek us! Tek us tek us TEK US!" We'd reason, in the sophisticated and articulate manner that is beloved amongst Nottingham households.

Then me Mam and Dad would have a massive row, and me Dad would walk around for the next few days with a face like a smacked arse. It was on. He was taking us.

That night, like all kids in town at the same moment, we would be hanging out of the window waiting for our Dad. Naturally, he was in the pub, spinning out a pint for as long as humanly possible without just waiting for it to evaporate, bitching with other Dads about having to go to Goose Fair. And then he'd come home, and take about three hours to eat his tea. Oh, the delicious agony of it!

Because Dads refuse to travel on public transport, another hour would be spent looking for a parking space and watching your parents have another row. Then we'd be there. Five minutes later, Dad is making noises about how it was time we were off. Another row. And then, the mithering would start...

"You're not going on that, it's two fookin' quid"

"You don't even like fookin' coconut"

"We haven't got any room in the fookin' aase for a fookin' godefish, so shut yer fookin' pan"

"Yer not havin' a fookin' tuffeh apple, it'll have maggits in it and you'll get worms"

"Yer not havin' a blune, you'll only fookin' lose it and start roaring"

"Right, we're fookin' gooin'. I want a fookin' pint"

As we pile into the car, and wait another half hour to get out the Park and Ride while me Dad self-immolated in pint-denied rage, he suddenly turned round and says; "Right, that's the last fookin' time I ever tek yer to Goose Fair. You're ode enough to goo on yer fookin' own"

I was eight. And me sister was six.