Big Top

I have been stuck behind Zavatta's caravans on country roads, I have seen his posters pinned to umbrella pines along the coast and on plain tree avenues inland, I have been chucked out of his tent on one occasion in Port Vendres, because I slipped in mid-performance, without paying.
Today I showed M. Zavatta the colour of my money and, for my pains, was allocated a bit of plank in his big top.
In a world of hyper reality computer simulations and political correctness, Zavatta's circus exists in a bubble of sawdust and canvas, swarthy artistes, donkeys, tiny horses, dwarf goats, yaks and dromedaires, performing cats and doves in hats. There are clowns with painted mouths, there is slapstick, and organ-grinder music, albeit transmitted through large speakers. There are flame throwers and a man who lies on a bed of glass, with half a dozen of the biggest men from the audience standing on top of him.
It was timeless, and the tent was full.