“Marp!...Marp! Marp!”

“Findlay, Stop doing that!” Poor Findlay, you see he can’t bark, he can only marp.

It all happened one day when we were on the way to Bertrand Russell’s Magic Circus. My great Aunt had been the previous year and Bertrand Russell himself had levitated her right out of her chair. She flew around and around the huge circus tent, higher and higher until the acrobats had to duck to avoid her. She was very pleased.

The following year, I decided I had to go to the one night only extravaganza. I packed a black orange ball to fling at the naked clowns and three kilos of salt. Everyone had to bring three kilos of salt to gain entry. Although they gave you a handful back to sprinkle on your refreshment break tomatoes, so it wasn’t all bad.

I was just about to step off the boathouse and make my way through the clotted brambles to the circus when I heard a loud bark. I turned to see Findlay standing on the kitchen table, a half eaten chunk of Edam in front of him.

“Come on then,” I laughed, “They can hardly object to animals at the circus now can they.”

We stumbled through the brambles and then waded through the murky waters of the stream before shaking ourselves off and boarding the number T bus which announced its destination by means of grey fairy lights strung across the sides reading Bertrand Russell’s Magic Circus.

The bus was packed, almost everyone from the village must have been there, and then some. Everyone took a turn at entertaining on the journey; Miss Jackson sung ‘Bring on the Clowns’ to the tune of Breath by Prodigy. Young Alec Balder and old Alec Balder juggled the change in their pockets and Frankie Noddles swallowed his tongue; it was great. When it came to our turn I jumped on Findlay’s back and rode him up and down both decks of the bus shouting “Hi, Ho, Gulliver!” Though I must admit, the stairs were a bit tricky.

We arrived at the beach and saw Bertrand Russell himself standing next to the entry tunnel. He was telling animal anecdotes to the queue of eager customers, but I noticed he kept one greedy eye on the ever growing mountain of salt by the door.

“Here,” He said when he saw Findlay, “no dogs!”

“Oh yeah,” I replied, “well no elephants either.”

He scratched his long curly nose hair, “You’ve got me there boy. Well, just keep him under control is all.”

“I’m on it, skip.” I quipped as I unfastened the three kilos of salt from Findlay’s saddle and deposited it on the snowy pile, all the while being watched by the greedy eye of Bertrand Russell.  I smiled a dark chocolate and raisin smile as we strode past him and into the black gobby entrance of the tunnel.

“You’ll never believe your eyes!” came a voice from the darkness.

“You’ll fart laughing and wet yourself with amazement!” said another.

And then we were through and standing in the most famous tent this side of the Rhine. High above us, it seemed like miles, I could just make out the acrobats playing cards while the waited for the show to start. One of them had a royal flush. At ground level men rode elephants playing football, or soccer to those who call knickers pants and bums fannies. They were having a keepy-up contest and one of the elephants, Mashinda was his name, was way out in the lead with a baker’s dozen. Mashinda, the greatest footballing elephant that ever lived, had almost signed for Arsenal until someone had noticed Rule 47: Anyone fielding a player with more than two legs will be deducted 5 points. Arsenal was sorry, but couldn’t take the hit, not with Carlise breathing down their necks every season. The elephant was devastated; he’d already agreed very generous personal terms. And so it was back to the circus and keepy-up contests for peanuts.

Between the elephants, and amongst the crowd, and climbing the ladders to the trapeze were the naked clowns. Wearing only hats, their bodies a kalidescope of gawdy colours, they jumped and dodged the black orange balls thown by the audience. I took my ball and launched it at the Alpha clown catching him square on the back of the head, “Awll, watch it kid.” he scowled through narrowed eyes.

“Put some clothes on you hobo!” I hollered joyfully and bent down to pick up a stray ball. He made of like Jesse Owens being chased by a liger.   

Then Bertrand Russell himself entered the ring and the clowns melted away into the rigging.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome all to the greatest show on earth!”

The crowd burst into applause as Bertrand Russell cart wheeled over to where I sat with Findlay. He stopped not 5 feet from us and began to pull a life goldfish from his ear. The trouble was about to start.

He pulled the fish. He held the fish. Findlay saw the fish. Findlay barked. Bertrand said, “No dogs!”, Finlday jumped for the fish. Bertrand swallowed the fish just as Findlay’s jaws snapped it front of his nose.

This made Findlay mad. He bit into Bertrand’s trouser leg and began to tear at the silky material, pulling it to and fro, up and down. The audience gasped.

Bertrand grabbed Findlay by the saddle and hoisted him until he was at eye level, Bertrand’s trouser leg still in his mouth.

“Let go beast,” he said, “or you will never bark again.

Findlay growled and shook the trouser leg. Bertrand growled and shook the dog. The audience breathed out, and then gasped again.

Bertrand put his hands between Findlay’s teeth and slowly prised open his jaws until the trouser leg, and the leg it contained, fell back to the ground. And then he spat, yes spat, in Findlay’s mouth and dropped the dog to the floor where it lay motionless.
The audience booed.

 That’s when the tomatoes started to fly. First Miss Jackson stood up and launched a ripe one which struck Bertrand on the elbow. Then another hit him in the eye. Soon, a rosy waterfall was descending on the hapless host.

“Stop! Stop!” he cried, “He’s not dead, I haven’t killed him!”

At that Findlay sat up amongst the sawdust, opened his mouth, and said “Marp!”. And that’s all he’s been able to say ever since.