The Chief Clown's Shopping List
The Wild Wacky Weird Sideshow had toured the country for over a hundred years. At its peak it was welcomed into every town, city and village as a menagerie of talented performers delighted and entertained the crowds.
Now though it had fallen in quality, filled mostly with has-beens or those who hadn’t made it yet, and most places were glad to see the back of them.
There were the occasional good acts though; singers, acrobats and performers who shunned the limelight and fame and fortune in order to delight smaller crowds in obscure places.
The Chief Clown was not one of those people. Her glory days behind her, it was only her long service record that had elevated her to Chief Clown status. Her basic talent combined with unfulfilled ambition and pettiness made her ideal at doing all the stuff the real boss, the Ringmaster, couldn’t or wouldn’t do, such as organising the running order or sourcing props.
Today, she has been dispatched to buy some custard for the clown’s pies.
They had arrived in the town of Beeznut, shortly after the coronation of Queen Kathy. Many shops still has royal souvenirs in their windows. Plates, mugs, towels, everything, all adorned with the smiling face of the new monarch. Most were now selling for less than 50p.
Such items were not on the Chief Clown’s shopping list. After the small local shops had proved fruitless in her quest, she headed to the only department store in the area, Hours Kill.
She was being accompanied by the Tattooed Lady.
“You’ll need a basket,” said the Tattooed Lady as they entered the store.
The Chief Clown picked one up and handed it to her. “There you go. I’m not carrying it, not when you’re here. Why are you here? I didn’t ask you to come with me.”
“No-one else wanted to come,” said the Tattooed Lady.
“But why do I need someone with me anyway? All I’m doing is sourcing a few items for the show, namely custard or cream, something that makes a mess,” said the Chief Clown. “Am I not to be trusted?”
The Tattooed Lady kept quiet. She was relatively new, had joined the Sideshow three months ago, so was still eager to please. The Ringmaster had asked her to tag along so she could make sure the Chief Clown didn’t pocket any of the money on the trip. £700 had gone missing in the last two years. No-one knew where it had gone, but the Chief Clown always seemed to be loaded, so she was chief suspect.
“Now keep an eye out,” said the Chief Clown. “We also need sponges, champagne, tweezers, eyeliner, sixteen party poppers and sixty paper plates. And that’s just on page one.”
As they walked past the toys, home furnishings and DVD aisles, the Chief Clown went on. “Twenty two years I’ve been with this Sideshow, I’ve seen it all. Yet will they put me in charge? No. I’m the Chief Clown, I’m second in command. Why do I have to source the props? That’s an underling’s job. It should be your job. You should be doing this. In fact, you know what? You do it! No, scratch that, I’ll do it, but you! You observe me, got that? Watch everything I do! That way in the next town we visit, you can source the props, yeah? You can do the grunt work. Now, watch and observe. Do what I do”
The Chief Clown walked straight into a pillar. As she landed, a few shopworkers came over to see if she was alright. Then a man in a suit came over.
“Hi, hello, sorry. Bill Bond, I’m the manager, are you alright?”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t sue you,” the Chief Clown moaned as the workers helped her back up. “Fancy putting a pillar there like that where anyone can walk into it.”
“Well, it is load bearing. If we removed it, the ceiling would fall in. And to be fair, it is painted bright orange,” said Bill, “and you weren’t looking in the direction you were walking.”
“So I’ve got to only look straight ahead, like I’m in a neck brace?” shouted the Chief Clown. “How can I browse? How can I see what’s on the shelves if I only look straight ahead. That is a daft marketing move! I’ve got to move my head. Either that or do what they did on that old kid’s game show. Stop. Turn my whole body left. Then turn back, move forward. Stop. Turn right.We’re not on ITV now, you know!”
Bill sighed inwardly. Being the manager meant having to deal with this type of thing all the time. People tripping over themselves and then blaming the store. So, for the eighth time this month, he reached for his wallet.
“On behalf of the management of Hours Kill, please accept this with our warmest condolences.” He handed her a £20 voucher.
The Chief looked at it with suspicion. “Well, it’s not your head on a plate, but yeah, alright, I won’t sue. Maybe it should be even brighter orange.”
Bill looked at the pillar, “It’s as bright as the law will allow. If we paint it even brighter we’ll be arrested for making the blind see again.”
Satisfied, the Chief Clown walked away towards the food aisles. The Tattooed Lady followed behind.
“Are you alright?” she asked at last.
The Chief Clown arrived at the squirty cream shelf. “Never better. Look at my face, didn’t even bruise it. You don’t think I’m seriously stupid enough to walk into a bright orange pillar?” She got two bottles off the shelf, handed the Tattooed Lady a third and started comparing them. “The internet is a wonderful thing,” she continued. “This store, I looked at their website this morning, and images. Soon as I saw a picture of that pillar I knew what I had to do. Although it is a lot brighter than the pictures show, it was quite tricky to not see it.”
“You mean you walked into it deliberately?” asked the Tattooed Lady. “Why?”
The Chief Clown selected the bottle in her left hand and put it in the basket, with three more, and put the other options back on the shelf. “Why do you think? I might not be the boss, but I do have the brains. Always check the ratings. Places like this don’t like lawsuits, so complementary vouchers pave the way to good customer relations.”
“You walked into the pillar so you’d get a voucher?”
“Yes. We then use that to buy the props and I keep the money.”
“And then you give it back to the Ringmaster.”
“Oh, hello,” said the Chief Clown, “you’re trying to be clever. It doesn’t suit you. No, where the money goes is a secret only I know, and if you even think of squealing, I’ll put your head on the railway lines just before the midday express.”
Sensing an opportunity, the Tattooed Lady politely asked, “Can I sing in the show tonight?”
“On this occasion, yes,” said the Chief Clown. “But that’s your only concession. Try and blackmail me, you’ll be under the 9.30 to Bridlington. That’s a slow train, and slower is more painful. Come on, look at page two, we need to get some tomatoes for the jugglers and pain relief gel for the contortionist.”
The Tattooed Lady did sing that night. She sang Money, Money, Money. The Chief Clown then decided on an impromptu knife throwing act. The Tattooed Lady did not sing again for six months.
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