Bingo at the shows.

Straight from the 70s, surely; the worn-out number slots on the boards were faded through decades of hopeful flicking.

All the players looked too veteran to join, plus I would have been bewildered by the jargon and too hesitant and self-doubting to ever call "bingo", lest I was banished from the tight circle of these people with such experience in luck.

The rest of the fair offered the typical, impossible amusements. Although, you have to commend the acting skills of the gnarly, old bloke constantly putting your failure to lob a tennis ball into a practically upside-down bucket down to bad luck.

The rides, also true to form, looked like winning examples from the last season of Scrapheap Challenge. They flung the kids (and adults) around like loosely secured lumps of meat centimetres from them while some guy threatened to make it go faster if you screamed.