Roll up, roll up – the circus is in town and I’m not just talking about the increasing number of patchouli scented wankers kipping in their Trans Vans at the end of my street.
It’s no secret amongst those that know me outside of the internet, I have a unnecessarily complicated relationship with this particular brand of wholesome, family entertainment and it’s absolutely not for the reasons you’re thinking to yourself right now – pah-lease – I’m hardly that right on.
In fact I’ve only ever been to one circus I enjoyed, at least that’s ‘one circus’ residing in the forefront of my increasingly dodgy memory and subsequent to that time in my childhood where I was just in it for the free balloons and giant pretzels.
(If you’re of a sensitive disposition stop reading now or conversely start sharpening your pitchforks and prepare to be morally outraged).
It was in Latvia, during a rare winter holiday and my first year in college, that we stumbled upon a rather depressed looking big top and I was in no doubt that this was completely what I wanted to waste my one activity choice on. Much arm twisting was applied to even get my unquestionably principled family to set foot inside…but you can see where this is going, right?
It had bears. Gorgeous, terrifying, big ass bears that walked on tightropes and rode tiny bicycles.
There was also a woman (of bus pass bearing age) whose entire act entailed twirling a dozen or so toy poodles (in what can only be described as a pimped out rotary dryer) with her fabulously stiletto-clad feet.
Hands down shat all over any objections PETA could throw up.
Ethical grey area aside though, the deciding factor that ranked this motley troupe above all others in my esteem was the distinct lack of clowns.
I fucking hate clowns.
Unlike my unfortunate nephew, this rather insidious coulrophobia wasn’t a product of watching Stephen King’s IT at far too young of an age but instead based on something I know to be a universal truth…
Clowns are, by their very nature, absolute dickheads.
Their sole purpose is to make you feel uncomfortable.
They frivolously invade your personal space if you’re stupid enough to seat yourself within ten yards of them and display a ‘humour’ (a word I use loosely) only shared by that mostly drunk, casually racist, little bit too handsy great uncle that appears sometime towards the conclusion of every family get together.
Don’t even get me started on the pie flinging.
Still. The circus is in town and Frank is yet to go.
Which is why I’m selflessly pushing aside my hostility for our *shudder* zany bretheren and heading off to buy two tickets to Saturday night’s show. If the poster is anything to go by there’ll be clowns-a-plenty.
Most likely a follow-up blog will be drafted early next week, if I’m not too traumatised, until then I would like to request a preemptive, reader-wide crossing of extremities that I don’t end up punching a performer.