Our forgotten clowns

Aman, or so the story goes, visits the doctor to seek treatment for depression. The doctor recommends the services of a famous clown, Pagliacci, who is bound to cheer him up. The man bursts into tears and says: “But doctor, I am Pagliacci.” Beneath their painted-on smiles, it would be surprising if British Pagliaccis were not a little morose given the possibility of mass unemployment: just 100 or so are left. With their ritualised movements and intricate ceremonial raiments, they do give the impression of being part of some ancient, secretive order, whose rites are preserved primarily for historical interest. A clowning museum now hopes to rescue their fortunes with a series of events. Should that fail, it will fall to the most faithful to keep the flame alive for a future, less coulrophobic generation.