This is a joke, my friends, about a small boy, a friend to all of us, named Harold. He was a very young man, eight or nine, the cusp of adolescence, and he lived in a small town miles from anywhere. So remote was this town and the options for entertainment there so few and far between, that it was only once every ten years that the circus visited, and when it did the townspeople held a great carnival and almost the entire populace attended the opening night.
So it was that in our friend Harold’s eighth or ninth year the circus came, and so it was that Harold found himself, seated on an aisle next to his father, watching the spectacle. And oh what a spectacle it was! There were mighty lions that roared and threatened to savage their courageous tamer. There was a topless girl on a horse that sparkled and pranced and ran around and around the great ring. There was a trapeze and a tightrope and a man who walked on glass, and then finally, the act Harold had most looked forward too arrived: the clowns. Oh what clowns! They laughed and fell about. They had a tiny car, and no end of cream pies. They japed and joked and sprayed one another with water. Harold was in stiches. After a time all but one of the clowns filed out of the area, leaving only their leader, standing balanced on a giant ball in the centre of the ring. The lights in the big top dimmed, and a spotlight began to whirl across the faces of the crowd. Fast at first, then slowing, around and around, not unlike the final moments of a roulette wheel (although of course Harold didn’t think of that – he was only eight or nine and knew nothing of gambling).
Eventually, and with an audible metallic click the spot light settled clear on our friend Harold. The clown leapt off his ball, and like a flash, bounded up the stair to Harold. “Well well well” he said, “who have we here?” He offered the microphone to our good friend. “I’m Harold”, he replied. “Well Harold, can you tell me something? I want to know, Harold, are you the horse’s head?” Harold was confused. “No clown,” he said. “I’m not the horse’s head.” “Well Harold, are you perhaps the horse’s legs?” Still puzzled, Harold scowled as only eight or nine year old boys can. “No clown, I’m not the horse’s legs.” “Well then Harold, might you be the trunk of the horse, the horse’s body?” “No clown, I’m not the horse’s body.” The clown beamed and winked at the audience, who were all on tenterhooks. “Well then Harold, you must be the horse’s arse.” The tension shattered, the audience fell apart, and great peels of laugher filled the big top. Screams of mirth. The clown turned and bowed, and then scampered down the stairs to the arena and was gone. The lights came back on and the people began to file out. It took almost an hour to make their way home through the throng, and all the way people kept grabbing at Harold, pulling his hair and yelling, “Horse’s Arse, Horse’s Arse, Horse’s Arse.”
Eventually the townspeople stopped jeering at Harold, and over time the trauma faded somewhat. Harold completed his schooling and went away to university, where he met a pretty girl, eventually bringing her home to settle in the small town. He reared some children of his own, two strapping young boys, but was always adamant about one thing. He would not go to another circus.
It must have been about three decades later, I suppose. Harold was thirty eight or thirty nine – his boys were seven and ten – when the circus came back to town. Daily, for weeks before, his boys nagged and nagged at him to take them, and eventually, after weeks of nagging, he relented. His beautiful wife kissed him. “Don’t worry” she said. “Circuses have changed in thirty years. Nothing bad will happen this time.”
The night of the circus came, and Harold found himself once again in the big top watching the spectacle. He was seating in the aisle again, this time next to his youngest son. O h what a spectacle it was! Again there were mighty lions that roared and threatened to savage their courageous tamer. Again there was a topless girl on a horse that sparkled and pranced and ran around and around the great ring, prettier than ever. Again there was a trapeze and a tightrope and a man who walked on glass. Harold couldn’t enjoy any of it though, for he was gripping the arms of his chair in white knuckle terror, dreading the arrival of the act he knew was coming: the clowns. Finally they came, and once again they laughed and fell about. They had the same tiny car, and no end of cream pies. They japed and joked and sprayed one another with water. It was exactly the act of Harold’s boyhood. Finally the clowns left and the very same clown, now old and decrepit, mounted his ball in the centre of the arena. The lights in the big top dimmed, and a spotlight began to whirl across the faces of the crowd. Fast at first, then slowing; around and around. Harold thought that it was not unlike the final moments of a roulette wheels he’d seen in his youth on that stag weekend in Vegas.
Eventually, and with an audible metallic click the spot light settled clear on our old friend Harold. The clown leapt off his ball, and slowly climbed his arthritic bones up the stair to Harold. “Well well well” he said, and then paused... “Say, haven’t we met before? Aren’t you my old friend Harold?” He offered the microphone to our good friend. “Yes clown. That’s me.”, he replied. “It seems to me you’ve grown up just fine, Harold” Observed the clown. “Two strapping young boys. A beautiful wife. Yes, this is quite a life you’ve made for yourself. Tell me Harold, has anything changed? Are you now the horse’s head?” “No clown,” replied Harold. “I’m not the horse’s head.” “Well Harold, have you become perhaps the horse’s legs?” Harold scowled. “No clown, I’m not the horse’s legs.” “Well then Harold, might you now be the trunk of the horse, the horse’s body?” “No clown, I’m not the horse’s body.” The clown beamed and winked at the audience, who were all on tenterhooks. “Well then Harold, I suppose you must still be the horse’s arse.” The tension shattered, the audience fell apart, and great peels of laugher filled the big top. Screams of mirth.
Harold stood up and gestured for silence with his hands. Eventually the audience settled down and all was quite in the big top. Harold leant in close to the clowns face and looked him dead in the eye.
“Yeah?” said Harold. “Well fuck you, clown.”
A Joke.
