...Yes, the joy of the GBH is best summed up by this unfortunate green lady, normally garbed in an appropriately sinister black robe but now condemned to rotate on a pole above the Ghost Train, attached to her broomstick with only a scrappy piece of material and a slightly surprised expression to cover her modesty.
Its all a bit rubbish.
And if you think I have somewhat of a downer on the British funfair (particularly in its semi-permanent incarnation as seen on Brighton's Palace Pier), well, you'd be right. The idea of hurtling around at the end of a 100 year old wooden structure in contraptions assembled by individuals that were most likely thrown out of the gene pool for wearing their swimming costumes on their heads is not one I like to entertain without the help of Ms Vodka and her naughty friend, Miss Tequila.
Which is why, in a week and a half's time, First-Born and I shall be stepping aboard one of Mr Branson's finest for two weeks of hurricane dodging in Florida, USA.
Which won't be tacky at all. Oh no.
