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Legoland, outside Windsor, is Britain's answer to Disney World and costs a cartoon figure to get in. On arrival, I realise I have left behind my e-ticket. Kirstie, at Guest Services, finds no reference to us in her computer, nor to the £103 I have already paid.
One hour later, having shelled out a further £129 (full admission price), we enter the park and I am hunting for my three-year-old son who has been swallowed by the crowds. Finally restored to his hysterical mother, he is placated with a hot dog (price: £4.99). We spend the rest of the day in Heathrow-length queues for 'attractions', none of which would distinguish a village fete.
The queues give ample time to ponder. Why escape London to be confronted by London all over again in the shape of pixelated bonsai plastic? To stand before a 10ft effigy
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| We spend the day in queues for ‘attractions’, none of which would distinguish a village fete |
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of Canary Wharf, digitalised to perfection, is an even more unremarkable, dead experience than to visit the original.
The few rooms where you can play Lego resemble the worst aspects of your children's bedrooms, where the only real answer is to close the door and pretend it never really happened.
Overshadowing this miniature world, designed to attract children, looms the giant spectre of adult greed. If Legoland limited numbers so that everyone had an opportunity to enjoy its extremely average roundabouts - without needing to wait 40 minutes - one might escape the place feeling charitable, not homicidal, towards its owners.
On top of it all, a forlorn policeman warns us in the car-park: "There've been a lot of thefts recently." All I can say is, the French do these things much better. At Nigloland in northern France, the excellent carousels are actually made in Shropshire - so Legoland's UK owners, Merlin Entertainment, have little excuse. 
FIRST POSTED OCTOBER 9, 2006
 Don’t go to Disney World either
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