Alcoholics know that hell is denial, and there is plenty at Disneyland Paris in winter. This is a pleasure land risen from a field and everyone has after-party eyes, including the babies. The Disney hotels operate a predictable hierarchy: princesses at the top, Mexicans at the bottom. We, the Squeezed Middle, are at the Sequoia Lodge with Bambi, where I learn that I like canned birdsong, and that is fair. You don’t consume dream worlds, because that is not their nature. They consume you.

We stand in the Magic Kingdom and stare at Mickey Mouse-shaped food and a fake Bavarian castle – it’s Ludwig’s, not Sleeping Beauty’s – painted pink. Disney culture is impregnable: hence the fortress. It only needs – it only feeds on – itself. This is a coherent universe if you can take the food, and if you don’t mind worshipping an annoying mouse that acts as avatar for Walt – who even knows? In fact, the mouse cult is a dual cult, almost a schism. More people know Mickey, of course – preening Mickey, pure Id, or a twat, depending on your language – but Minnie fans are more ardent, tiny and female, and I love them.

Survival here is about logistics, like invading Russia. The street food – a slightly burnt cheese pretzel excepted – is repulsive. To eat in potentially better restaurants, you must book in advance, to avoid being at the mercy of the hamburger – I mean salt – restaurants at the Disney Village beyond the park gates, because people don’t just come to Disneyland Paris. They come to be near Disneyland Paris.

Then it’s Walt’s, a homage to Walt Disney on Main Street, the plywood........

© The Spectator