My first acting job – as a dwarf jester

If I want to succeed in Hollywood or get a girlfriend, there’s no choice – I must lie about my height

Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he still shares with his parents…

As a very short man living in a very small seaside town, my only problem in the summer is seagulls with poor vision who swoop down on me, in search of prey.

But this year I have a new nemesis: the algorithm. For some reason, whenever I fill in a form online, I always get results that put the psycho into psychometric.

While awaiting the start of my new job, I thought I would put myself forward for any seasonal work I fancied, and not limit myself by talent or experience.

Rather than apply again for Rosetta’s Roast Chicken Caravan, I put myself on the virtual books of an acting agency. I completed all the personal physical information and provided a head shot – perfectly at the intersection between wistful and wise and risk-taking roué.

Then my email pinged with what I realistically expected to be an automated offer to play the part of a self-made millionaire in a murder-mystery evening or a butler with an armed-forces past in an Eu-funded drama-doc for a museum.

Instead, the robots decreed, ‘IMMEDIATE START IDEAL FOR YOU – DEFORMED JESTER ROLE: the opposite of the duke, who is tall, rich and powerful.’ Such was my disappointment, I even wrong-headedly took to my mother for consolation.

Eyeing my photo wearily, she said, ‘You’ve got the same problem as André Rieu – imprecise squinting. It’s not clear if you’re looking for a third-row cellist or the nearest toilet.’

I persisted in believing it wasn’t the photo but the algorithm: five foot zero inches in the height column simply does not compute. The coding has clearly got unconscious bias.

My father suggested, ‘Maybe it’s your artificial joints, Jem – too much platinum affecting the program.’

Endlessly looking for a defect in my photo, I suddenly realised that a studio shot of this calibre shouldn’t be wasted – nor should the summer. So I impulsively completed a 376-question profile for a sophisticated dating website. It stated that, with such detailed calibration, it would find me only perfect matches.

Moments later, another ping ended all hope. The email said, ‘We help people across the world find that special someone, and we do not want you to think this in any way a reflection on yourself, but unfortunately cannot find you a match.’

I had offered no information worthy of a de facto ban: no dungeons, prison records or penis pics. So my only conclusion was that my height – recorded as a breezy five foot one inch, in the standard one-percentile increase expected on cyber dating sites – was to blame.

When the lady fills in her height requirements, even those not bothered about height probably drag the dropdown to approximately five foot four inches. They must think that reasonably shows height isn’t an issue for them. It still allows the computer to say no to me.

Possibly because of all this worry about having a jester’s face, no job and a ban from online dating, I developed a chest infection. I dialled a COVID expert, who asked, ‘Have you been in close confines with anyone recently?’

‘I should be so lucky,’ I said.

He asked me to complete an online form, which would generate an appointment at my nearest PCR testing centre. After completing the details, I was surprised to find the nearest testing centre was within walking distance – always good news for a pedestrian!

When I got there, I realised it was a car park. I merrily walked over to the middle, where a gang of luminoustabarded individuals awaited.

As I got a little closer, one grabbed the arms of her two companions, alerting them to my presence, and drew something from her belt. Thank goodness it was a megaphone.

‘Stay where you are – do not come closer,’ she instructed. ‘Where is your car?’ she demanded with such aggression that I actually looked around to make sure I did everything in my power to try to find one.

‘I’m a pedestrian,’ I yelled back with such spittle and sentiment that I might make a good sad-faced jester after all.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ Megaphone Lady said, her voice softened as much as is possible when anyone’s using a megaphone.

‘You’re the fifth pedestrian today. There’s something wrong with the website’s algorithm – it didn’t warn me someone like you would be coming.’

I raised my arms to the sky, longing for the seagulls to sweep me off to an algorithm-free land.