SOMETHING ABOUT PETTIGREW (PART 1)

I thought it an opportune moment to start an occassional series featuring some of the Dramatis Personae of this travelling "Circus of Dreams" and where better to start than our proud - if often perplexed owner - Algernon R. Pettigrew.

He took over the circus shortly after I arrived myself and is generally regarded as a decent sort, if a little child like and naive. He is certainly an improvement on the previous incumbent of whom it was said, "if he entered a revolving door behind you, he'd be waiting for you on the other side, ready to pick your pocket".

Algernon was born to a travelling rat catcher and a mother who was, well let us just say, "well travelled". Times were tough when little Algie arrived in the world but, as well as his rat catching work his father had just started a side line in organic sausages and, not to be outdone in the entrepreunerial stakes, his mother toured the dockside bars of their hometown singing bawdy songs and selling kisses to sailors who did not seem at all "put off" by her glass eye and missing front teeth. She was one of the few among us who could truly say (to paraphrase the song)that she'd seen what the boys in the back room would have - particularly as she was the one thatgave it to them. As long as they paid for it she didn't care!

Algernon was a fey, dreamy child and while his peers were playing games during the break, he could be seen staring up at the passing clouds. It was during these childish reveries that his dinner money was invariably stolen - so he was a fey, dreamy AND skinny child!

He left school with no qualifications other than a gold star for being in charge of Miss Winterbottom's Spring Bulbs in Primary 7.

A succession of jobs followed. He was briefly employed putting holes in doughnuts at a local bakers but he left after a couple of weeks complaining bitterly about it being an empty experience.

Being fey and dreamy and forgetful was not much help in his next chosen occupation for, after the third time of finding himself in the High Street without a stitch on because he had forgotten to put his clothes ON AGAIN, he was fired from his job as a life model at the local Art College.

It was third time lucky though. He answered an ad. placed by an Oriental Carpet Merchant who was holding an exhibition of his wares at a prestigious nearby Hotel and needed a Sandwich Board Man to tell the world about it.

Algernon's ability to walk up and down half a dozen streets over and over again, stand motionless at strategic street corners for half an hour at a time in the wind and rain and go for a very long time without needing to go to the toilet stood him in good stead.

Soon he was advertising everything from hats to holidays and carpets to car doors and he would have jogged along quite nicely too if some jobsworth on the local council had not decided that sandwich boards were an Elf and Safety ishoo. Overnight sandwich boards were banned from the town.

Algernon was distraught. He took to covering his old round and standing motionless on street corners with his arms held out to mimic his missing sandwich board.

No-one is exactly sure but it's reckoned that it was about this time that he came into contact with a representative of the Raggle Taggle Gypsies (you know, the ones that "laughed and sang as the Greenwoods rang") who suggested that a spell with them might help him to see the world afresh.

Well, young Algie saw a good many Greenwoods and did his fair share of laughing and singing in them in the next few weeks. The whole experience did him a power of good. It really took him out of himself. It was a real tonic and much better than expensive therapy. There was just one problem.

Algernon had a bad habit of getting distracted as he danced and skipped his way through the woods with his merry companions. It might be a flower he had never seen before, a squirrel, or a peace of bark that looked like someone's face - the result was always the same.

As the strains of "a hey and a ho and a hey nonny no" drifted off into the distance our hero would be staring like a hypnotised rabbit at whatever had taken his fancy this time.

A half hour would go by before his Gypsy host's would realise he was no longer among their number and then a great "hue and cry" would echo through the trees until he was safely back in the bosom of his adopted family.

After the umpteenth time this got to be rather wearing for the Gypsies. You can't really blame them. After all, it takes away from the joyous sponataneity of the "laughing and singing" bit if you have to break off to launch a full scale manhunt every so often.

One morning, thinking it the kindest thing for all concerned,the Gypsy Folk rose extra early and left him asleep under a tree on the edge of a wood near Edinburgh.

Rosie, the pretty young girl in charge of the tambourine had formed quite an attachment and she brushed away a tear as she looked upon the baby faced troubador for the last time.

She knelt down and gently placed a four leaved clover in the breast pocket of his jacket, blew him a kiss and then parted forever. It would be quite a while before the words "hey nonny no" passed her lips again.

When Algie awoke. He ran through a gamut of emotions: mystification, shock, panic, anger. One moment he had a family and the next he did not.He wondered what he had done wrong and knew in the bottom of his heart how much he would miss them all but he knew he would miss Rosie most of all. Never to hear the jingle of the little silver bells around the edge of her tambourine again was a terrible prospect.

Eventually, he realised he could not sit in the woods forever. They were damp with dew and he did not want a flare up of the old trouble again. He had enough to deal with as it was.

Reluctantly, he rose from his woodland bed, yawned and made his way into the fair city of Edinburgh.



THIS POSTING IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THAT SWEET CLOWN OF THE EARLY CINEMA - HARRY LANGDON

A NIGHT(MARE) AT THE CIRCUS

I haven't mentioned it sooner, because I was waiting for the bad memories to subside to a manageable level, but the other week we fetched up in Brighton. That's right - in the very week that THEY were in town.

That would have been bad enough in itself, but our illustrious owner, who is dyed in the wool U.K.I.P by the way, agreed to accept a block booking from them for an early show on Friday evening - the tart - so that they could cheer themselves up after their dismal conference. After all, life in the Bunker can't be much fun, can it?

I don't know who their Entertainments Manager is but he deserves a good slapping with a wet copy of Hansard. I mean Labour and Circuses don't really go together, Well maybe in a Rorschach Test. Circuses, even this ramshackle affair, usually involve laughter and excitement and general enjoyment of life. Well, what I mean is, none of these are exactly in Labour's D.N.A. are they?

The mob that turned up at our show were more like the Children of the Night than the great "white hope" of U.K.plc and I hate to labour the point (geddit)but to a man and woman they made themselves thoroughly objectionable throughout the whole show.

If they weren't fidgeting in their seats they were fiddling about with their Blackberries or else poking about in little plastic boxes full of things like olives, feta cheese and sun-dried tomatoes or they were chomping on paninis and slurping from bottles of Malvern Water. The kids behave better. The whole thing was a farce - and not in a good way either!

As soon as the show started Harman was up on her Manolos haranguing the lovely young lady who rides the White Stallion bareback (the young lady AND the stallion since you ask) for allowing herself to be portrayed as a sex object and a slave to the lusts of men. Odd since most of the men I could see didn't look as though they could blow the foam off their cappuccinos let alone work up a good going lust. Anyway, who would pay good money to see Harperson on a horse - under it maybe.

Then Tweedledum and Tweedledee (better known as The Milliband Brothers) "resolved to have a battle" which was probably over some obscure detail of some half baked policy or another (do Labour know any other kind)and were slapping each other silly when Tweedledummer (aka Big John Prescott) led them off by the ear. Their squeals as they were led up the aisle made our useless Latvian juggler drop all his plates - not that that one needs an excuse for dropping things.

I was surprised to see Hazel Blears (the electric squirrel) in the front row. I thought she was persona non grata. Is there something we should know? Anyway, she was attacking Gordon's nuts (dry roasted) with a manic gusto and he, poor soul, looked as if he couldn't care less if she'd gone for his throat next.

I'll save the worst till last though. Half way through darling Mariella's act, a bored Peter Mandelson started admiring the £21,000 watch he sported at the conference. He held it up and waved his wrist around the better to see it sparkle in the circus lights. Because of this Mariella was blinded for a split second and nearly fell from her wire.

Incensed, I waited until she was safely back on Terra Firma. Then I strode across the ring in Mandy's direction. The red mist had come down and I was now reduced to a tightly coiled ball of primate fury in spangly shorts, tuxedo and top hat.

My rage was not mindless though. Oh no, I had a plan! I was going to humiliate this creature who had dared, dared I say, to jeopardise the divine Mariella. I was going to relieve myself down the trousers of his £3.000 suit. As well as pleasing me greatly, it dawned on me it would be great publicity for the Circus.

It was not to be though, for before I even got to the other side of the ring, strong hands laid hold off me. The aforesaid red mist meant that I couldn't see that it was Stromboli, circus strong man and my good friend, and I continued to kick and struggle and then Beppo and the Ring Master came up to give their assistance. Finally, someone gave me an injection and I was out like the proverbial light.

To make matters worse, all this got more laughter and applause than all the rest of the show put together.

Still, I got the last laugh. When I came round in Stromboli's caravan, M was looking down at me with concern (and I like to think a little gratitude for my gallantry) as she stroked my fevered bonce and whispered sweet nothings.

Looking at that sweet face and breathing in her aura of unworldly innocence, I was suddenly relieved that I hadn't been greatly relieved - not in public anyway

A RISING STAR, THE BRIGHTEST STAR

Well,I must say, life is settling down quite nicely after all the recent alarms and excursions. The "box office" has recently improved, our incompetent Latvian juggler is actually managing to keep two or more of his plates twirling on their bamboo poles at the same time (a bit of a metaphor for life itself, when you think about it) and - oh yes - toffee apple sales are going stratospheric.
All these things are welcome, of course, but, to be honest, they are a little bit pedestrian compared to the latest development at this "circus of fools"........Stromboli and I are in love!
No not with each other. Not in that way at least. I know showbiz types say that any publicity is good publicity but I could do without ending up on the cover of some obscure magazine dealing with the more unsavoury aspects of inter species behaviour and I am not talking about Hello magazine either.
The big snag is that we have both fallen in love with the same divine creature. Of course the added snag in my case is that I have fallen head over heels for a member of another species.
On reflection, its not a problem really as my love is a purely spiritual thing. Love her? I idolise her. I look up to her. I have to for she is Mariella, one half of the Circus' High Wire Act and she is on a higher plane than the rest of us - at an estimate I would say about thirty feet higher.
Of course, as you know by now, Stromboli is an honourable man and his love for this wonderful creature is pure, if a little confused by messages from the loin department. After all he is one of Adam's descendants. Thank heaven I am spared this torture.
She is wonderful though. I wish you could see her. Dressed in the purest white with some sparkling sequins dotted around her costume, she climbs step by graceful step, up to the wire and Stromboli and I and the audience wait in a breathless, expectant silence.
We are waiting for her to show us that the affairs of the world are of no more consequence than a speck of sawdust in the ring below.
We are waiting for her to show us that a human being can, at least for a brief moment, fly high above this tired, soiled old world untainted by it all. And she does. She does. Up there, there is one who is all white and shining and smiles.
One night - I think it was the night that I fell in love with her - I happened to look up just as she was smiling directly down at me. I remember thinking that if St. Francis of Assisi had a little sister she would look just like Mariella.
For a slender few seconds I imagined that I was up there with her looking down with pity and compassion on a world that had long ago lost its way and whose inhabitants were, at this very moment, looking up at us and hoping to be shown it anew.
Do I over romanticise? Do I guild the lily? Am I too sickly sentimental to be allowed to socialise with diabetics?
Perhaps. Perhaps. But I know one thing: As she comes back down that ladder to join us mere mortals again I find myself mouthing the last words from that beautiful book, the Great Gatsby,.........."Come back. Come back. O glittering and white."

The illustration above is of Miss Mariella on a visit to a local school. Amongst other things, she set the children straight about why it's not a good idea to run off to the Circus, even if your parents are very annoying!

I have had a missive from Melissa Crawley - Williams (not the Suffolk Crawley-Williams surely?) She asks me if I am an animal keeper. No dear, I AM a circus monkey. Its not a nom de plume. Also she risks my monkey wrath by praising those b****y M***k**s again. Still, as judging by her picture, she is an extreeemely pretty young woman, I'll forgive her.
By the way, was that a day at the races or do you just like big hats Melissa?
If I didn't have Mariella in my life you would be next in line for a bit of inter species worship.
Ooo stop me before you fall in love with me. TTFN. c.m.

LEAPING LEMURS! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Troubled days and sleepless nights since my little diatribe last time. I keep seeing Meerkats everywhere, I am the haunted monkey of Pettigrew's Circus and, NO, that is not a new act on the bill
The other night, during the Act, I could almost have sworn that I saw one of the aforementioned in the audience wearing a smoking jacket. It may have been because my eyes were still watering after getting "the family jewels" in a twist after a particularly tight turn but I was equally sure I saw him draw his fingers across his throat in a cutting motion.
Then, the very next day, my dear friend and benefactor, Stromboli the Circus Strong Man,got a very strange phone call. Someone with a heavy Russian accent said to forget about finding cheap car insurance as that task would be a cake walk compared to finding my lifeless body after he and all the other "Ivans" had had their way with it. Mummy!!!!!!
Stromboli tried his best to calm me down. He is of the opinion that it was one of Beppo's (head clown and would be circus shop steward) practical jokes. Apparently he is one of this blogs followers - however uninvited. If he was behind it I'm not sure whether I am more surprised at the depth of his malice or the fact that he can read.
Now look, once and for all lets set the record straight. Meerkats are not that bad.
O.K. they are a bit annoying - sorry Ivan - but you have to admit they are great entertainers. Millions of T.V. viewers can't be wrong. Can they?
If you are looking for an annoying creature, look no further than the Lemur. They really are annoying. In fact, they are downright obnoxious. All that high kicking and leaping around for no apparent reason. What a total waste of energy.
They are like a bunch of demented Tiller Girls or Pan's People after too many cans of Red Bull. Imagine that lot invading your favourite Palais de Danse on a Saturday night. Trouble? There would be fur, teeth and toe nails everywhere.
The local Romeos (or Neds as they are often known) would not like it one little bit. The high kicking "lemur leaps" would, inevitably be construed as a pre emptive kung fu move and many cries of "Come on,if you think you're hard enough you furry b**t**d" would ensue.
Secondly, the same young men would be insanely protective of their young women (or hussies as they are sometimes known)Over the melee you can just hear the strangled cries.....the language of chaos and violence.
"Oi, "banjo eyes", are you molting on my bird?"
"Oi, you swingin' on me girlfriend?" Note the use of the word "on" and not "with". It's no mistake.
No, gentle reader, never invite lemurs to your wedding. As far as dancing goes, they just do not know when enough is enough. Heaven help the world if they ever get their hands on alcohol.
Oh, greeeeaaaat!!!!!!! I've just realised what I've done. Now I not only have a pack of murderous Meerkats on my heels, I've got the leaping lemurs too - and with those legs to propel them they'll probably catch me in half the time.
Look! Look! Let me try one more time to extricate myself from this diplomatic nightmare. To that end I shall tell a story against my own species - although admittedly, they were distant cousins.
Many years ago there was a beautiful little island in the Pacific Ocean. Developers discovered it and turned it into an upmarket and eco friendly resort. Everyone was happy. The natives, who had been having a particularly tough time of it got good jobs in the catering industry and hotel management while at the same time knowing that there beloved island would not become debauched or turn into a Blackpool with sun. The developers were happy as they could make a ton of money while still retaining the warm glow of eco harmony.
The hotels were all built, the airport runway extended, there were boats in the harbour and Prince Andrew and his latest paramour had booked for a whole month.
Then, a tribe of monkeys who lived in the hinterland in a part of the island that the developers had turned into a jungle adventure trail (eco friendly of course) made their presence known.
The natives had more sense than to bother with the interior (hot, sticky, murder on the sandals etc) and so the primate residents of this place had no experience in dealing with human beings. They took to dropping from the trees, landing on the shoulders of the unfortunate eco tourists and trying to screw their heads off, thinking they had found the best coconut on the island.
Some longhair professor came up with theory that the monkeys, who were heavily dependent on coconuts, deduced that a coconut that was actually walking around would have a bit more zing (and thus be better for them)than one that was just lying around on the ground.
Be that as it may, the resort never recovered. Prince Andrew never went back after his young lady was stretchered off with whiplash. Countless lawsuits followed and, so the story goes, the whole place is just festering away, like that town in the Brasilian jungle.
Oh no, I give up. That crowd of pestilential primates were related to the Bonobos who live on the other side of the river from the my folks. I can't even go home!
Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Has anyone out there got a small room I could use for a while?

DOWN WITH MEERKATS

What is it with you lot and Meerkats? I don't understand it myself. You get your mug on the "haunted fishtank" a few times and all of a sudden you're the best think since sliced Hovis.
Well let me tell you something. They are nothing special. I mean what do they do, anyway? Yes that's right, they stand around in gangs and they wait for something to happen. And they wait and they wait. What are they waiting for anyway - Godot?
Then, on the rare occasions that something actually does happen, they scatter in as many different directions as there are Meerkats. Call that an Act. They can't even get you cheap car insurance!
Now take my Act. I not only juggle balls (stop that), I race around on my shiny red bike, get chased by clowns, take prat fall after pratfall and generally bring laughter and magic into the audiences life - EVERY NIGHT! That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is an ACT.
I don't even get my distinguished features replicated on the Circus' posters and yet those lousy show offs get a regular feature on that stupid "Walk on the Wild Side" programme. Struth! It's enough to give wildlife a bad name.
And as for that flatulent Gorilla....please. I know I am a chimp but he brings shame on the lot of us. Anyway, much of my problem in that direction has gone since Stromboli started making me drink buckets of Peppermint Tea. Not so much Gone with the Wind as gone with the Peppermint, you might say.
Then there's that pointy eared little idiot shouting after Alan. Someone wants to tell him that "Alan" has probably been trampled by a bunch of stampeding Meerkats.
Oh switch the T.V. off Come to the Circus and see a real Act. Meerkats! Meerkats! Meer Rodents I say.
Has somebody out there got a drink? I'm spitting feathers here!

IT'S RAINING IN MY HEART - BUT I'M EXPECTING A BRIGHT SPELL LATER!

Dear Reader,

Pardon, if you will, the lack of communication in the last few weeks. Summer should be a carefree time, of course, but I have found that the recent sudden outbursts of hot, humid weather (sometimes for as much as twenty minutes at a time) followed by two hours of monsoon rain has put me in mind of the old country.
In fact its made me come over all melancholic just thinking of my kinfolk, from whose bosom I was so brutally ripped.
I see them all now, as though in a dream; Cholo playing with his coconuts, Bingo playing with Malulu, Bongo playing with himself.
Then, of course, sooner or later, the dream fades and I wake up in the Penny Arcade which is my new life and also in this beknighted country of yours.
No offence, dear reader. It's just that everything here seems to centre around how many possessions people can accrue or how much booze they can force down their throats or how much.......well, never mind about "the other".
And the paranoia in your world. Don't get me started on that. Well, now that I have started, I might as well finish.
Back home, we have big cats with very sharp teeth who mean us no good whatsoever constantly circling the old homestead. Imagine getting your bonce caught in jaws that could rip your nut off in seconds. That's something guaranteed to tighten the old sphincter, still we manage to keep cheery.
But you lot,....If you're not worrying about terrorists, or the state of the economy or swine flu, you are busy looking for something to worry about - and your meedja is only to ready too oblige, is it not?
Everyday seems to bring a new scare story about this, that or the other and, somehow, it seems that the more "experts" there are the more dangers they discover.
They are the new priesthood but they are not concerned with the state of your soul. They are only interested in imposing their will by telling you what you are doing wrong, and that you are not the person you could be and that everything is hopeless anyway.
Do your best to ignore the experts and they might just GO AWAY.
Oh, look, look, see - over there......a chink of blue in a glowering sky!

Can anyone out there send something amusing to free me from this "brown study"?

THE STAR SPANGLED SHORTS

Storm clouds hang heavily over our little enterprise at the moment.Audiences are conspicuous by their absence and receipts are falling.

The Latvian juggler recently had to be paid in ten and twenty pence pieces from the toffee apple stand. Having seen his act more times than I care to remember, I would say it would make more sense to pay him IN toffee apples.

There is a school of thought that says people need a laugh and some thrills in tough times. What they didn't factor into the equation is the fact that the only time there are "thrills" in THIS establishment is when there is an accident.Such thrills usually end in a flashing blue light receding into the night and more lurid headlines in the local press.

As for the laughter bit, while everyone needs a good laugh when times are hard, paying for the dubious privilege of engaging in outright mockery is regarded by most folk as an indulgent extravagance.

Embarrassingly, I seem to be exempted from the rash of economies taking place at Pettigrew's just now. Au contraire, by contrast with the rest of my fellow, mummers, chancers and clowns, money has been positively splurged on me in the last seven days.

The tricycle that I use in our act ground to a halt when one of the back wheels sheared off right in the middle of the proceedings the other night. Mind you, it got a bigger laugh than anything else we did. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have been furnished with a brand, spanking new tricycle that plays snatches of "Greensleeves" when I press the bell which, admittedly, can cause confusion when the children in the audience line up in an orderly manner for ice cream before our "fifteen minutes of fun" is over.

Also, following my ongoing problems with chaffing caused by the lederhosen, I have now been attired in spangly shorts and a gold lame waistcoat.

I must admit that I felt a bit of a fool at first (which is, of course, what I am paid to be) but the combined effect of my sporty new trike and the sequins on my shorts sparkling in the circus lights is really rather spectacular and I have started to enjoy being at the centre of things.

I have heard mutterings that I am getting above myself and becoming a bit of a prima donna. I deny this of course. Anyway, how do you maintain a low profile while parading around in a gold lame waistcoat and spangly shorts.


AUNT SALLY

A Mr. G BROWN, of 10 Downing Street says: I take great offence at being refferred to as a "SOCIOPATH" in your last posting. It's a bit much when I am bending over backwards to clean up the mess I made in the first place. Oops!............

Marcel says: "Bending over backwards, eh? We may have a vacancy for you......."