I HAVEN’T been to the new aquapark at Cotswold Country Park and Beach yet, but if the pictures are anything to go by it’ll be a real hit.

It’s bright, it’s clean, it’s fun and it’s safe; in other words, it’s the sort of place you’d be happy to take your children or grandchildren to.

It also reminds those of us who grew up in the 1970s and much of the 1980s that most of the kids’ playparks and attractions we used have been consigned to history.

On one hand, this is a good thing, what with many of those old places having been down-at-heel, squalid and dangerous, but on the other I can’t help mourning their passing.

If only some enterprising business person came up with a period-themed park exclusively for people in their forties and fifties, I bet the punters would come rolling in.

Not all of them would necessarily ever roll out again, of course, but you pays your money and you takes your choice.

Having signed waivers absolving the management of any and all blame for anything and everything that might happen, customers would first be ushered to the shop for some old-style refreshments and souvenirs.

There they’d load up on Texan bars, peanut flavour Treets, Amazin’ Raisin, Pink Panther bars and, for the oldest among the clientele, Aztecs – all specially recreated using original old recipes.

Everybody would be obliged to eat at least half a pound and wash it down with a quart of some mysterious green or blue soft drink that tasted vaguely like medicine and vaguely like sucking a battery.

As any kid in the old days knew, there was no point in being a bit sick on a roller coaster when you could achieve hero status among your mates by being really, really sick on a roller coaster.

If you got a chain reaction going and everybody was poorly at the same time, the effect was not unlike the smoke trails left by the Red Arrows. Although not quite the same colour, obviously.

The souvenirs in the shop would include teddy bears held together by rusty nails, rubber monster pen topper things just the right size to choke the unwary, plastic spiders on lengths of elastic and children’s watches with luminous green numbers painted with something radioactive.

And giant pencils with the name of the park misspelled down the side. And sets of false teeth made from pink and white nougat. The attractions would include that roller coaster I mentioned, which would only be cleaned at the end of the season. There would be a goodly scattering of sheared bolts beneath the track.

As the cars rose to start a run, there’d be a terrifying noise a bit like a van full of loose spanners being driven at speed along a potholed road, but by the time the punters heard it and became scared, it would be too late to escape.

Naturally, there would be no restraints, just a rusty bar to hold, but everybody would be careful to remain seated on account of the random girder ends, heavy duty chains and stout planks with exposed nails hanging at just above head height.

There would be a sort of log flume, but the water would be changed only once every few years so as to allow a good build-up of mosquito larvae. As anybody who went on one back day knows, the new-fangled kind are all very well but a log flume isn’t truly a log flume unless you end up with a lively case of typhoid.

Attention to detail would be key to the success of the project, which is why the animals on the roundabout would not be made to look friendly in the modern style. No, they’d be carved by some tortured, twisted artist who specialised in monstrous, demonic steeds, ravening wolves and bloodthirsty tigers.

Riders wishing to take their mind off the terror could always watch the whirling, gnashing mechanism through the gaps in the floorboards. Similar attention to detail would be needed to make the old-style waltzers authentic. Combing the local court records for staff would be a start.

The likely candidates would be invited for interview: “How do you feel about spinning people until they’re disorientated and then nicking anything that shoots out of their pockets?”

“Sounds great.”

“You’re hired.”

Least attractive? Thank God

THE West Country accent is Britain’s least attractive, according to a survey among users of IllicitEncounters.com, which bills itself as the UK’s leading dating website for married people.

Two points occur to me.

Firstly, have these people never heard of the Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny?

Secondly, IllicitEncounters?

The website proclaims: “Our members have one thing in common - they are all looking for a little romance outside their current relationship.”

I don’t know about you, but if I had a West Country accent I wouldn’t exactly be heartbroken at the thought of being unattractive to manky adulterers.

Seriously lucky

IN news from our court system, a Swindon man called Robert Jones groomed and attempted to meet a 13-year-old girl and was arrested.

While on bail he attempted to groom another child, who turned out to be an undercover police officer. Oh, and he had about 2,000 indecent images and movies of child abuse, about half of which showed children being raped.

This veritable prince among men was jailed for two years and four months, which means he’ll almost certainly be back among us – and our children – next year.

He’s probably feeling sorry for himself at the moment, but he should remember that things could be a lot worse for him.

At least he doesn’t have the misfortune to live in a country where such crimes are taken seriously.