Cirque Normale

The circus is in town for me everyday and it ceased to be funny about three weeks after I joined. After three weeks, the hilarity of my own incompetence and fuckwittage wore off and then they took away all the interesting animals. Since they went I have failed to see why people bother to come at all although I suspect that parents, with their own sad childhoods to relive, still come and expect to see two elderly lions, bulging with cancer because of the dog food they’re fed with, pushed around in some sort of sick show of human supremacy. The circus owners do nothing is dissuade people from the idea that there are animals here. The closest we get to animal is the occasional performing jack Russell, the horses and Bobby the knifeman after the bottle of Southern Comfort he needs to perform. For some reason it is still acceptable to keep horses and transport them round the country in mobile tin cans but not zebras. Exotic does not equate with endangered in my mind. Their shit stinks just the same and I for instance would be more than happy to tuck into the lean rump of a Thompson’s gazelle.

I’m so rude. I haven’t introduced myself. My stage name, well performing name is Vamos, the Human Missile. I made that up myself. Vamos is Spanish for ‘Let’s go,’ I think, but to be honest I got it from a Pixies song. My real name is Chris and at the age of thirty two I ran away to what could be described as possibly the saddest circus operation in the country. I have never known any different but they tell me that it used to be fun. Today we are strangled by health and safety; garroted by the cheese wire of the state. If you haven’t guessed already, I’m one fairly miserable human cannonball. I come on before the clowns make a car fall apart and after Anna the horse gymnast risks life and limb for £200 a show. At best I am a brief flash, a loud bang, a heart stopping wait then warm relief as I land in the net. The whole thing takes two minutes at the most and if the steps are carried out correctly, nothing can go wrong. The explosive charge that raises the plate which fires me out of the cannon is precise and I wear weights around my upper chest to ensure that I fall forward and land on my back. I check methodically every time before Grillanto the main clown, lights the fuse. Health wise, it doesn’t do to trust a clown and psychologically it’s impossible. Strangely they know and accept this.

Personally I have an empathy and a grudging respect for the clowns. What you might think would be a sideways move, human cannonball to clown, would in fact be a slight upward turn on the circus ladder. As a clown at least you have an act, a routine. As a clown at least you have some degree of artistry and interpretation. The mask is of your own making. Me, I’m just a dick in a helmet that inspects, waits and climbs out of net. And that brings me nicely to where I am right now, poised to do precisely that, stuck in my explosive metal prison. Last week I spoke with Grillanto about becoming a clown. “You’re too sad. I mean look at your face.” I wondered how long he’d been speaking in that fake Italian accent. Could he remember his own? I suddenly thought, is joining the circus something to do with losing your identity, forgetting?

“What? I thought clowns were supposed to be sad.”

“A common myth. Clowns are quite content people in actual fact. Think about it, they have to be.”

“Do they? Most of the clowns round here are miserable shits.”

“If we are not content with our role in life, we are not happy, yes?” I nodded. “And if you have taken on the role of the clown and you are not content, you are now miserable and you are one of life’s clowns. You get me?”

“So what you are saying is, unless you are happy being regarded as an idiot, don’t do it?”

“Precisely and you don’t seem to be an idiot to me, a little unhappy yes, but an idiot no.” Unwittingly I smiled at Grillanto’s wisdom. “Maybe there is some hope yet.” He said.

You will have asked yourself what it was I was running from when I joined the circus but I refuse to bore you with such trivialities suffice to say that depression is the better part of valor. I am caught in one of history’s most pathetic dilemmas; clown or human cannonball. Stick or bust. The helmet is thick and protective, but a clown’s mask might just be thin enough. The audience has started to countdown. I’ll give myself the time before I land to decide; that seems long enough.