There are clowns crawling through the walls, loosening the window frames, they're all too busy leaving their brains on the sawdust after mass pratfalls. The audience roars as we float away, guy ropes looping around our feet, a demented tune playing on repeat as the bigtop starts to buckle and sway. Dwarfs are hanging from the hirewire, legs flailing at the breeze, big cats await the falling trapeze and the old ringmaster has sparked a fire. The laughing of the crowd echoes hollow as an empty tent and we all have a whipround to pay the rent. Doesn’t it make you proud? Harry Gallagher
