THAT'S it, no more, finito. I'm through with big theme parks on this side of the Atlantic, at least.

I enjoyed Florida, which, around Orlando in particular, is one great big theme park.

I liked the roller-coasters, the weather, the ambience, the whole bit.

But the British experience (away from excellent family attractions aimed at younger children, like Paulton's Park and Adventure Wonderland near Hurn) is something else entirely.

For a start, it involves travelling along motorways where the standard of driving between the numerous traffic jams and roadworks anyway is more hair-raising and life-threatening than any ride you'll encounter when you finally turn off the M25 at the park of your choice.

Then there's the queue to get in. The last time we went, a couple of Saturdays ago, I figured we'd get there bang on opening time, breeze in and enjoy almost unbridled access to all the best rides. Some hope.

Despite the traffic, we did arrive within half an hour of opening, but the car park was already heaving and it took us another 30 minutes to gain access to the hallowed inner sanctum.

Once inside I figured I must have been the oldest person there by some considerable distance.

I was also despite being in my usual April to October off-duty attire of golf shirt, shorts and sandals the most soberly dressed.

Everywhere I looked were young men resembling downmarket versions of Ali G, their baseball caps at jaunty angles, baggy tracksuit bottoms, sleeveless vests sporting the names of American basketball teams, trainers costing more than my car is worth.

I must also have been the only one there male or female without any bling or tattoos.

Also the only one, apart from a few babes in arms, not to have a fag constantly on the go.

There were signs everywhere asking patrons, "for the comfort of other customers", to desist from lighting up in the ever-lengthening queues.

I can only assume that all the young smokers were unable to read.

That would explain all the queue-jumping too.

And maybe their hearing wasn't up to much either, judging by the way they ignored pleas over the Tannoy and clambered over fences to cut in (or butt out, when yet another ride broke down), or sat there, enjoying their ciggies, effing and blinding at full volume.

One charming young lass, who can't have been more than 11, took one look at the latest ride, involving a high-speed launch into a terrifyingly steep trajectory, before yelling, to her mates: "Flip that!" (But without the "flip" bit, of course.) At which all her friends joined in with a hearty chorus of the most over-used and least-endearing word in teenage vocabulary.

As we sat in the car queuing to get away, I calculated that I must have spent a minimum four hours queuing for rides that lasted a maximum 10 minutes between them.

And more than five of those minutes were taken up by the least scary ride (backwards, in the dark, yawn) it has ever been my misfortune to encounter but which still, mystifyingly, attracted bigger hordes than an Ikea sale.