I thought I saw my first killer clown this week, coming toward me down a side street I was crossing. In my experience it is unwise to make eye contact with clowns, killer or otherwise, so I looked straight ahead and carried on.
But I had second thoughts. I figured it might be my only killer clown sighting of the whole craze. So I ducked into a corner shop, bought a paper, and doubled back.
When we finally crossed paths, I could see that he was wearing a white mask – hollow-eyed, blank; an idealised skull, perhaps – with his hoodie pulled up over his head. He was flanked by two unmasked mates, as if he was being escorted to his destination. It’s unlikely he was on his way to rob a betting shop, or tend goal in an ice hockey match – in either case, you wouldn’t wear the mask on the way. The disguise was clearly meant to conceal something. But what?
That’s when I realised: it was probably his clown makeup. Wearing a mask in broad daylight may seem a trifle provocative, but who would dare go out dressed as a clown in the current climate? Imagine if you had to wear clown gear as a condition of your employment – that you were, let’s say, a clown. Would you feel safe taking the bus to your next children’s party? Might you not think, “This old Jason-from-Friday the 13th mask ought to get me there and back in one piece”?
Noeleen Breem, AKA Clown Silly Tilly, chair of Clowns International, told the Guardian that this was a genuine worry. “We are concerned about the impact on our reputation, the suggestion that clowns are something to be feared,” she said.
Warning: Contains strong language.
The tendency so far has been to blame the killer clowns themselves for the misconception. But whatever their motives, I don’t get the sense they’re trying to ruin things for the clowns who specialise in balloon animals.
Surely the “craze” – which began in the US – is down to a public overreaction to fancy dress. The 18 killer clown sightings (actual clown-facilitated fatalities: zero) reported to Gwent police alone may sound a lot, but for all we know that could be the average for the first half of October. I certainly don’t keep track of how many people I spot dressed as Wally from Where’s Wally? in a given month, although I’m aware of seasonal fluctuations.
VAT with the vampire
If I ever did meet a killer clown, I think my primary worry would be the potential for social awkwardness. What is my role in the encounter? Am I obliged to run? What if I don’t? Do we just stand there?
Something similar happened to me a few years ago when I found myself buying petrol from a vampire at Cullompton services on the M5. I was alone in the shop, and didn’t understand why a member of the undead had been posted behind the till. I couldn’t think of anything to say about his parchment-pale skin, sunken eyes, yellow fangs or the blood running from both corners of his mouth, so I decided not to mention his affliction at all. He asked me if I needed a VAT receipt, and I said no.
The customer who walked in as I left handled the situation much better.
“You’re looking well,” he said.
“I had a late one last night,” said the vampire.
A little Dorrit? No thanks
Perhaps I should have made more of an effort (it was, I later realised, the week before Halloween), but I resented the obligation to play along. It’s like going to an event populated by actors pretending to be Dickens characters, who will talk only about things that happened in Little Dorrit.
I always long to ask them where the fire assembly point is, but I know nothing will induce them to drop the act. If you want to see me run, come at me dressed as Mrs Meagles.
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