Mr Slush Puppy and the Fairground Civil War

It was the early nineties. The charts were awash with novelty rave
records, looping theme tunes to old children's programmes. The sea
winds blew the exhaust fumes across the beach. I discovered a new
exotic taste that has stayed with me ever since: mustard.

The supernaturally tacky Southport Fair put me in mind of the Irish
Problem: split into two distinct, mutually intolerant factions. On one
- political rather than geographic - side is Pleasureland, owned by
Blackpool Pleasure Beach magnate Geoffrey Thompson (no relation); on
the other is the Silcock and Green families.

I worked for Pleasureland, which is a slick capitalist operation, like
McDonalds. We were an uneasy mix of students and scallies wearing red
and yellow boiler suits and caps, to the prolonged amusement of
Silcocks' bearded, tattooed, heavy-metal loving, possibly
crime-dabbling neanderthals. Pleasureland employees went to seminars on
customer care, whilst Silcocks' goons were told to kick the crap out of
any troublemakers.

Pleasureland sold unlimited ride tickets for just their rides; and
Silcocks put up signs saying, effectively, "Don't buy those ride
tickets. They're crap. You can't use them on our rides."

The war in catering - which I was a part of - was Pleasureland versus
Greens. During an airshow, our bosses plonked a temporary hot dog stall
on the beach front, right outside a Greens' caf?. The poor downtrodden
dear working on it received an almost constant stream of verbal abuse
the whole day.

My finest hour was "being" Mr Slush Puppy. When we had kids'
birthday-dos on, some poor sod had to dress up in a dog outfit, which
resembled the canine caricature on the paper cups containing the syrupy
crushed ice drink. If Mr Slush Puppy didn't go to the upper part of the
Fun House, attend the festivities for a few cursory seconds, and pat
the birthday boy/girl on the head, the parents would complain.

It was hard to breathe in that thing, and even harder to see. I
remember faltering up the stairs, and hearing a child's thick scouse
drawl yell, "Get the dog!" - then feeling, but barely perceiving, a
good baker's dozen of adolescent fists haymaking into my body
padding.

I went that extra yard once upstairs. I didn't just pat the birthday
boy's head and do a runner. I took the job seriously. Besides, I was in
no rush to go back to selling overpriced burgers to drunk secretaries.
So I mooched around. I picked up a girl's drink and put the straw in my
"mouth" - which was about six inches above my real head - to hoots of
mirth. I jigged. I tripped over a chair on purpose. I had Mr Slush
Puppy's motivation down to a tee.

One toddler was not having the wool pulled over her eyes, as she got a
closer look: "Derz a fella in derr!"

Afterwards, lightly dabbed with still-fresh perspiration, I took my tea
break. Without realising it, I wandered into a Greens' eatery and
ordered a coffee. The manager clocked the kitschy uniform. He stared. I
scanned the room and noticed more suspicious expressions on the faces
of staff.

The manager said, "They told me I'm not to serve Pleasurelanders...said
it'll get you into trouble."

I shrugged my shoulders, and gave him my is-this-a-bothered face.

His smile lit up. He continued, now inspired by my wildman spirit of
rebellion: "But I told them, I'm not refusing to serve good people. One
coffee it is."

It was my stand. My superiors never found out, so it certainly never
made a blind bit of difference. The petty squabbling goes on to this
day. But there, just for ten minutes, me and the Green crew, chatting,
chilling, together. Like in the trenches, English and German squaddies
having a footy match.

"And make sure he gets the staff discount, John!"