A Bad Place to Stick Your Hand (+Kickstarter Launch!)
The Kickstarter for True Clown Stories is now live! See below for details
A Bad Place to Stick Your Hand
I was supposed to meet my family a couple of hours before the funeral, but I arrived late because of work. Everyone smiled when they saw me and I soon found out why: in my absence they’d decided I would be doing the eulogy.
I pointed out that I barely knew Uncle Eric. “Don’t worry about that,” said my mother. “It’s already written. You simply have to read the thing.”
I protested but even Mum and Dad didn’t help — they didn’t want to read it either. I’d have argued more if I’d known the reason why everyone was so reluctant.
You see, my Uncle Eric used to be a ventriloquist. Which meant it wasn’t going to be me reading the eulogy, not quite. Instead, I would be operating the person who’d known him best, his stage partner of forty years, Mr. Featherdrop, a tatty puppet of a dog wearing a bowler hat. My father passed me the puppet and the notes, written by Uncle Eric before he died. “You should go to the church and practise,” said my mother.
The building was empty when I arrived, and small enough that I wasn’t too intimidated. I walked to the lectern passing the front row, which was all reserved: little cards reading ‘Mr. Smith and guest’, ‘Mr. Arrowright and guest’, a line of men and their companions.
Ventriloquism takes years to master. I didn’t want to dishonour Uncle Eric’s memory by ‘gottle-of-geer’ing my way through the service. No, I would let my lips move. As long as I kept Mr. Featherdrop’s lips moving too, people would understand. Nobody could expect him to be at his best under the circumstances.
I was in the middle of my second read-through when a man entered with a giraffe on his arm. He walked over to clap me on the shoulder, introducing himself as Mr. Arrowright. He said he was pleased they’d found a speaker. “We’ll set up a glass of water for you,” he said. “It’s a trick glass,” said the giraffe. I didn’t bother explaining I had no intention of trying to be something I wasn’t.
I will never forget Uncle Eric’s service. I’m a nervous reader at the best of times, but the horror of that day is unsurpassed. I sat to one side waiting for things to get going, greeting relatives, most of whom smirked when they spoke to me. Among the faces I knew and those I’d seen at the pub were others I didn’t recognise, including a series of men with a guest each, tattered old puppets on their right arms.
The wait for my big moment was too short, as I knew it would be. Standing at the lectern, Mr. Featherdrop on my right arm, I was terrified. I kept looking at the front row with the line of old men, their puppets staring back with little beady eyes. The puppet’s expressions reminded me of an ex-girlfriend who, after two months of what I considered passionate sex, described me as ‘adequate’ in bed. I read the piece, pausing in all the right places for Mr. Featherdrop to lap up laughter. Featherdrop seemed to take on his own personality, enjoying performing, and I found by the end I wasn’t nervous. It was more comfortable than I had expected.
Afterwards I didn’t linger in church but went to the graveyard for a cigarette, which was where Mr. Arrowright found me — fag in one hand, puppet on the other.
“You did well,” said the man. But it was the giraffe’s mouth that moved.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Shut up,” said the man, this time moving his own lips. “Sebastian was talking to Mr. Featherdrop, not to you.”
I crushed the cigarette under my heel, even though it was only half smoked, and excused myself. I’d had enough of old men with puppets, and told everyone I had to get home and couldn’t attend the wake.
I tried to return the puppet, but everyone insisted I keep him, promising to send Mr. Featherdrop’s possessions once the will was settled. I carried the puppet in a bag, telling myself not to be stupid when this gave me a twinge of guilt.
I unpacked Mr Featherdrop onto the bed when I got home and he lay there, flaccid and empty. I considered putting him on, but didn’t, housing him on top of the wardrobe instead. Sometimes, at night, even when it was dead dark, I could feel him looking at me, and my arm would itch. I don’t know why I left him alone. What could be wrong about trying on my uncle’s puppet?
The first night a new girlfriend stayed over, she saw Mr. Featherdrop watching from the wardrobe. She blushed: “Can you, um, ‘perform’ with him?” she asked. And I knew I was doomed.
Background
This is an old story, one I used to read at spoken word nights. At one point, Brighton had several nights devoted to short stories, and I never realised how great that was. Most times, when I read this piece, it got a good reception. A couple of times, the audience didn’t laugh much. Reading pieces in public was a great education in how different audiences respond to the same piece. Not everything works everywhere.
Kickstarter
Dan from Peakrill Press has now launched the Kickstarter for True Clown Stories. We have thirty days to gather in the pledges for my book of dark clown tales. This is a project I’ve been planning for a very long time, and I’m grateful to Dan for finally getting things moving.
The book is a collection of short stories about down-on-their-luck clowns struggling in a world that doesn’t appreciate their talents. I’m very proud of my work here. There are also stories from Chris Parkinson and Lou Ice, both of whom I know from the Brighton spoken word scene. We’ve also got a dark piece from Michael Ward.
You can pledge for an electronic or physical copy of the book, as well as an ‘instant gratification’ reward level, which includes a set of my existing story zines. There’s also another reward level, but… well, you’ll see.
Hello, New Readers
A lot of people have signed up here recently via John Higgs’ Octannual Newsletter. Hello! It’s good to have you here!
Every Thursday I send out a short story - they’re supposed to be microfictions, but sometimes, like today, they end up a little longer. I’ve been doing this for about eight months now and my favourite pieces so far are Long Term Storage, Distance Voices, and Don’t Bury Your Trauma.
You can also find me on mastodon or my blog. I also have an etsy store, where you can find some story zines as well as The Mycelium Parish News, an annual round-up of UK counter-culture I produce with Dan Sumption.
Recommendations
Last week I was in Sheffield to see Rosy Carrick's show Musclebound. It’s an amazing piece about bodybuilders in bondage, but it uses that very specific interest to talk about much wider issues. There are just three shows left in the current tour, all in the south west, but there’s always the chance of further dates in the future, and I think there will be some virtual workshops in the Autumn.
There was a excellent Guardian interview with Rachel Healy which gives a good idea of the show.
The great thing about seeing the show in Sheffield was catching up with some old friends who’d also moved out of Brighton. As much as I love books and online culture, there’s a different magic about being experiencing culture in-person, something I’ve done less since the pandemic.
The best place to keep with future Musclebound developments is on Rosy’s instagram.