Adults Are No Fun.

My friend and I want to go to a theme park. Thorpe Park — I keep insisting. She is from Norway, so I give her the full run-down: Stealth. Saw. Nemesis Inferno. The Swarm. Detonator. Colossus. And most importantly: the Scare Maze. As the memories flood my mind, adrenaline floods my veins, and I revert back to my 13-year-old self — giddy with excitement. I remember the wobbliness of my legs as I sprinted from ride to ride; relishing in the dizziness and disorientation of having been spun in every direction; the soreness of my throat at the end of the day, from hours spent screaming at the top of my voice. 

I can’t remember when I last went to Thorpe Park. I also can’t remember when it ceased to be an acceptable suggestion for a day out anymore. I wish I’d known beforehand, so that I could’ve squeezed in a few more trips before the cut-off date.

We are all born with an innate propensity for fun. It governs how we spent our early years; it is the seed from which all of our wants and desires grow. It’s rare to find a child whose actions aren’t dictated by a hunger for the stuff. But why is it that, when we become an adult, that penchant for fun seems to wane?

With age, fun seems to have metamorphosed into something different: a more tame, measured, diluted version of what it once was. That sense of all-consuming fun has somehow become a rarity, the memory of it flickering in the depths of my consciousness like a dwindling flame. The things we do to entertain ourselves as adults just don’t generate it in the same way. 

 Fun as an adult is, for the most part, centred around food, booze, and conversation; and though I enjoy all of these elements immensely, I long for something more. It becomes predictable and slightly repetitive, and though I almost always enjoy myself, it is not fun — there is a marked difference. 

I crave total immersion in fun; the kind that takes you out of your head — a head clouded with bills, deadlines, relationship worries, and responsibilities — and into the present moment. I can transport myself back to being in the midst of a game of ‘Capture The Flag’ or ‘Bulldog’ (later banned a my school for being too “dangerous”), when my sole concern was not to be caught. Nothing else existed beyond the action of the game, and every cell of my body was swept up into it. 

But maybe this is an unrealistic thing to expect during adulthood? In childhood our minds are still free, yet to be shackled to obligation and duty. In adulthood, it becomes hard to escape the niggling feeling that there’s a more productive, valuable, practical way we could be using our time, so fun becomes sidelined. 

‘Maturity’ is a word that makes my insides squirm. It is the ultimate killer of fun, and (in my opinion) utter bollocks. This sense of separation between childhood and adulthood gets in the way of us truly surrendering to a good time, because we feel like to be an ‘adult’ is to have moved on from our former sources of pleasure. 

Besides maturity, what else is it that diminishes our potential for fun? Is it self-consciousness developed through adolescence? A diminishment of imagination through mundane work? Is it crushed by the weight of responsibility for others? Do we simply not have the energy reserves anymore for this kind of frivolity?

Over recent years, there has been a notable upsurge in ‘fun’ activities for adults: crazy golf, shuffle-boarding, board game cafes — all aiming to replicate the golden days of youth. But so far none of them have quite done it for me. Genuine fun is something we never want to end, but I can’t remember an occasion when I haven’t stolen a glance at the time half way around a crazy-golf course, or had to feign my engagement to some degree. And the experiences that I do actually enjoy — board game cafes and escape rooms — always come with an eye-watering price tag. For example, the giant inflatable obstacle course that was planned to be at Alexandra Palace in 2019 cost £20 for a measly 15 minutes; in comparison, Snakes & Ladders, an immense indoor play destination that I frequently visited as a child, costs around £7 for a full day’s entry. One chance at an escape room in London will cost around £35 per person; but an intense game of 'Murder In the Dark’ — a frequent affair in my childhood — at home? Wouldn’t cost a penny.

Those numbers are all without the extra price of alcohol — a seemingly indispensable component of every experience. It’s almost as if we can’t trust ourselves to have fun without it; that without the buzz of a lurid-coloured cocktail in our hand, we might realise that crazy golf isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. 

I don’t mean to sound like a cynic, or a member of the Fun Police — my intentions are quite the contrary. I am simply on the quest for the kind of experience that involves your entire physiology: the swell of dopamine, the butterflies let loose in your stomach, the energy sparking through your muscles, the involuntary smile across your cheeks, the uncontrollable laughter. The kind of fun that has you screaming with delight, without you caring or thinking twice about it. The kind of fun that doesn’t need to be chased or crafted, because it simply exists. Who decided that adults are no longer eligible for this kind of fun? 

So my friend and I are going to go to Thorpe Park. We will stand a whole head-and-shoulders above the rest of the pre-pubescent queue for Stealth, and we will stand proudly. For we will be reclaiming what is so rightfully ours.