The Garden of Earthy Delights!
mar...@inf.rl.ac.uk
I feel I should give a little background about the Abingdon Fair.
The small market town where I live is called Abingdon and is about 7 miles
outside Oxford.
The annual fair in Abingdon is called the 'Runaways fair'.
The fair started in the 17th century and was a place where labourers got a
job for the following year (usually on a farm). The whole of Abingdon town
centre is turned in to a fair ground, all of the roads are shut (Creats havoc
for the traffic) This is from Sunday to Tuesday, the fair just disappears in
to the night on Tuesday. The interesting part is that it comes back on
Saturday. This is the only fair to do this. The idea is that if the labourer
did not like his new employer, he would 'runaway' back to the fair on
Saturday and try and find a new job. The tradition still carries on.
My comments are in [ ].
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THE MOST FUN YOU CAN HAVE WITH YOUR CLOTHES STILL ON
Have you ever found that the times you enjoy yourself most are those
snatched moments of fleeting pleasure, when either there are really
more worthy things you should be doing or when you should really be
attending to the universe that is inconveniently collapsing about
you ....but you just can't make the effort any more!
It was in just such circumstances that I recently yielded to
temptation. Though I have been working in the area for four years,
I have always missed the two large local funfairs, based at Abingdon
and Oxford, which take place every year. Finally, this year having
missed the Oxford one yet again I succumbed when 'our Martin'
proposed an excursion to the Abingdon Fair.
Quite objectively, a fairground is one of the most commonly
accessible "faggy" experiences: coloured lights; pulsating throwaway
pop music, cheap emotions coupled with thrills of the senses. Where
else would you see the juxtaposition of the roughness of the
"roustabout" and the fluffy-pink concocted fagginess of Candy Floss
( U.S. Cotton Candy)?
[ You also forgot to mention the wonderful hunky guys who
run the rides, usually covered in oil]
Martin and I sauntered about wondering which rides to sample. Some,
though they look undoubtably spectacular, merely impart an waring
constant force in one direction. In others, the slow rhythm of the
ride is at the correct frequency to induce sea-sickness and so is
ultimately unthrilling. We traipsed around, in such a knowledgeable
vein, almost but not quite tempted by a number of rides. We
postponed our decision until a greater selection had been surveyed.
Then in front of us appeared a ride neither of us had seen before.
Martin remarked "It seems to be very popular: I wonder why?".
The explanation that I gave was rather unnecessary. The ride called
"The Zodiac" presented a tableau not unlike that of Bosch's "Garden
of Earthy Delights". The ride was essentially an enormous red
circular "bed", which bounced up and down energetically, undulated
alarmingly, and whizzed round dizzyingly. The whole experience was
in short orgasmic. The mechanism made an obscene sound that could
only be described as the squeaking of outsized bed-springs and
Martin and I were unsure whether these were simulated to complete
the metaphor or enhance the realism.
A look of tacit common understanding and agreement was exchanged,
that precluded any need to vocalise and we both rushed forwards
shamelessly to have a go. For some reason we had to exchange our
pound coins for a circular yellow plastic token and then hand these
over before being permitted to board the "bed". Quite why we had to
go though this intermediate phase was beyond our understanding. A
pound coin (whether one likes it or not) is no more than a valueless
yellow circular token itself.
These were seats round the edge; though these weren't seats in the
conventional sense as they were far too horizontal. They formed a
sort of communal "chaise longue" round the circumference. As if to
augment the already almost overpowering boudoir overtones of the
contraption, there was at the centre a padded red cushion without
any hand-holds, where no doubt braver individuals could try to
remain for the duration of the ride.
Martin and I had sussed that the best ride was to be had at the
edge. (Edges bounce up and down more than middles). We were both
gripped with tremulous trepidation as the gears slowly whirred into
life. Martin braced himself in the bars round the outside. I did
not. I have this theory that it is quite possible not to hold on to
anything for ALL fairground rides. Not only is it more fun this way
but you are able to go with the flow instead of fighting it.
The ride was joyous; the bottie certainly took a fair buffeting.
Those stalwarts on the central cushion were soon vibrated off and
were now being bounced about the floor of the bed. Several
individuals had also been detached from the seats round the edge and
were doing the same. Because of my no "no-hands" policy I now found
myself the sole inverted occupant of the bed - upside down, my legs
were now flailing over the edge of the bed. As I fought to regain my
more natural upright orientation (believe me :-) ) my legs ended up
just about wrapped round the neck of my neighbour. Our seating
policy in the bed was intentional but I didn't expect to be quite
this successful with my neighbour so early on. :-)
[ Very true, it was fun trying to find the best looking guy to sit next
to]
The "bed" ride went on for a considerable time, the endorphins were
flooding into my blood stream. "Faster, Faster!" I willed the
operator. The Zodiac seemed to have more degrees of freedom than an
octopus on speed, and the quality of the ride was very much up to
the attendant's whims. When at last the ride whirred to a stop,
there was no doubt in my mind "I want on again!... Now!". Martin was
rather concerned about his back at this stage and I was reluctantly
dragged away to pastures new.
The equilibrium position of the bed was tilted slightly forwards as
if to present the bed and its occupants to the spectators. I have
seen no clearer instance of mass voyeurism. The Zodiac is a
glorified people shuffler. It is practically impossible to remain
in the one position, and the end of a ride (despite any degree of
initial separation), the occupants were unceremoniously shuffled
together into one seething lump of humanity on the floor. This
memorable image welded indissolubly to my retina, and will now stay
with me forever.
During the ride the machine was frequently bathed only in the light of a
single red spotlight. Our evidence is further strengthened: we need
make no academic appeals to Freud to analyse the appeal of this
ride. Martin speculated on the complete anarchy of such a ride
peopled by motssers.
One thing I haven't mentioned so far. Throughout this ride as with
all others Martin and I single handedly solidly constructed and then
maintained a Phil Spector "wall of screams". If adolescent girls
like Stock, Aitken and Waterhouse then gay men can be even more
fanatical. If teenage girls scream on fairground rides then gay men
can scream even louder. I think it is fair to say that we
out-screamed all comers that evening and without being too modest I
think I might have even outscreamed Martin. I don't know why gay men
do this.
[Yes, I admit it, you did out-scream me.
I don't think it is all gay men, but a large proportion ;^) ]
All I know is that I have always screamed at fairgrounds,
having only realised this year (when I came out) that it was yet
another gay characteristic I unknowingly possessed. (One of my
greatest shocks on coming out was realising what "faggy" was and
then discovering that I had wardrobes full of faggy cassettes. I
merely thought I had bad taste in music :-) ).
At the age of sixteen the human race divides into two camps. Up to
that age everyone enjoys fairground rides. After that age, some
people come to the realisation that they don't enjoy them at all.
The factors involve a rational evaluation of the enjoyment/fear
ratio and the social disadvantages of barfing in adult company
afterwards. However, emerging from this hurdle triumphant are those
that enjoy a good "jiggle". I must confess to being firmly in this
category and perhaps dragged Martin onto far more rides than he
would normally sample. I was so impressed by the size of the fair
that I was rushing about like a man possessed from ride to ride
until closing time. I did not know before I went that it is the
largest street fair in Europe. If only I had started earlier in
the evening!
A special mention must be made of the ride a little like a big wheel,
but which went considerably faster. The cars which were little cages
of wire mesh which could hold two people AND turn completely upside
down. The mechanism was rickety and home-made, the ride quality
consequently variable but on occasion superb. The assaulting quality
of the disorientation was such that the screams changed into
uncontrollable giggles, which ramped steadily (via the mechanism
of a mutual positive feedback loop) until we were in frozen
paroxysms. This was not helped by the fact that a pound coin escaped
from Martin's pocket when we were upside down. It clattered
metallically about the cage just out of reach while our fingers
clutched at it feverishly. The gauge of the mesh was tantalising.
Penetration of the coinage just required a single unfortunate angle
of presentation and this tragically proved to be just a matter of
time.
The ride came to a halt abruptly and we were the first to dismount,
without having the time given to the occupants of the other cars to
compose themselves - only they didn't need it! "I don't know what the
fairground attendants thought of us." I remarked worriedly afterwards
to Martin. "Just another pair of Queens!" he riposted flippantly.
Also noteworthy, was a very high-tech ride, all in black with pink
sequenced flashing lights. This was a very smooth, programmed ride,
that succeeded in spite of these factors. The success was due to the
extremely disorienting property of the loci of the cars and the
seemingly ever increasing speed, I'm convinced the clearance between
us and that chip shop in Abingdon High Street was millimetres. For
once, the ride almost went as fast as I wanted and THAT is saying
something.
Martin would not be dragged on the "Mexican Hat" for love nor money.
(If truth be told, I only actually offered to pay for his ride!).
Apparently, the last time he went on he felt rather ill. I was
rather peeved as I had not been on this ride before and I'm a sucker
for everything new - next year perhaps.
Our intention was to ride ourselves out and it was only when we
returned to Martin's flat that we realised that we had perhaps done
this rather too successfully. Martin's colour was now somewhere
between green and a greyish cadaverous pallor. His flatmate
described it far more poetically as "ashen" and Martin disappeared
to exercise his stomach muscles.
[unfair, I had been to the gym before the fair and grabbed some very greasy
chips to eat, it way just a ride to far]
We both had felt the initial symptoms of a cold that evening,
but now the overriding hoarseness was due to the vocal exertions.
Not only were we completely shattered that evening, but for the next
two days we had to speak in whispers. I found it impossible to pitch
speech correctly and would fluctuate erratically between Paul Roebson
and Maria Callas mid-conversation. The "one ride too many" syndrome is
akin to the "one drink too many" syndrome. In both cases one after
effect is extreme fragility, but both processes of overindulgence provide
useful therapy. The sensory overloading of both experiences puts any
worries temporarily in the shade.
Fairground Rides........
The most fun you can have with your clothes still on?
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Any comments can be sent via me.
Your Martin
--
Martin Prime, JANET: mar...@inf.rl.ac.uk
Rutherford Appleton Laboratory, UUCP: ..!mcsun!ukc!rlinf!martin
Chilton, Didcot, Oxon, England OX11 0QX.TEL: +44 235 446892
Zev Sero
author> else would you see the juxtaposition of the roughness of the
author> "roustabout" and the fluffy-pink concocted fagginess of Candy Floss
author> ( U.S. Cotton Candy)?
Known in Australia as Fairy Floss.
--
Zev Sero - z...@bby.oz.au
I guess I'm just old-fashioned: I feel that to be called a C compiler,
it should compile C. - Henry Spencer
Henry Mensch
->This is another anonymous posting for my friend The Author.
is it too much to ask that anonymous postings are so designated
somewhere in the header?
slightly honked that it's not better than 20 degrees (C) outside,
# Henry Mensch / <he...@garp.mit.edu> / E40-379 MIT, Cambridge, MA
# <hme...@uk.ac.nsfnet-relay> / <he...@tts.lth.se> / <men...@munnari.oz.au>
# via X.400: S=mensch; OU=informatik; P=tu-muenchen; A=dbp; C=de
Ken Dykes
>mar...@inf.rl.ac.uk wrote:
>->This is another anonymous posting for my friend The Author.
>
>is it too much to ask that anonymous postings are so designated
>somewhere in the header?
Yes :-) :-) to expect *any* subject line or header: on usenet to be
sensible or useful is to live in dreamland.
--
- Ken Dykes, Software Development Group, UofWaterloo, Canada [43.47N 80.52W]
kgd...@watmath.waterloo.edu [129.97.128.1] watmath!kgdykes
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