When I was a boy in Manchester I often dreamed of Southport, Blackpool’s much less glamorous cousin a few miles down the slate-grey Lancashire coast. A peculiar vision, you might say, but a favourite summer outing for the church to which I and my family belonged. More precisely, I loved to remember the moment when my mother held me tight in her arms in the front car of the Cyclone, Pleasureland’s biggest roller-coaster, built by the Pennsylvania Company in 1937. Here was the perfect experience of liberation, when freedom, security and community combined to release feelings of great joy and love ...
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