Happy Days
We're in the midst of carnival week, the town's autumnal knees-up. Somewhere, sometime ago, a girl in her mid-teens was plucked from the crowd to be carnival queen and a handful of younger cuties were offered the consolation prize title of carnival princess. In consequence mum and dad get to shell out for a posh frock, or the refurbishing of a second hand posh frock.
I believe the idea might initially have been to reward some particularly community spirited young woman of comely appearance for fund raising work or some other form of public endeavour; in lean years when such a suitable candidate fails to come to the fore the title goes to the mayor's best friend's daughter or whoever else can agitate most effectively in favour of their own particular precious.
The totally committed get to work with the grey matter (hopefully) and ingenuity and dexterity to produce a more or less compelling 'float' and supporting costumery.
In the mean time a few auxialliary events are staged ... or so it is rumoured; this is a town of seven thousand strung out along one main road that follows the course of a river. How hard could it be to publicise the carnival fringe?
At the beginning of the week the fair rolls into town. No side show freakery these days; instead we get loud, loud music, lots of light and frantic movement. We get endless Eye of the Tiger and other similar thumping 'classics'. We get the stench of very cheap food being cooked very, very badly. We get flashing lights, relentless movement, spun sugar, rip-off rides and a foetid atmosphere in which underage drinkers and police play a game of cat and mouse in the midst of families impelled to the field by the incessant demands of wide-eyed children.
The children don't see the mercenary glint in the eye of the unwashed, illiterate community that operates the fair. The children cannot sense the total contentment of these people - to spend their lives touring the country. The children don't see the lank, greasy unwashed hair, the pock-marked skin, the sunken cheeks and eyes, the black teeth, the scraggy beards, the pallid complexion, the dirty nails, the smell of body odour and unwashed clothing.
These ghastly people are a breed apart happy to spend their lives apart - moving from community to community, sucking all the potential before leaving. They put nothing in at all except ofr an uplift in the shoplifting problem for the duration of their stay. And they breed like fucking rabbis.
In their wake we have a destroyed playing field - they've driven their heavy vehicles onto it in autumn, and over the course of the fair the thousands of people who visit will finish what they start.
I loathe the funfair.
Tonight the floats and the costumed will gather as the sun goes down and parade through town collecting for a range of good causes; with the rest of town we'll be there to cheer them on and put a bit into the collection bins. Then tomorrow I'll go out and help clear up the mess that's been left behind.
Okay, Joy's dead. Who shall I slay next?
I believe the idea might initially have been to reward some particularly community spirited young woman of comely appearance for fund raising work or some other form of public endeavour; in lean years when such a suitable candidate fails to come to the fore the title goes to the mayor's best friend's daughter or whoever else can agitate most effectively in favour of their own particular precious.
The totally committed get to work with the grey matter (hopefully) and ingenuity and dexterity to produce a more or less compelling 'float' and supporting costumery.
In the mean time a few auxialliary events are staged ... or so it is rumoured; this is a town of seven thousand strung out along one main road that follows the course of a river. How hard could it be to publicise the carnival fringe?
At the beginning of the week the fair rolls into town. No side show freakery these days; instead we get loud, loud music, lots of light and frantic movement. We get endless Eye of the Tiger and other similar thumping 'classics'. We get the stench of very cheap food being cooked very, very badly. We get flashing lights, relentless movement, spun sugar, rip-off rides and a foetid atmosphere in which underage drinkers and police play a game of cat and mouse in the midst of families impelled to the field by the incessant demands of wide-eyed children.
The children don't see the mercenary glint in the eye of the unwashed, illiterate community that operates the fair. The children cannot sense the total contentment of these people - to spend their lives touring the country. The children don't see the lank, greasy unwashed hair, the pock-marked skin, the sunken cheeks and eyes, the black teeth, the scraggy beards, the pallid complexion, the dirty nails, the smell of body odour and unwashed clothing.
These ghastly people are a breed apart happy to spend their lives apart - moving from community to community, sucking all the potential before leaving. They put nothing in at all except ofr an uplift in the shoplifting problem for the duration of their stay. And they breed like fucking rabbis.
In their wake we have a destroyed playing field - they've driven their heavy vehicles onto it in autumn, and over the course of the fair the thousands of people who visit will finish what they start.
I loathe the funfair.
Tonight the floats and the costumed will gather as the sun goes down and parade through town collecting for a range of good causes; with the rest of town we'll be there to cheer them on and put a bit into the collection bins. Then tomorrow I'll go out and help clear up the mess that's been left behind.
Okay, Joy's dead. Who shall I slay next?
posted by Enyo @ 10:28 am
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