I woke up with a bastard biblical hang over. I felt like I had been trampled on by a platoon of drunken Roman soldiers on their way to crucify Spartacus. I tried to get back to sleep, rationalising that my head was thumping with pain now because I was awake, but it had not been thumping while I was asleep. But I could not get back to sleep, the undeniable awful feeling in my stomach had grown worse, I shook all over and before I could get out of bed, I spewed up with the force of an erupting oil geyser, great big chunks of undigested matter got lodged in my throat and made me wretch even harder. Afterwards, I wiped the snot from my nose and the tears from my eyes as my headache kicked back in like a baseball bat battering a watermelon. I looked at all the puke splattered across my bed, walls and ceiling, then dry wretched some more in disgust. I marvelled at the memory of last night, how Jack had vomited at will, at great length and precision. There had to be something wrong with him.

My first day’s work at the fairground was on the dodgem cars. The dodgems were run by a rough looking geezer called Bryan, who inhaled rolled up cigarette smoke as often as he exhaled to breath out. Bryan was an old school Teddy boy, sporting a greasy pompadour and Brillo Pad sideburns. He was covered in badly rendered tattoos including a large tattoo of Elvis Presley on his upper arm which looked more like Carlos the Jackal with a quiff. For clothes Bryan wore a red chequered jacket with a fur collar, blue jeans with pecker length turn-ups and huge brothel creepers on his feet. Bryan lived with his gypsy queen wife in a tiny two-wheeled caravan parked at the back of the Waltzer. The cramped caravan was littered in empty fag packets and decorated with Elvis mirrors, the type you could win at the fairground if you were lucky enough to throw four hoops round a pole, which no one ever was. But if you were lucky enough to get three hoops, you could win a goldfish in a plastic bag that’s lifespan wouldn’t last your journey home.

Bryan wasted no time in teaching Jack and I the tricks of the trade, such as short-changing the customers. The ride lasted the length of time it took Bryan to smoke a roll-up and was a pound a go, so if a customer gave you a fiver, instead of giving them four pounds change back, what you did was fold one pound note in half between two others, then count four pounds in your hand and return the notes to the punter, giving them back only three and keeping a pound for yourself.

Bryan would sit all day and night in his dusty little control cabin smoking fags and listening to Elvis and Eddie Cochran on the tape deck, watching the dodgem cars go round like giant disco slippers. In the corner of the cabin were a stack of pornographic magazines that catered for all tastes; Sweet Sixteen, Asian Babes, Giant Jugs, Chunky Chuff Cheeks and Glamorous Grannies. Regularly Bryan would lean out of the cabin window and shout if someone was driving too aggressively, “They’re facking dodgems! Not facking Bumper cars!” He was worried about more cars breaking-down, at least five or six were conked out at any one time.

Bryan’s long time assistant was a bloke called Rodger, who along with an underdeveloped moustache, wore a vacant look of ignorance at all times. He had perfected dancing on the dodgems, jumping from car to car, swinging from the poles like Tarzan on ice skates. Rodger loved the ladies and always went for the lowest common denominator, as long as they put out, he didn’t give a monkey’s. He frequently showed off with great pride the mutual hickey’s he’d given some bruiser or fishwife the night before. Rodger was always at it, he would copulate about anywhere; in the back of a truck, in a spinning Waltzer car, up against a tree down smugglers walk. Rodgers reputation as an impressive swordsman was tainted by the dreadful birds he pulled, you wouldn’t for instance, take one home to meet your Mother. And I wouldn’t have touched one with yours.

Rodger taught me to ride the back of the dodgem cars, holding onto the poles and making the cars skid and angle off the floor was great fun. The reason for riding the cars was to collect any money outstanding, or to give change after the ride had started, but the real reason was because it was fun. And as Rodger pointed out, it was a good way to chat up girls and to look down their tops and get a good eyeful of cleavage. My first attempt at swapping cars was a bit of a disaster. I’d spotted a pretty young girl wearing a rah rah skirt, so I hopped off the car I was riding to the back of hers, grabbed the pole then leaned over and said hello. She looked up startled, lost control of the car and immediately hit the side of the track at top speed forcing me to fly over the back and land directly into her lap. Before I knew what was happening she was thumping me and screaming, going nuts. I managed to crawl out of the car with a meek apology. Jack, Rodger and Bryan were all over by the control cabin pissing themselves wet with laughter.
“You charmer, you’ve got a way with the ladies, haven’t you?” Laughed Jack.
Rodger was winking and nudging Bryan in the ribs with his elbow. Then he turned to me and asked “Did you grab her fandango while you were down there?”

One afternoon we were having a pretty busy day on the dodgems, a coach load of Northerners had arrived and stormed the track, all wanting to ride the dodgems at the same time. “Facking hell.” Said Bryan as he sucked on a dog end, eyeing the punters fighting each other to find empty cars. He slapped Gene Vincent in the cassette deck and banged on the power. All the cars were full, they zoomed round the track like wasps round a hive. “Oi! They’re facking dodgems! Not facking Bumper cars!” Shouted Bryan, but no one heard him. A teenager bumped his car full-force into another which slammed hard into the side of the track, inside were an old man and his grandson, the old man seemed to be in trouble, writhing in pain. “Oh facking hell. Oh fack!” Said Bryan as he spotted the crying boy and his Granddad slumped over the steering wheel.
“Call a facking ambulance!”
“Huh?” I said, startled.
“An ambulance, call a facking ambulance, from the facking phone, by the facking fish ‘n’ chip shop!” He shouted, switching off the power and making a dash for the dodgem car and the small crowd that had gathered around it. I found the red phone box and made the call, then ran back to the dodgems to see what was going on. Most people were gathered around gawping, some folks had got bored and had moved onto the Waltzer or the Mexican Hat. Bryan was over with the old gentleman giving an uncharacteristic charm offensive. Jack was sat in the cabin, looking through the cassettes. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“The old buggers having an heart attack or something, he’s alright though, still breathing… ah here it is!” He exclaimed pulling out a Queen cassette. I was a little puzzled as to Jack’s priorities in finding music to play, until the ambulance arrived and Jack played the Queen tape. ‘Another one bites the dust’ could be heard across the fairground as they put the old man on a stretcher and carted him off in the ambulance.
“You’re going to hell.” I told him. Bryan came back looking pretty flustered.
“Jack, that ain’t facking funny.” He said, then burst out laughing. “You cant. You!”