In some corner of some field somewhere in England, a tent is being slowly erected. A big tent. A big top, in fact. The old-fashioned kind with red and white stripes, the kind whose garish presents screams THE CIRCUS IS HERE! COME! COME TO THE CIRCUS! The circus troupe are working like busy ants, pulling on ropes and bringing down heavy mallets onto wooden stakes, driving them into the fallow British soil like cocktail sticks into soft cheddar. As this is happening, performers juggle swords and breathe fire and pace to and fro on their hands. A young girl is swerving through village streets on her rusty bicycle, letting bright A5 sheets fly from her fingers and flutter down onto doorsteps and into gutters. The smell of the circus begins to waft over the hedges: popcorn and sawdust, tarpaulin and candyfloss. Tongues wag with excitement. Local boys shyly invite young paramores; every child is begging for permission, for an advance in pocket money, cross-their-hearts-hope-to-die that they’ll behave for the next thousand years if only they can go. The lads from down the factory spend their lager money on tickets. Housewives feign disinterest but whisper about it excitedly and in secret. Old pensioners tut and shake their heads. ‘We don’t want none of their kind in OUR town.’ But they’ll buy tickets, sure enough, ‘to see what all the fuss is about.’ For this, my friends, was to be no ordinary circus. No sir-ee! This circus, in this field, in this village, on this small island, was the finest circus in the world.
Strong arms heaved ropes, hauling large plastic letters into position above the entrance. A switch is flicked and suddenly three hundred neon bulbs exclaim their purpose! ‘THE NUMBER ONE WORLD FAMOUS LESBIAN CIRCUS!’ they squeal, brighter than suns, casting their pinkish light on the grass.
Opening night! Women paint their faces, slither into leotards, stick sequins on the corners of their eyes. Women fasten the backs of each other’s costumes, whisper into the ears of horses and polish daggers. Women put on blue wigs and red noses and novelty shoes. Women shave their legs, their armpits, but not their beards. Beautiful women, fearless women, women stronger than any man.
The whole village is out in force to see this troupe of wondrous women of whom they are in awe. They take their seats and sit in hushed reverence, waiting for the show to commence.
The ring leader steps out and their hush becomes absolute silence. Absolute rapture. Her short stature belies her power but no-one is fooled. Her short dark hair lacquered into glossy waves beneath her top hat. Big milky blue eyes, a face that would be like a porcelain doll if a porcelain doll wasn’t so lifeless. She grins at the expectant faces in the dark, obscured by the spotlight she’s bathed in. Her smile is infectious, devious. Full of the promise of wild spectacles never-before-seen. She says nothing. She just cracks her whip and the crowd roars into applause; the ring is suddenly filled with acrobats and the ring-leader is whisked up into the air by a red ribbon no-one had seen fall. Let the spectacle begin!
For the next two hours the crowd is wowed by the lesbian troupe. The sinewy bodies of contortionists make shapes that they never thought possible, spelling words, entwining endlessly. The clownesses create havoc and tomfoolery the likes of which had never exisited. Stella the strongwoman lifted five times her weight. Bernice the bearded lady was furnished with facial hair that no man on earth could possess; for how could a man ever hope to keep up as dedicated a care routine as she did? Her chinny tresses were silkier, more lustrous than the hair on any woman’s head. Fenella the female fire breather sent flames flying, making the crowd gasp, whilst Sandra the sword swallower made them gulp. Horseback riders rode in such beautiful union it brought tears to the eyes of grown men.
And when they thought the show was over, the crowd were left baying and begging for more like hounds at the dinner table. Suddenly, when all was dark and quiet once more, the ringleader, now hatless, from high in the air, slid down on a crimson ribbon at such speed they thought she would surely plummet to her death. But inches from the ground, she stopped, legs wound in the heavenly ribbon which surely saved her life. She shimmied her way up it, dancing, spinning, somersaulting in mid-air, her beautiful eyes flashing, her pale body glowing under the single beacon of white light. No one dared breathe. And when she finally slid to the ground and bowed, beaming, the crowd went wild, clapping like mad seals, screaming for more, more! For this, The Number One World Famous Lesbian Circus, was surely the best circus in the world.
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