Scene: The Bamaga Tavern, Far North Queensland
The ringmaster, sweating under his battered top hat, leans against the bar nursing a beer. The good clown, with smudged greasepaint, juggles three lemons to keep the miners entertained, while the crap clown tries and fails to ride the disobedient dog. The alpacas eye the chaos from the corner, unimpressed. The tent smells faintly of beer, dust, and something suspiciously like monkey fur.
At a table in the corner, Tommy Alan Robinson, sipping a rum and Coke, sits across from Andrew, a wiry, sunburnt tent hand with a wild gleam in his eye.
The Conversation
Andrew: (nervously) “Mate, these miners… they’re gonna eat us alive if we mess this up. You ever seen a fight break out between a crap clown and a bloke with a face tattoo?”
Tommy: (chuckling) “Can’t say I have, but I’ve seen a few scraps between men and machines in my time. Same rule applies: give ‘em a reason to respect you, and they’ll settle down.”
Andrew: (eying the miners) “Respect? You reckon they’ll respect a bunch of monkeys and a pony?”
Tommy: “Not the pony, no. But skill? Hard work? They’ll respect that. These blokes spend their days risking their necks swinging pickaxes and driving haul trucks. Show them something that doesn’t insult their intelligence.”
Andrew: (grinning slyly) “So no more crap clown trying to ride the dog, then?”
Tommy: (snorting) “Unless you want the dog to join the miners in heckling you, no. Get the good clown out there with some proper juggling or tightrope work. Or better yet, you.”
Andrew: (startled) “Me?! I’m just the bloody tent hand, mate!”
Tommy: (leaning in) “Yeah, but you’ve got guts, and that counts for a lot. Do something that takes effort—set up a strongman act, wrestle the alpacas, hell, balance a chair on your chin. Something that says, ‘I’m here to entertain, and I’m giving it my all.’ That’s what these blokes want to see. They don’t care about art, but they love a good show.”
Andrew: (nodding slowly) “Alright, but if they start throwing punches, you’re stepping in.”
Tommy: (grinning) “Deal. But only if the monkeys join in.”
The Performance
The miners roar with laughter as Andrew lifts a rickety chair over his head and teeters across the stage, trying to balance it on his chin. The good clown juggles flaming batons, while the monkeys scamper across the bar, swiping peanuts and beer. Even the crap clown manages a decent pratfall, landing face-first in a bucket of water.
By the end of the night, the miners are throwing bills on the stage and cheering. The ringmaster counts the money with a grin, the alpacas munch on the miners’ leftover chips, and Tommy raises his glass to Andrew.
Tommy: (raising his voice over the din) “See? All they wanted was to see someone work for it. You did good, mate.”
Andrew: (beaming, a smudge of soot on his face) “Yeah… maybe I’ve got a bit of showman in me after all.”
Scene: The Tent, Late Night
The miners have stumbled back onto their bus, still roaring with laughter and clinking their cans. The tent is quieter now, the smell of beer and dust settling into the fabric. Andrew sits on an overturned crate, his shirt damp with sweat, while Dolt—still in his clown makeup—leans against a tent pole, sipping from a flask.
Andrew: (exhaling deeply) “Well, that was… something. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a dog get more applause than me.”
Dolt: (grinning) “The dog had better timing, mate. Comedy’s all about timing.”
Andrew: (laughing) “You’d know. Thought the miners were gonna riot when you tripped over that bucket.”
Dolt: (shrugging) “It wasn’t a trip; it was a calculated manoeuvre. Trust me, Andrew, every pratfall is a masterpiece. You think Picasso just threw paint on a canvas?”
Andrew: (snorting) “Picasso was beautiful in his ugliness.”
Dolt: (serious now) “ Same as me. You think those miners cared about art? No. But they cared about effort. About heart. That’s what we gave them tonight—a circus that didn’t quit, no matter how ridiculous it got.”
Andrew: (thoughtfully) “Yeah… Tommy said the same thing. Give ‘em something real, something you’ve worked for.”
Dolt: (nodding) “Tommy’s a smart bloke. He’s right. You think I enjoy falling on my arse for laughs? It’s not for me—it’s for them. People like those miners, they don’t get a lot of joy in their lives. We gave them something to laugh about, even if it’s at us.”
Andrew: (frowning) “So that’s it? Just let ‘em laugh at us and call it a night?”
Dolt: (leaning in) “No, mate. Let them laugh, but make them feel something, too. That’s where the magic is. Tonight, you showed them guts. They’ll remember that more than the dog’s tricks or my bucket stunt.”
Andrew: (quietly) “You think so?”
Dolt: (smiling) “I know so. And if they don’t, who cares? We did our job. We’re the circus, Andrew. We make people forget their troubles, even for a little while. That’s worth something.”
A Pause
The tent creaks in the breeze. The alpacas snuffle in the corner. The disobedient dog finally sits still, licking a miner’s abandoned pie tin.
Andrew: (smirking) “You ever think about chucking it all in? Doing something normal?”
Dolt: (laughing) “Normal? What’s that? Nah. I’ve tried normal, and no one believed me. I told people I was a clown and they believed me. This is freedom, I don’t wake up to alarms. Even if it’s messy and smells like alpaca piss and psycho monkeys.”
Andrew: (grinning) “Freedom – yes that’s what being homeless gives you. I wouldn’t fancy waking up to alarms.”
Dolt: (patting him on the shoulder) “Stick around, mate. You’ll learn. The circus isn’t just a job—it’s a way of life. You don’t choose it; it chooses you.”
Closing Note
As the two sit in the dim light of the tent, the absurdity of their night sinks in. They laugh quietly, knowing tomorrow will bring more chaos, more hard work, and maybe another random payout. But for now, they’re content—two misfits in a flea bag circus, finding meaning in the madness.
Clown Artist Philosopher 