Disneyland Paris

The quest for the Purple Fruit Shoot

Good Morning Team.

Those of you investing in British small caps for some time will be aware of Article 17 of the UK Market Abuse Regulation (UK MAR) - which operates alongside AIM Rule 10.

These two mandates require AIM companies to immediately release inside/price sensitive information via RNS, as soon as practically possible with very few exceptions.

Except in August, of course - as evidenced by the month-long news blackout every single year - which I suspect will end with everything announced all at once, bright and early, 7am Tuesday 1st.

Ergo, at this time each year, I take the time to wind down a little, and try to enjoy the Devon sunshine with the occasional trip abroad.

My youngest turned 5 years old in March, and with the eldest being 12, we thought this might be the best time to conduct the pilgrimage taken at least once by every middle class British family - a magical week at Disneyland Paris.

(A five year old, we thought, could cope with a day out - and a 12 year old was still young enough to enjoy the glistening remnants of childhood before heading into the sunlit uplands of teenagerhood.)

The first decisions we made earlier this year. The great joy of a ‘package’ holiday is that you can basically make it as expensive or as cheap as you like.

First up, getting there.

What we would have loved to do was fly direct from Devon to Paris. Given this is less than 300 miles, and Ryanair flies from the airport, simple.

Turns out they don’t fly from where we are - we’d have to drive to Bristol Airport instead. It’s less than 90 minutes and straight up the M5/A38, no sweat.

Then accommodation.

We veered between booking a suite at the recently renovated pink Disneyland Hotel directly above the park, to booking an on-site hotel - then realised you could book an entire week off-site and get a 10 minute shuttle bus to the Parks and back for the same money as staying with Disney direct for a single day.

Easy win.

Or so we thought.

We’ll get to that later.

Third, food. We booked a couple of restaurants - these do get booked up fast and there were few to choose from. We decided to wing it thereafter.

Haha.

The tickets themselves were surprisingly very reasonable - we chose weekdays rather than weekends expecting it to be a tad quieter - then waited a few months, the market hit its usual slumber in mid-July and by August I felt confident that not much would be happening outside of Trump’s usual conflict and critical minerals shenanigans.

We dropped the dogs off at the kennels, got our neighbour to feed the cats, drove up to Bristol behind a taxi that seemed to know exactly where the speed cameras were and where it was fine to floor it, parked at the short stay car park (which again, is half the price of the more premium car parking choices and involves an additional 90 seconds of walking) - blazed through bag checks and security and - believe it or not - got on the easyJet plane at exactly the right time (I suspect given the takeover this is unlikely to remain the case much longer).

And before we knew it had touched down in Paris Charles de Gaulle.

At this point, we again flew through security, no company had released an awful RNS, the sun was shining, the children were smiles, and the wife was positively beaming.

I remember, distinctly, relaxing.

As a parent, this is always a terrible mistake.

Jack, my youngest, was thirsty.

And he wanted a Fruit Shoot. Not just any Fruit Shoot. A purple Fruit Shoot.

We had 24 of them in the fridge back home, but this wasn’t particularly helpful in France. I suggested, somewhat timidly, that perhaps he might like to try something similar-looking in a nearby vending machine, or possibly some water.

His response was less than gracious.

We then spent the next 15 minutes scouring the surrounding Relay, Monop’ and various nearby outlets for his elusive fruit shoot - but to no joy.

Eventually, we decided the best thing to do was head to our accommodation and find a way to acquire Jack’s chosen beverage from the luxury of air-conditioning.

Ignoring the charming chap in an all-too-shiny suit near the exit (we’ve all made that mistake before), (and also ignoring the train option - relying on French trains to run on time is like trusting a CEO with the word ‘soon’) we headed to the official taxi rank and were there within 45 minutes.

Spiffing.

Now mid-afternoon, I made the executive decision to head to the nearby village to acquire some supplies before getting an early night’s sleep for a big day ahead.

First up, I headed to Carrefour - five minute walk. Reasonably well stocked but shockingly poor quality fruit and vegetables (not that you eat these on holiday anyway) - and pricing that reminded me that while food prices have gone up in the UK, we still have some of the cheapest nourishment in the developed world.

I did look for Fruit Shoots, but could only spot Tropical and ‘Multi-Vitamin’ flavour. Guessing the former might be acceptable to His Majesty’s overly-refined palate, I picked up a pack along with the bare essentials.

(Wine, cheese and M&M’s).

As a reminder, milk in France is almost all Ultra-Heat Treated so tastes awful. If you can hunt down a rural laiterie, then do so - but Disney owns all the land around the parks so no luck there.

But no matter.

I had booked this specific location because it was in the vicinity of three award-winning Boulangeries - and planned to live exclusively on sugar-encrusted pastries and Pain Flute.

I exited Carrefour and headed over to Bakery One, which looked worrying quiet.

I spied two signs on the the front door.

The first was in English:

‘Please try to support local businesses. Operating a bakery in France has become ever more expensive and we rely on tourist income in the summer months to continue. We truly appreciate your help.’

The second was in French:

Fermé en août pour vacances, réouverture le 1er septembre.

How very French. But no worries, the second award-winning bakery was just around the corner.

It too was closed for August - and had a similar sign, this time addressed to the locals, begging them to support their local baker.

Frustratingly, I could see Tropical, Multivitamin and what I am still certain was a Purple Fruit Shoot inside the fridge just by the door (though by this point it could have been a mirage).

Resisting the urge to break in, and with the third bakery a bit more of a hike than I was prepared to make on day one - and thinking about how I could help improve the French business models - I walked back into Carrefour and bought croissants and bread from the chain's in-store bakery.

To any Boulanger out there relying on Disneyland tourist income for survival, it might help to be open during the busiest month of the year. I know the congés annuels is importante but now is when the money is ready and willing to be handed over and I could not have cared less whether the bill for pastries was €10 or €30.

Anyway, I slowly meandered back to the hotel room where my children had all figured out how to play Roblox on the hotel’s TV - one which had possibly the poorest sound quality known to mankind, and at maximum possible volume.

Seeing the food had arrived, the vultures immediately dived into the bags (Jack made very clear that Tropical flavour was not acceptable and instead started downing Petit Filous yoghurt drinks despite us as a family not having had any luck in making him consume yoghurt for five long years) and not much time later were ready to sleep.

Well, as ready as young children can be when abroad and looking forward to Disney magic.

So asleep by 11pm.

The next day, we arose at 9am, wanting to hit the main park for 9.30 opening time - packed a bag - headed out to a near empty shuttle - got to Disney, and fairly quickly went through security.

I commented to my wife that they hadn’t even checked our tickets at the entrance - then we took a truly magical family photo outside the pink Disneyland Hotel a more profligate family might have booked.

However, there was a minor issue.

It seemed like half of France was congregated outside and underneath the building - packed in like sardines in a 35 degree heated metal tin - and it took us a few moments (like sailors staring at a tsunami) to realise this was the actual entrance to the park - and that the previous bit was simply border security.

(I suspect those who illegally make it through aren’t put up in the hotel either).

Roughly 30 minutes later, we’d scanned various QR codes and had made it into the park.

But it wasn’t really a park.

It was more like a human zoo, a perfectly designed hell for the archetypal British introvert.

And like a zoo, or perhaps a farm, we were being pushed out along Main Street by endless waves of human flesh - none of it polite - until we as a family spilled out into what appeared to be the Town Square where I finally unlocked arms with my eldest (squeeze dip, drive being the rugby rallying call), lifted my head and caught a glimpse of the famous pink castle.

The children saw the same, and I could tell what they were thinking.

Magic.

Real magic.

Then I caught my wife’s gaze.

She was thinking something else.

We broke away to the left, and entered ‘Frontierland’ - without a map or an App, simply because it was closest.

As a younger, more vibrant couple, we had previously spent a week or so at DisneyWorld in Florida as part of an epic multi-state US road trip, but with children, moving from the chaos of Main Street to the relative quiet of one of the lands, it was a different kind of experience - one of powerful relief mixed with new visual experiences.

The boat. Big Thunder Mountain - the flagship rollercoaster - flying around the central island. And to the left again, something quieter.

The Phantom Manor.

Thinking that terrifying the children might arrest the complaining that had already started (some of it Fruit Shoot related) we hit the queue - and immediately ran into a problem.

There was one line for ‘Entry’ and a second line for something called ‘Premier Access.’

Entry was 30 minutes.

Premier Access had no time, but I suspected it was less than 30 minutes.

We had no idea how to access Premier Access, and given the Entry queue was already gaining rapidly in size, we quickly joined the back. Halfway through, a cast member opened a rope to allow some of us to join others further along - angering those who were ahead originally, but had just not made the cut.

35 minutes later - despite the shade, an eternity with young children - we entered the house.

The ride was actually creepy; both the intro and actual sit-down bit. The seven year old was in his own words ‘freaked out’ while Jack was too busy worrying about the lack of beverage choices.

But there was a glimmer here of the promised Disney magic - we all agreed the ride was fun and very possibly worth the wait.

Exiting, we headed past the Boat, where the queue looked like Taylor Swift was making a one-day-only guest appearance, and then onto Thunder Mountain.

Queue time: 90 minutes.

With three whiny children?

I’d rather cut off my thumbs with a Mickey Mouse-themed butter knife. Instead we kept walking and arrived at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride.

20 minutes.

Better.

Again, an amazing ride and not too long a wait this time.

I cannot praise the attractions themselves, or the park, enough. It looks a little tired in places, but it is a beautiful place. And the rides are pitched just right; something for every age.

By this point, however, it was closing in on midday - and Jack had finished his two packed yoghurt drinks. And he NEEDED a fruit shoot.

Do you want to guess what kind of drink Disney doesn’t sell?

That’s right.

Fruit shoots.

In fact for a park ostensibly aimed at children, the drink choices for children, already incredibly overpriced, were lacking.

Now we could have told him to suck it up, but we wanted a magical holiday. Not one of multiple meltdowns - and decided to go for the path of least resistance.

We knew there was a Pret and a couple of shops inside the train station just outside the park entrance. A not short walk later, we got there.

But they didn’t have fruit shoots either.

A quick Google later - the answer! While Disney had bought up every acre of adjacent prime farmland, the nearby Val D’Europe shopping centre had a massive Auchan Hypermarché that would stock every fruit shoot variety known to childkind.

And it was only a short train ride away!

But of course.

The trains were not running from Marne-la-Vallée-Chessy for the next hour due to ‘raisons françaises.’

No issue. Uber. It’s a 10 minute ride, pop in the shop, get the Fruit Shoots, head back.

Our eldest thought we could instead try discipline, which in hindsight may have been the better plan.

The Uber was fast, polite - charged an extra Euro for waiting time even though he parked next us - and we headed into the shopping complex.

Initially we started in the upstairs area - which was massive - then headed down into the food segment of the Hypermarché - and two things struck me immediately.

First, how far behind the UK is. This place was MASSIVE. Cavernous. You could fit several Tesco Extra’s inside the cooked meats aisle alone.

Second, there was no way on God’s green and pleasant Earth that it did not contain a Purple Fruit Shoot.

We made our way, aisle by aisle, the seven and 12 year olds bounding ahead like bloodhounds hunting rabbits - until the eldest shouted:

‘I FOUND THEM! I FOUND THEM!’

There it was.

A quarter of an aisle of Fruit Shoots. Stacked floor to ceiling. Hundreds - possibly thousands of exactly what we needed.

Tropical.

Tropical.

Tropical.

Multi-fucking-vitamin.

My wife and I gazed at each other with the look of veterans about to enter an unwinnable battle - but then I spied something. A single four pack of red strawberry-flavoured fruits shoots!

Then I remembered.

Jack had suffered a stomach bug in March - and his vomit had been red coloured from drinking them. He hadn’t touched them since.

She did ask to her credit - but the answer was a resounding NO.

‘THEY MAKE ME SICK!’

Then the seven year old saw something that made his little capitalist heart sing for joy.

McDonald’s.

We were saved.

They would sell them, just like in the UK, in the Happy Meal.

Never before had that name seemed so appropriate.

I entered - the children stay behind with my wife, who by this point is standing against a pillar for strength.

I, being the French speaker of the family, work through the touchscreen menu options.

No fruit shoots.

Some shitty appley carton.

I buy a meal anyway, hoping to placate Jack, but inevitably this doesn’t work. As I leave the restaurant, I meet my wife’s eyes and she slumps to the ground like she’d just been informed of my recent death.

I make a new plan - head back to the hotel in another Uber and take Jack’s mind off Fruit Shoots and onto water instead.

As we’re riding back - at this point roughly 90 minutes after leaving the park - I have a ‘moment d'ampoule!’

We’re in an Uber!

What about Uber Eats!

I quickly adjust our address and search for fruit shoot, Teisseire (the French brand), apple & blackcurrant.

Nothing.

There’s nothing.

Then I finally search Google and learn the terrible truth.

There are no purple fruit shoots in France.

They don’t exist; at least not anywhere we could find them.

He would have to get by with yoghurt drinks and water.

With the shuttles stopped for the next hour - and resuming at 4pm, we decided to let the children relax as we prepared for the next phase of battle.

Once back at the park, the middle child wanted to head to the castle - once there, my wife told me that she was taking the eldest to ride Star Wars Hyperspace Mountain and I had the younger two for the next couple of hours.

Fearing divorce, I chose to acquiesce to her request - and the three of us headed underneath the castle where we spent a few minutes admiring the beautiful Tanière du Dragon, a stunning animatronic that left the middle child in wonderment and Jack temporarily forgetful of his libation deprivation.

We then headed over to the Sword in the Stone where neither child was deemed worth by a nearby cast member - and then met up with the other two and headed back. On the way, the eldest decided it would be a brilliant idea to tell Jack he lacked the strength to lift the sword because he needed some purple fruit shoot hydration.

Resisting the urge to throw the tweenager into the lake, we soon made it back after what had been a day of mixed blessings.

The days that followed were a blur of delight and meltdowns.

But ultimately, we found a rhythm. We wanted to go on Big Thunder Mountain. But we weren’t going to wait for an hour and a half with a seven year old and a five year old.

It just wasn’t going to happen.

So we downloaded the App and paid for Premier Access to skip the queue - £70. For one ride.

It was fun.

But it lasted perhaps two minutes.

And the photo was 17 euros.

15 years ago in the USA, all you needed to do was take a ticket at the entrance to a long queue and come back when it said to - the ticket itself held your place.

Now, it was pay to win.

We did the same for Frozen Ever After, Ratatouille and Crush’s Coaster - all inside the second park.

Crush’s still took 25 minutes and would have been two hours.

The problem is that Disney seems to have no limits on guest numbers, so while park pricing seems very reasonable, you actually need to spend the same money twice simply to access the rides with young children, or get to ride more than three things a day.

My eldest thought we would be visited by some form of cosmic Disney Karma for paying to queue jump - but I reminded him outside Avengers Assemble: Flight Force that I had my own superpower.

Money.

Not enough to throw away, but definitely enough to make the experience 1000x more enjoyable. Though to be fair, I did very much resent when other people used it.

The meals we booked were reasonable enough.

The shops sold some beautiful things and a lot of tat.

Easily the best souvenir, other than the wonderful memories of Jack continually asking for a Fruit Shoot flavour that did not exist, was a little silhouette stand where serious artists cut out card profiles of our three children - the result is now a delightful piece of art hanging in my office.

One evening, there was no wait time for the last hour at Hyperspace Mountain - which for my money is the best single experience at Disney.

I had returned with the eldest for 8pm onwards and by 9.30 - by luck, something else major going on, or magic, there was nobody there.

At all.

Maybe 40 people?

We ran round and around, and around - sprinting to make it one final time at 22.40 - being launched into the sky, through three inversions and a serious feeling of actually being inside Star Wars.

Avengers is very much a close second - and walking onto the Campus for the first time with the theme playing was where I finally understood a fraction of the insanity of the Disney adult.

Indeed, I spent a good deal of time thinking how fantastic the whole place might be without children to look after.

There was a moment when they all wanted to ride the elephant ride (no better than at your local carnival) - and we were looking at a 45 minute wait where I flat out said no.

On day three, we forgot to pack yoghurt drinks for Jack - and after some careful political negotiation, he had to make do with ice creams.

I think I might have snapped a little mentally when the two youngest asked for magic bubble wands - to find they cost 35 euros EACH - and then the money extractor, sorry customer assistant, asked whether I might want to spend another four euros on refills as they ‘ne durent que quelques minutes.’

Or when the middle child wanted his own pack of Doritos, then six euros later decided he’d eat them tomorrow.

Or perhaps when the eldest wanted a ‘pet’ lizard for his shoulder. Then everyone wanted one. Then one of them pointed out they each have two shoulders.

And caps.

Adorable caps, at 30 euros each.

And fridge magnets.

Perhaps when my wife decided she definitely wanted a 50 euro t-shirt, then literally four seconds after we’d bought it found another she immensely preferred.

It seems like the entire park is designed to surgically extract every last penny out of visitors - from the rides, to the food, to the souvenirs…

I’m just surprised they haven’t cottoned onto Fruit Shoots yet.

But you know what?

The Lion King show was wonderful. The fireworks were incredible. The rides, while in many cases short, were inspired.

In-between the childhood fighting, the breakdowns, the dehydration and financial gouging - there were moments, some captured on film, where my entire family were elated.

The sunshine breaking through the waters of the fountains. The younger ones running through treehouses and caves. The elder child feeling the thrill of a twisting rollercoaster in the dark.

We left after several days exhausted but happy.

Of course, our return day was 8th August - and Bristol Airport had closed its only runway due to what basically seems to have amounted to a pothole.

At boarding, 10 interminable hours later (don’t worry, we got 45 euros to spend at Pret as compensation) we were finally on our way - not before the eldest managed to mention something about karma before praising a Speedy Boarding stranger for paying for ‘Premier Access.’

Upon landing, we were whisked through passport control, picked up the luggage - and then we saw it.

A vending machine.

Nestled right at the very bottom, three rows of purple fruit shoots.

We approached the machine’s content as though it were the Blood of Christ upon the altar of God - then I typed in its number, 370.

£2.90.

Bristol Airport - you really can go FUCK YOURSELVES.

We paid the money anyway - because having burnt through enough cash in six days to fund a moderate junior resource placing - why the hell not.

Handing it to Jack as we got into the car, I watched his lips tremble with anticipation.

Then he smiled, the wide smile of a child that has thought of the funniest thing conceivable.

Then he started cackling.

A full minute later, in-between breaths:

‘I don’t like purple anymore. Do you have any tropical?’

And that, friends, was my experience of Disneyland Paris.