Wednesday 10 October 2012

Don't you want a balloon

I have a thing about clowns. I hate them. But at the same time, I am sufficiently fascinated with them to spend those writer's block moments googling images of scary clowns. (Don't judge - other people Google themselves. This is at least unique).

And oh, the things I have found. Some clever man has taken advantage of the fact that I am not alone in my phobia, and offers a service where he dresses in his stripey pants and neck ruff and stalks the badly behaved children of clients. The idea, of course, is to scare the bejesus out of them and thus encourage more mild manners. I daresay this is effective - certainly, I would never give anyone lip ever again, probably because I would be locked, catatonic, in an institution somewhere. Picture it: there you are, a happy eight-year-old innocently brushing your Barbie's hair. You look up, and there's a giant clown peering at you from behind the bushes. A few days later, you spot the clown staring in through the window of your ballet class. And hours after that, he's lurking in the aisle where you want to buy your bubble gum. I have shivers just thinking about it.

Then again, some people apparently see clowns as an object of fantasy rather than fear. They must do, for down in Texas there is a man who has created an alter ego called Sugar Weasel. Give old Sugar a shout, and he'll put on his fright wig and come and be your plaything for the night. Just how full Sugar Weasel's diary is I am not sure. Personally, I do not see the erotic allure of being nuzzled by a red nose. Although maybe there is some truth in what people say about the size of a man's shoes.