Video: How the Oktoberfest taught me to love lederhosen Anyone with the, ahem, guts to serve this kind of sustenance at what is officially the world's largest public festival deserved, as far as I was concerned, a pat on the back. As I was tucking into one of said adventurous organ dishes, another kind of organ started up in the background - a fairground organ. After we'd eaten, I decided to examine the source, and found a thoroughly enjoyable mix of Thorpe Park and the kind of travelling fair devoid of electric distractions that I'm far too young to have experienced - you know, with bobbing for apples, waistcoated compères addressing the crowd, and palm-readings by Gypsy Rose Lee. With a very German mix of engineering prowess and a complete lack of concern about health and safety, there was everything from temporarily-erected, 100ft-tall rollercoasters down to the rotating "devil's wheel," from which - apparently drunken - visitors in dirndls and lederhosen pay for the pleasure of being slowly dislodged by the progressive power of centrifugal force for the amusement of the surrounding crowds. It was, in short, a playground for adults. With beer. And sexual tension. That really is the key to the Oktoberfest: with its fairground rides, candied apples, and fancy dress, it's a children's party (and, indeed, in the early afternoon there are still lots of families around), but it's also turbocharged with those key catalysts of grown-up life - alcohol and the promise of getting a leg-over. This becomes most evident in the beer tents, in which it is positively rude not to put your hand around your neighbour's waist as you all stand on the benches for a good singalong. Over the course of the day, the largest tents slowly morph from traditional Bavarian affairs into out-and-out clubs, with all of the usual dancing, drink-spilling, and random pulling endemic to them. Some of the tents orientated more towards the young single festival-goers even ditch their brass bands towards the evening in favour of everything from cheesy German Schlager pop to its anglophone equivalent, Robbie Williams. And even with that menace to music droning on at full volume, I had a great time in the tents, too. The enforced close-quarters made short work of that typically English reserve about talking to strangers and, in contrast to most large-scale nightclubs I've been too, you could order a constant stream of expertly roasted chicken to soak up the beer. Suddenly, the idea of wearing a pair of lederhosen and becoming part of the whole thing, for however short a time, no longer seemed crazy, but rather more The Only Sensible Course Of Action. As for the general objections to Bavaria, five years" worth of Oktoberfest have modified them somewhat: the dialect is certainly non-standard and not to everyone's taste, but there's nothing inherently difficult in it to anyone who's already mastered German as a foreign language. And, although the Bavarian political arena does bear more than a passing resemblance to that of Texas, with some regrettable Italianate influences from across the Alps, the vast majority of Bavarians in lederhosen I've met have simply been fond of tradition - and yet entirely willing to accept the fact that an Englishman is sat before them in a cheap-and-cheerful version of their national dress. After all, the Oktoberfest has been going for over 200 years now, and after its current popularity elsewhere in Germany and abroad has subsided, it's bound keep going for another 200 years. I hope to experience at least another 50 of them. Read our other guest columns