Clowning About at the Circus

There was a hushed but excited air of expectancy within the audience. The spectacular Baltadjievs had just completed their dangerous, aerial act without a hitch and now, within a couple of moments, it would be the turn of the clowns to entertain the 900-strong members of the public who had braved the Sheffield rain and come to the circus. 

Backstage the three clowns prepared themselves for an act that would be surprisingly physical. In front stood the hyper-active Fips, an experienced performer, whose family were steeped in circus history and tradition. His usual partner, Beau, stood behind, wearing a chef’s hat and apron. At the back of the trio was the latest addition to the act, a clown named “Sparko,” who sported more traditional make up than the others and who would be the chief recipient of all the water, shaving foam, custard and general gunge that would be hurled around shortly on stage.

“Sparko” had joined the company of Gerry Cottle’s circus just a few days before and, having tried his hand at fire-eating and trampolining, knife-throwing and whip-cracking, hula-hooping and limbo dancing, was told that his natural talent lay with the clowns. And so it came to be that, as the circus band hammered out the music to Laurel and Hardy, I found myself, complete with red nose and the most outrageous mascara, pushing a kitchen sink with a number of bowls filled with gunge out into the middle of the auditorium for ten-minutes of sheer mayhem.

It was only the week before that I had first noticed in a newspaper that Cottle and Austen’s Circus was in the latter stages of an eleven-month, UK tour. My eyes lit up and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up in excitement. Gosh! The circus! What fun it would be to throw away my montonous lifestyle and join the big top. It was one of those spontaneous decisions in life, but one I shall never regret. Quickly throwing a few belongings into my red and white spotted bag, including lashings of ginger beer and an extra pair of shorts, I decided to run away from home and hitch a lift up north. Well, all right then, I drove up the M1 in my car.

Jan-Erik Brenner was waiting for me at Hillsborough Park, close to Sheffield Wednesday’s football ground. He and the other 55 members of the circus had only arrived the night before from Leicester and, already by eleven o’clock that morning, the huge tent had been erected and the village of caravans and motor homes were nestled behind in a close community. I had telephoned Jan-Erik a few days’ earlier to see if I could join his circus, but when we met he revealed himself to be Fips the Clown, the recipient of many circus awards, together with partner Beau.

As we walked around the big top and the thirty-odd caravans Jan-Erik explained that he had set up a number of auditions for me to see which discipline I would be most able to perform three nights later. “Most of us are jacks of all trades,” he explained. “You won’t find any performer here who is unable to do at least three other things on top of their main act.”

As we walked and talked so various characters would introduce themselves in what turned out to be a truly multi-cultural gathering. There were the acrobats from Kenya and Ghana, the flying Ciobanus from Romania and the hair-hanging Irena Baltadjiev with husband Petre from Bulgaria, the swinging Micha Reale from Australia, hula-hooping Yana Rodinov from Russia and Whimmy Walker and his Italian wife, Roberta, who performed alongside him. Whimmy turned out to be the great-grandson of Whimsical Walker, Queen Victoria’s favourite clown, who was often on royal appointment to amuse the monarch. 

Strange words would be uttered, too, between the performers, words that I had never heard of before. Jan-Erik and Todd Christian, another clown, caught my bemused expression and explained. “It’s circus speak,” they said. “It’s devolved over the years, a language that everyone understands no matter from where they come.” They then proceeded to give me a crash course in the language. “Nanti” means no, and “omi” is man. The “toba” is the site of the circus and its grounds, whilst “varda” translates to “look at.” A couple of words I heard commonly over the next few days were “charva” and “mozzie,” which meant sex, or any kind of sexual act, and a woman. “Jagals” referred to a particularly attractive or potentially loose woman. Trying to show off my new-found language later on that day, I referred to charva and omi in the same line, which caused great confusion and wariness among my fellow performers who pointed out that my lines had perhaps become a little crossed.

Unperturbed, I was ready to discover why P.T Barnum described the circus as “The Greatest Show on Earth.” Jan-Erik took me back inside the big top and introduced me to Jeff Jay, a former scaffolder but now a multi-talented star of Cottle and Austen’s who could, on any given day, trampoline, fire-eat, throw knives, crack whips, juggle, and perform one of the most dangerous acts in the present-day circus, walking the “Wheel of Death.”

Jeff suggested we should plunge straight into the deep end. Filling his mouth with lighter fuel he placed a lighted flame on the end of a stick in front of his face and proceeded to blow out a huge fireball skywards. “Now it’s your turn,” he said, with a smile. First I practised the spitting part of the act, creating a mist of water by half-spitting, and half blowing a raspberry. Then I replaced the mouthful of water with some foul tasting lighter fuel and held the lit flame a couple of inches away from my lips. “Remember, upwards and outwards, and as soon as you stop, move your face away,” Jeff said. “Otherwise you’ll do what I’ve done in the past - have half your hair burnt off.”

As a final, constructive comment, it had the desired effect. In the corner of my eye I had noticed that a rather nervous-looking Jan-Erik had fetched a fire extinguisher. Swilling the fuel around in my mouth for a few seconds, I lifted my head up, placed the flame close to my face and spat as hard as I could. The instant heat rebounded into me, and a long, plume of red and yellow fire shot out towards the roof of the tent. Twice more I performed this act before Jeff handed me some water and mouthwash. “Still alive, then,” he said. “Now let’s try the trampoline.”

In his time Jeff has managed to break a number of bones in his body bouncing up and down in his act. In fact, most of the performers have managed to break a number of bones in their bodies over the years including, and especially, the clowns. The bouncing up and down bit proved not to be a problem, but as soon as the attempted somersaults began I discovered that, unlike Jeff, I had no control over the direction nor final destination of my body. It was time to move on before I missed the trampoline altogether and landed on the floor.

After Yana had me wriggling my hips as she placed a large hula hoop around me, and Whimmy had forced me on to a unicycle and watched as I kept lurching and finally crashing down on top of him, Rama Abdallah, one of the Kenyan acrobats, looked on with amusement as I fell flat on my back attempting a ridiculously low limbo dance, J.D Hanson appeared with a whip and some knives. Asking me to hold up a piece of newspaper, he proceeded to shred it in half with his large bull-whip, the crack of the whip and the rip of the paper reverberating around the tent. Each time he cut the newspaper into two I would be forced to hold up one of the pieces until I was left holding one the size of a postage stamp. “Keep it tight,” J.D advised, as he let fly his whip from some ten metres away, piercing the paper and catching the end of my fingertip in the process.

This was just the hors d’ouevres, however. Out came a piece of wood not much larger than a human, with large splinters sticking out of it. “Stand there,” J.D ordered, and as I leaned against the wood he pulled out of his bag half a dozen shiny, sharp knives. “Now, don’t move a muscle,” he said. The only muscle in danger of moving was the one found in my bladder as he hurled six knives at me, on either side of my legs, hips and shoulders. “Now it’s your turn,” he said, as I stood frozen to the board.

The ever-helpful Jeff mentioned that he held the world record for accidents in this particular discipline. “Stabbed someone four times once doing this,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Didn’t hurt them too badly, mind you. Just a few nicks, that’s all, and a bit of blood.”

The truly insane Jan-Erik volunteered to take my place against the board. The crucial difference was that it would be me throwing the knives, not J.D. I took a couple of practice throws first before unleashing one which stuck into the board and wobbled a few inches away from Jan-Erik’s left leg. “That’s enough for me,” he said, as he fled from the scene. “I think it’s clear from what we’ve seen that you are ideally suited for a particularly important and famous act.”

What’s that, then?” I asked.

“You’re a born clown,” Jan-Erik replied, not revealing whether this was a compliment or an insult. “We’ll get to work on the act tomorrow.”

And so we did, with me replacing Todd Christian, who had broken his arm performing the very same act I would be doing in 48 hours’ time. “Broke my ankle, too, six months before that,” Todd informed me cheerily, as he agreed to play a small role in the act, and help tutor me. “Never think it’s easy being a clown. It may look like simple slapstick, but as you’ll discover, it’s all down to timing.”

Jan-Erik, now in his alter-ago as Fips, announced that I would be known as  “Sparko.”

“And why, exactly, have you chosen that name?” I asked, not unreasonably.

“Cos there’s always a chance you may get knocked out - Sparko,” he replied, before explaining the “Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook” act we would be performing. “You emerge with Beau pushing out the cooker,” he began, already running around the empty stage and flapping his arms around in a demented fashion. “Beau and I will first chuck water over each other before then throwing a bucket over an unsuspecting you. Then, after Beau’s tripped over carrying the mop, you come and pick it up, swing round and knock me over with it by hitting me over the head. I’ll get up, you swing round again and hit me again. The third time I’ll duck, but you’ll get me on the rebound. I’ll snatch the mop from you and stamp it hard on your foot. You retreat to behind the cooker, hopping in pain. Okay so far?”

Er, possibly.

“Good. Then you come out again, bump into me and tip water all over me. I’ll take the bucket away from you, making sure it’s still half full, and run after you as you head for the audience. Just before I throw the water over you, you duck, and the audience gets it instead. Then I’ll put a bucket of water down Beau’s trousers and kick him up the arse. When I do that you come round, pick up some empty buckets, and then I’ll kick you up the arse. You turn round just as I empty another bucket of water in your face. Still with me?”

Er, maybe.

“Then comes the really messy bit. I’ll flick some gunge over Beau using a whisk, he’ll get me back, and then we’ll both flick some at you. Make sure you close your eyes for this, by the way, because it bloody stings if it’s a direct hit. I’ll go and flick some over the crowd, before choosing a man in the audience to slap a large dollop on to his head.”

How does he know the man won’t get angry?

“I don’t,” Jan-Erik replied. “It’s a bit of a gambol, and usually everyone has a giggle, but occasionally I’ve been threatened.”

“What happens then?”

“Well, it looks pretty silly to threaten a clown at a circus, doesn’t it,” he answered. “He normally gets laughed at, and I play up my fear on the stage. Anyway, I then steal Beau’s hat, Beau nicks yours, and I call you over into the centre of the stage, where I force a large chef’s hat full of gunge down on to your head. There’s a hole in the hat, and a tall fountain of gunge should shoot up into the air. That always gets a laugh, by the way.”

Terrific! The “gunge,” incidentally, is a mixture of shaving foam, water and food colouring.

“We run back and each collect a wok full of more gunge, throw some over the audience, and then place it over each other’s heads. We do a little Chinese walk, bow so that we bang heads, and then run back to fetch a couple of custard pies made out of more gunge. From opposite ends of the stage we ran at each other. You throw the first one at my face and then make a forward dive on to the now slippery floor which should propel you to the side of the stage. We get up, and this time you get one in the face, before we both produce another dive. Beau will then slap two more pies into both sides of your head. Understand?”

Er, perhaps.

“At this point I will chase after both of you with a bucket of water. You and Beau will hide behind a middle-aged woman sitting on this particular chair as I chuck the water all over her.”

What! You can’t do that!

“Oh no, it’s okay. That’s my mother. She doesn’t mind, and the audience thinks I’ve just drenched an unsuspecting woman.” Right!

“Then Beau, me, and finally you will all take spectacular running dives across the floor so that we disappear off the end and into the hoardings separating the stage from the audience. We return to the centre of the stage, hold our arms aloft first to the front, then to the left, then to the right, and finally bow to the front again, before waving and making our exit. You got all that?”

Er. 

Now it just so happens that the clown is arguably the most revered performer of the lot at the circus, the one turn that has to create laughs, and the act, more than any other, that is deeply-entrenched in the history and tradition of the show. Although there have been some famous circus performers over the years in other disciplines, such as Blondin, the great high-wire exponent, it is the clowns that have enjoyed the fame and fortune. Joseph Grimaldi is perhaps the most well-known, stemming from the nineteenth century, together with the Latvian-born Coco, but in latter days first the Italian, Charlie Cairoli, and then the likes of Zippo and now even Fips and Beau have carried on their proud heritage. The likes of silent movie comic Harry Langdon, and American comedians WC Fields, Red Skelton and Eddie Cantor all began their professional lives as circus clowns, while the great Buster Keaton became one after his silent movie career came to an end. Now it would be my turn, as part of Cottle and Austen’s gruelling national tour that sees them performing twice a day for an incredible 317 days this year.

The following night I arrived early so that Jan-Erik could slap the required ton of make-up onto my face. He informed me that I would feature in a few other, cameo roles as well, including once again facing J.D Hanson in the knife-throwing. Great!

I had little to do in the first half, except for a brief appearance helping Yana with her hula hoops, and then a couple of circuits around the stage on a push-bike that bounced up and down, designed to make fun of the BMX stunt performer who had just finished his act.

Ten minutes after the interval, however, came our big moment. I followed Fips and Beau on to the stage and took my position behind the cooker as my fellow clowns began the watery mayhem. The first bucket in my face came as a bit of a shock, the second, this time into my body, was thrown so hard that it forced me back. The mop routine went well, although urged on by Jan-Erik I clouted him so hard and repeatedly that he, on each occasion, was thrown to the floor. Then came the shaving foam.

As Fips placed my chef’s hat on to my head I closed my eyes and hunched my shoulders in readiness for the force of pressure and the gunge. It was impossible to keep some out of my eyes and, when I attempted to clear them with my gunge-covered hands, it only made matters worse. With now half-closed, stinging eyes, we tipped our woks over each other before running back to collect the “custard pies.” Amid the fury I could hear the audience laughing, although I was concentrating so hard on the complicated routine and the fact that I was semi-blinded, that much of the reaction passed me by.  

I was on the verge of running towards Jan-Erik’s mother when I remembered I still had to receive two more pies in the face from Beau. We both then hid behind Jane Brenner as her son tipped a full bucket over her. The audience gasped at first at the poor, now-soaked woman, before twigging that something was up as she chased the three of us back on to the stage. My full-length slide could have ended painfully had Fips and Beau not caught me as I shot off the stage, and as we bowed to the crowd they responded with cheers and applause.

Phew! That was a lively ten minutes or so. As we disappeared behind the stage curtain I felt mentally and physically shattered and, amid the water and gunge, I was sweating profusely. The night was not quite over, however. Jan-Erik and I had less than four minutes to run back to a caravan, rip of our messy clothes, throw two buckets of water over us, get dressed again and re-emerge for our next part.

The knife-board was already on the stage when I re-appeared and was promptly army-volunteered to become J.D’s guinea pig. Now this bit was genuinely scary, especially when they placed a balloon between my legs. J.D positioned himself some ten metres away and proceeded to throw seven knives, the penultimate one landing what a relieved Jan-Erik admitted later no more than an inch from my left thumb. The last knife popped the balloon just below my crotch and I disappeared carrying the board off on my back, before emerging for the last time as a waving part of the “Rockin’ All Over the World” finale.  

Chaos. Absolute chaos. And as we all skipped off stage for the last time, and the crowd made their way out of the tent and back to their homes, I felt a mixture of exhaustion, relief and a high-octane adrenalin that would pump around my body for a number of hours later.

“I’ve got to do that twice a day, almost every day,” a laughing Jan-Erik said as he slapped me on the back and shook my hand. “But it’s good fun, isn’t it?”

In a strange kind of way it was, too. Performing a clown act is riddled with cock-ups and injuries, let alone repeated drenchings and discomfort, but my estimation of these particularly nutty performers shot up almost as high as the gunge that was launched from the hole in my chef’s hat that night.

As for the future of Sparko the clown, only time will tell. He’s been invited back whenever he wants to perform again with the flying Ciobanus, the hanging Baltadijievs and, of course, Fips and Beau, and there’s just a chance he might, too, if the smell of the sawdust and the pouring of gunge can lure him away once more from the monotony of life.