Disney World: The Happiest Hostage Situation on Earth.

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So I went once and only once to Disney World! It’s not a theme park, it’s a psychological experiment with churros. You walk in thinking it’s all magic and dreams, and five minutes later you’re queueing for a ride that lasts 90 seconds, surrounded by toddlers dressed as Elsa, screaming like they’ve just seen the stock market crash.

And the mouse. Mickey. That smug little rodent. He’s everywhere. On your hat, your shirt, your overpriced popcorn bucket. You’re basically worshipping a cartoon with gloves. He doesn’t even have fingers, just white blobs. He’s like a cult leader with a falsetto. “Oh boy!” Yeah, oh boy indeed £120 for a ticket and I still have to pay extra to skip the queue? What is this, Ryanair?

You’ve grown adults sobbing during the fireworks because a cartoon castle lit up. It’s like emotional manipulation with lasers. And then you have the “cast members.” Cast? You’re not in a play, love, you’re selling pretzels shaped like Goofy’s face. And Goofy what even is he? A dog? A cow? A tax write-off?

It’s not a holiday, it’s a hostage situation with mouse ears. You leave with sunburn, debt, and a photo of yourself screaming on Space Mountain like you’ve just remembered your mortgage rate. Disney World: where dreams come true, and wallets go to die.



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