THE CLOWN

I’m here, lucky me. No home, but a dressing-room – space and time, occupying space and time. Who was it sang that song ‘The Show Must Go On?’ Little fellow in a clown’s outfit, was on TV recently – some reality drivel – Leo somebody. Leo Sawyer? Sayer, that’s it. Sayer. Pillock. These bulbs round my mirror – three are out. Must tell the stage-manager. Can’t see to put my make-up on. My face is my fortune – what a joke. 40 watts or 60? Low energy or ordinary? Can you buy them any more? The blasted EU, puts a damper on everything. Jesus, I’m scared. I always feel sick before a show. Guts in turmoil. Now that I’ve been turfed out of my house, I feel even worse. What am I doing here? Why am I doing this? I could have been a contender. Who said that? Muhammad Ali? No, some actor fellow – who was it – Stallone, of course, in ‘Rocky’, though I don’t know which one. There were about thirteen. I could have been a solicitor – all I lacked was the education. I didn’t have the agility. Who said that? Para Handy, of course. Another clown. What do they say about the tears of a clown? In my case, they happen to be right. Sally Army hostel with all those other bums, tramps and winos. That’s where I’ll end up. Still, play up, play up and play the game. An over to go and the last man in, and all that. The audience has parted with its hard-earned and expect a performance from me. I’m a professional. ‘Act with humility, act with dignity’, that’s my motto, even though I’m going under with the strain of it all. No friends, no money. Where am I going to live? There’s no bigger clown than me right now.