The clown service Jennie E Owen

Jennie E. Owen

The clown service

“Here we go again,” as Grimaldi would say “busting out,”

or in, to the Holy Trinity. First grey February of the year and damp London’s asplash with ruffle collars, baggy pants, big shoes that rub and squeak one another like old friends. I’m all a-sweat under the full white face, the one that takes an hour to paint. So little call now for that, the artistry – the tradition.

Stood like some odd couple, I curtsey blue wig to hassock – I’m working my “business” by honking the nose by twisting my kipper tie. The emcee recites our prayer and I repeat, nod at old “Rickets” spread thin in his tramp, at the back - worked Islington for 30 years. “Chins,” appears slack at his side with her cockscomb wobbling jolly red, a tiny pink brolly cuts above her head.

As always, the audience travels. Small bread and butter faces and hands, giggles and pointing. One lip shakes uncertain and a baker’s dozen strain against the urge to fall over our feet, squirt a flower, whilst producing piles of hankies from sleeves to create a smile, a snort.

Then candles are lit against the lilt of Send in the clowns.

Off and out we go, parade into town, one last show toward Camden, peeling away in ones and pairs and bunches. The drizzle adds a final sheen to motley and slap, faces flag and slip off as neat as a banana skin gag.

*Once a year Clown International hold a service at Holy Trinity Church, Dalston London. This is to honour clowns who have passed on and remember Joseph Grimaldi.