Every year, something happens to remind me that this island and its traditions are embedded so deeply in my soul that I can never leave, however much I might dream of moving to the Mediterranean and growing old on a diet of olive oil and existential wrinkles. However conflicted I might feel about our flags, or however much I might yearn never again to see a multi-storey car park or a hailstone or someone who can vote in government solely because of a hereditary peerage, this national pride still surges up in me at the same time every year. And that time is now, when the greatest British tradition of all takes place: the annual outdoor winter wonderland health and safety catastrophe.
Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, of flamboyant suits and Changing Rooms fame, launched one of these places, The Magical Journey, in Sutton Coldfield. Or just a sodding cold field. Naturally, he swiftly had to close it again to fix problems reported by miserable customers, who had shelled out the best part of 100 quid on a family day out to start the Christmas season in style, only to find it lasted half an hour. The children were sent off in search of a reindeer called Rudi, which they never actually found. The snow was still in plastic bags, there was a game involving a toilet roll, and Father Christmas was young, skinny and had unwrapped tat from Poundland to give to the children, asking one kid if she wanted “the ripped present or the squashed one”. To enhance the magic of the season, the elves were smoking. “I think we have every right to moan,” one parent said. “Try explaining to your daughter why Santa’s beard is not straight and he smells funny and is talking slurry.”
It’s not just Laurence, either. Last year, a similar place in Milton Keynes had to give at least 200 refunds and close on day two. They blamed the “wind”, but their ice rink was exposed as being composed of a few sheets of plastic, the only food was from burger vans and the reindeers were in cages, along with howling dogs. Then there was the infamous New Forest one in 2008, where Santa and some of his elves got besieged by furious parents, two dads were found scrapping in the gingerbread house, and one snowman got so much verbal abuse that he stormed off site still in his snowsuit. One family turned up to this “Lapland” with pre-booked tickets, unaware there was nothing left to see, until a staff member explained the situation in language they could all understand. “Santa’s fucking dead,” he said.
Truly, it’s become such a grand tradition that it doesn’t feel like Christmas unless you’ve got some crying children on the news, their parents appalled that they forked out £50 for their youngest to fall off the back of the miniature train while trying to wave at Rudolph on his fag break, and that the only jingling bells were on Santa’s ankle tag. They’re usually in a location described as “magical woodlands”, which translates as “a bit of land cut in half by compulsory purchase order in 1985 so a motorway could be built through it”. And they say we are a nation of cynics – still we come, year after year, giving our hopes, dreams and cash, longing to believe that Lapland can be built in a lay-by.
I can only conclude that, actually, most British people secretly love the crapness of it all. We don’t crave feasts and fantasy; we crave soggy disappointment and something to moan about. This is embedded so deep in the national consciousness that it takes a brave warrior to admit it; like the mother, on a Facebook complaints group, who had been to Laurence’s gaff and wrote, “i actually think part of the fun in grottos is the shitty presents lol.” I don’t often get patriotic, but this person is my countrywoman. My kin.
And just imagine the utter confidence of the people who organise these things. We could all learn a lot about daring to dream, in such a uniquely British way, from these rogue traders who say, let’s shove a load of crapness in here, on top of all that other crapness over there, and sort out the missing crapness later. The country should give lessons in entrepreneurialism from these geniuses, who have the unfailing Plan B, for when it all goes tits up, of blaming such unexpected things as “bad weather” for the failings of an outdoor wonderland held only in winter and built entirely around the concept of snow.
