The other day, we had occasion to drive along Sea View Road.

Where’s that, you might well ask? Well the clue in the name. But I haven’t got the time to play games so I’ll tell you. Sea View Road is where the King Edward Bay Apartments are.

If you drive down Harbour Road, cross the electric tram rails and then drive down the one-way road that faces you, that is Sea View Road.

It was once known as Onchan Head, but is now a smart development.

But at one time, it was the White City Fun Fair.

No fair was worth its salt if it didn’t have a roller coaster. No problem there then, White City was well equipped.

From memory, as well as a roller coaster, there was a motorcycle ’ball of death’ and a ghost train.

There were motor boats, there was roller skating, a rifle range and all of the usual side shows and slot machines, along with whatever else has been forgotten.

But there was one attraction that I have left until the end.

The White City theatre was called the Pavilion.

Now I’m sure that someone will know much more about the old landmark than me, but the whole point about the Pullyman column is quite simply the thoughts and memories of what I have seen or experienced.

I have three tales to tell about the Pavilion theatre and three of the performers who I remember strutting their stuff.

The first name that came to the surface was Berto Roselli.

Roselli was a variety act who would rely on the help of a member of the audience. I well remember the lorry driver from Pulrose who climbed onto the stage this particular evening.

Berto had produced a slab of wood with several rows of sharp nails hammered through and protruding to the other side. He was stripped to the waist and ready for action.

He laid the board with the nails sharp side up on a low wooden table that he had placed on the stage. Berto then lowered himself back first, onto the nails.

Under instruction, the lorry driver placed another board onto Berto’s broad chest, followed by a blacksmith’s anvil.

His final task was to use a full-sized sledge hammer to try and nail Berto to the table.

He really did try. He was my Dad.

Maurice Fogel was next. The highlight of his act was catching a bullet with his teeth.

A well-known local lad, Tony Osborn, who was the island rifle shooting champion, would fire the bullet.

The ammunition would be marked in two places by a member of the audience. On the case that stayed with the gun, and on the bullet that good old Maurice was to catch with his teeth.

The man from the audience was the only person to handle the bullet.

Looking at things logically, if a champion marksman fires a gun at a target, he shouldn’t miss. And if he did miss, you would think that at least it should come reasonably close.

But if a bullet that is secretly marked, ends up exactly where it was aimed, between the catcher’s teeth, then it must be true. He really did catch the bullet.

Tony often joked about taking the secret of the bullet trick to his grave.

He died from Alzheimers, and is sadly missed.

The third and final act was a hypnotist, Joseph Karma. He was a regular performer on the island and eventually retired here with his wife and stage assistant, Miss Elizabeth.

When the call went out to the audience for volunteers, one of my few remaining school friends was usually one of the first in line.

Because he later became a high-ranking government minister, his identity must remain confidential. So he will just be known as Bernie.

If there are any messages, I’ll see him in the Manx Arms when the pubs re-open.