Send In The Clowns – Peter Culley (29th)

On 13 June 1944 the first of the infamous V1 rockets (the Doodlebugs) hit London to be followed on 8 September by the even more feared V2 rockets. I was then living with 3 other family members in a small flat in North Cheam (having been adopted some 3 years’ previously). At this juncture in the War my adopted parents decided to send me out of the perceived danger area to live with my father’s parents in Scotland and so – at the tender age of 4 – I came to live north of the border for the next 6 years or so.
My grandfather was an office manager working for a timber importers located in Grangemouth docks which, in those days, bore no resemblance to the enormous oil refining facility it later became. He did however have a smart detached company house on Bo’ness road; a Morris 8 car; a telephone; a part-time domestic servant; and we took our summer holidays in Rothesay on the Isle of Bute. In other words life was pretty good. I had my own bedroom and a bicycle and was probably spoiled rotten by my grandmother. Of course there was no TV and – to be honest – life was understandably pretty bleak after the drab years of conflict. Grangemouth then was hardly the Las Vegas or Blackpool of Midlothian!
I do vaguely recall the odd tramp (Gentlemen of the Road) calling at the door to our house to solicit modest favours, and of course the occasional Gypsy selling lucky heather and/or clothes pegs. The knife-grinder with his bicycle also made infrequent appearances but the tempo of life was generally slow and unexceptional.
Except that just occasionally the arrival of something exotic and exciting was proclaimed by the sudden appearance overnight of gaudy posters and leaflets on telegraph poles and walls proclaiming the imminent arrival of a travelling circus, due any day soon for 2 or 3 nights only. On the day in question we boys rushed to the anointed waste ground to watch the trucks arrive; the huge centre pole secured; and the colourful fabric of the Big Top billowing like the canvas sail of a Caribbean pirate ship. In the evening the place was lit by strings of electric lights and the night reverberated to the raucous noise of mechanical music emanating from the many fairground attractions that accompanied the circus on its perambulations .It all promised so much, and – through the uncritical eyes of a small boy – it lived up to its promise.
The whole show was under the watchful eye of the one and only Ringmaster, resplendent in top hat and waistcoat,; supported by trapeze artists high above the watching audience; girls riding horses bare-backed round the tent; a lion tamer with a couple of mangy specimens; and – of course – a cluster of clowns. The clowns themselves were predictable in their antics, and that alone ensured their popularity with the expectant public. The big shoes, the red noses, the facial make-up, the flowers in buttonholes that squirted water, etc., etc. The Keystone Cops pranks and the custard pie routines were all anticipated, and delivered on cue, to the delight of one and all. At the end of the show the paying public noisily exited into the night to find their way home, talkative and tired but happy.
Such was the life of the travelling circus. After a couple of days they were gone, moving on to another target town – a nomadic life that has all but disappeared from our world and vanished down the corridors of Time. New sources of public amusement have arisen to take the place of such simple pleasures (and – in any case – the concept of the circus has become far less socially acceptable to many). We may look back with some nostalgia but change is inevitable.
In conclusion I have tried to find a modern day parallel with the travelling circus. There is just one that almost fits the bill. A public performance is enacted on certain Wednesdays of the year in a static Big Top known as the Palace of Westminster. The ‘performance’ is entitled Prime Minister’s Question Time and is presided over by a Speaker who, while clearly in charge (to a degree) dresses less flamboyantly than the old Ringmaster. There are no trapeze artists, girl riders, or lion tamers with whips but there are clowns aplenty. Sadly the resultant cacophony of cheers and jeers leaves a lot to be desired, leaving one even more nostalgic for the Good Old Days than ever!