Roll up, roll up...

‘Call the roller of big cigars, the muscular one, and bid him whip.’*

Yes folks, you’ve guessed it, today’s nostalgia trip is the circus extravaganza of yore!

Look there, it’s the maestro himself, the ringmaster, in scarlet fettling and tall hat and wielding a switchin’ horsewhip. Over there is the lion tamer. Watch as he attempts to beard the lion in its den with just a scullery chair. The brute groans and pants and prepares to pounce.

However, our man brooks no opposition.

Over yonder is the fireeater vomiting hellfire and brimstone and a trio of little monkeys riding upon unicycles. The pong of wild beasts is all pervasive and a strong stomach is required.

A pair of pachyderms are worn out and shabby, their pelts wrinkly, and a charming seal is honking hooters with his whiskery snout.

Exotic midgets engage in slapstick with the clowns.

They bear it seems, the weight of the world upon slumped shoulders, their misery a vintage of many years ferment – their demeanour that of a whipped dog crawling upon its belly to lick the boots of a cruel master.

Here is ‘The world’s strongest man’ with waxed moustache and huge barbells. He is decked out like Tarzan of the apes in a leotard, but without the swinging about in trees and shrieking – (unless he drops the barbell on his toe)

Some boring horses prance about for a bit, and a tightrope walker who everyone secretly hopes will fall off into the safety net (or is that just me?).

*From The Emperor of ice cream poem by Wallace Stevens. Tony Fenlon Bursledon Road, Waterlooville