Fair minded

'Go on, it'll be a laugh!' The typical in-law who loves to live vicariously eggs us on with no intention whatsoever of taking the plunge himself. There follows a brief “I will if you will” exchange of glances between brothers, and next thing you know we're queueing for the Mexican Hat. That's the wild abandon of holidays for you.

The travelling fair has come to town - well, village - and here's our chance to put our trust in a team of mechanics we've never set eyes on and fly through the air with childlike wonder. Speaking of children, everyone else in the queue looks about eight, except for a couple of teenagers who are joining in the merriment, but in a purely ironic fashion you understand.

We sit in the swinging metal seats and the young man whose only job in the world is to make sure our safety bars are fastened properly, breezes by to wiggle the lock very unconvincingly indeed. My lack of faith in his skill set isn't helped much by the fact that one of his shoelaces is undone but there's not much time to worry about that detail now - we're off.

It's a slow start as you might expect; we make our first circuit with the young woman who sold us our tickets suggesting we put our hands in the air through a PA system that sounds as if it was last used in a working men's club in 1973. However, things soon begin to hot up - the teenagers quickly lose their ironic expressions and replace them with looks of unbridled glee as we climb higher and higher, whizzing ever faster until the centrifugal force gives my brother jowls like Walter Matthau and the ticket seller's voice imploring us to put our hands in the air begins to sound like a threat. There's a six-year-old girl with her dad directly opposite - one of them looks absolutely terrified and it's not the girl. Higher and higher, faster and faster.

“Last chance! Put your hands in the air!” bellows the young woman. There are no takers whatsoever at this juncture except for the little girl, obviously; everyone else is gripping their safety bar like their life depends upon it, which it probably does, to be fair.

And then, at last, the gradual descent - down and down, slower and slower until we come to a blessed halt. It's time to return as conquering heroes to the waiting cowards - sorry, spectators - who laughably want to show us videos they've made of the whole thing. We offer derisory snorts that say “We were actually there, my friends,” and head to the pub for the post mortem, which is basically a set of claims and counterclaims as to who had their hands in the air most frequently (the little girl doesn't count).

Soon enough last orders roll around and the vicarious in-law asks if anyone wants a final pint. My brother and I exchange glances. I will if you will.

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