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. They're 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.