Saorsa BLUE

honestly it’s very strange for me to love disneyland so much.
I was born in north london. My childhood streets were spat on by angry men in grey hoodies. When I would see fireworks, it would be while standing in a box of a garden in thermals, itchy turtlenecks and wellies, heavy from the wet mud it picked up. I’d stand, watching my fog breath against the light of sparklers we bought a packet for a pound in the shop down the road. Dad would light the big one he boasted about buying, run back, and we’d all coo as it rushed up, exploded proudly, and spatter into the black sky.
We had a couple of Disney movies on VHS tape. I have faint memories of The Jungle Book, and Hercules, buzzing and crackling on a static screen. I don’t remember any princesses. My childhood films consisted of gunshots, aliens, complicated storylines; my mum’s tuts as she’d walk through the door, discovering dad and I squealing through the gory fight scene of Kill Bill.
I didn’t mind. Only as I got older, and people in my class would quote things from the movies everyone but I had apparently watched.
It’s the “happiest place on earth”.
Everyone working there waves and smiles, cracks jokes. The uniforms are so brightly coloured and ironed they look like costumes, and the costumes are magical outfits of our familiar cartoon friends. It’s fake, it’s pretend, but it’s so fun. It’s the complete opposite of my roots; but I like it.