Clowning Is A Serious Business 20
Coming back to an old story after an offer was made to me that I could not refuse. I had to start somewhere with picking up stalled tales, and my attention was drawn to this one.
Thanks to reader paprika7 for the incentive to continue! Hopefully this next chapter will be up soon with the minimum of delay – a "No Great Rush" situation applies.
All German translations for canonical character names and concepts are courtesy of the German-language Terry Pratchett/Der Scheibenwelt wiki. These are the names, ideas and designations that appear in the German translations of the Discworld, except for OC's and things like ZementAusgegossenImDieHosen Strasse and other street names in Müning, which are from my fevered imagination.
At the Gasthaus dem Ausländer, Müning
"I really am on my way to spend time with family." Olga Romanoff said. "No lie there. Mr Vimes suggested I might want to keep an eye on a few other things while I'm on the way there."
"I thought you did not see eye to eye with your father, chèrie?" Emmanuelle said.
Olga shrugged.
"It's true my father would be inclined to lock me in a tower until I renounce witchcraft, quit the Watch and say I'm very, very, sorry." she said. "But this is an aunt and uncle. My father's brother, who can't stand him and is perfectly happy to do him a disservice. They've got a daughter at the Guild school, incidentally, Emmanuelle. My cousin Natasha Romanoff. Natasha The Terrible. Do you know her?"
Emmanuelle restrained a wince. Natasha Romanoff was an able enough pupil and quick to learn. But she had all the hauteur and chilly superiority of the Far Überwaldean ruling boyars, combined with few of the redeeming features that made Olga Romanoff personally likeable. Natasha was a teaching Assassin's worst nightmare: she combined something of the mind-set of a Rust or a Venturi with actual competence and ability. It was a potentially toxic blend.
"I seek to educate her." she confessed. "But with some pupils this is an uphill struggle. An Assassin, to me, should have something of a sense of humility, and be mentally flexible enough to consider the possibility that at times, they could be proven to be wrong. That sort of absolute certainty of mind, and refusal to contemplate a need to change your beliefs in the face of new evidence – well, self-confidence can so quickly become over-confidence. You, chèrie, changed your beliefs and your mind-set. I have yet to see it in your cousin, I am sorry to say."
"I went to Lancre." Olga said. "Ran away with my wholly unsuitable kulak best friend, my father says. Infected with the desire to become a babiushka. And it's hard to stay snooty-superior when all the people around you are ones you are meant to dismiss as just kulaks. Especially the ones who are better at witchcraft than you are. What can I say? I found that if you don't change your attitudes, they get changed for you. Places like Lancre and Ankh-Morpork do that to you."
Emmanuelle nodded, recalling her friend Johanna Smith-Rhodes.
"I know such a one." she said. "Rimwards Howondalandians can be surprisingly pleasant people, they can be educated, intelligent and kindly. But when some of them speak about people with black skins. Ma foi! It is to Johanna's credit that living in Ankh-Morpork forced her to confront and change the ideas she had grown up with. She is a far better person, in all respects, than the one I first met. I firmly believe that had her mind not changed for the better, she would be a dead Assassin today. Over-confidence and fallacious perceptions would have surely claimed her. (1) So for me, educating your cousin, and others like her, to think differently, to bring out the best in them, is an ongoing challenge."
Emmanuelle shrugged. It was an expressive Quirmian gesture. It began somewhere in the small of her back and radiated up into her neck and shoulders and then down to the fingertips. Pupils tried to imitate that shrug.
"Any success with the terrible Natasha?" Olga asked. She was still fascinated by the way an Assassin she knew could have looked so completely different dressed as a Seamstress and with blonde hair. If it hadn't been for the briefing from Mr Vimes that told her to look out for the Agony Aunts and a blonde seamstress called Brigitte, she might have walked straight past.
"Alors, precious little. But I and others keep trying."
Olga, fascinated with the way even her eyebrows were blonde, nodded ruefully. "I can tell Uncle Dimitri and Aunt Viktoriya I've spoken to one of her teachers. Who has her best interests at heart. Although the Gods know why."
"Interesting though this is, dearies, it's not the mission." Dotsie said, as she reached for the teapot. Emmanuelle and Olga took the point. They were gathered upstairs at the Gasthaus, in the twin room given to the Aunts. It was agreed that this was best defended against intrusion and eavesdropping. Emmanuelle's room was on one side and the room allocated to Olga was on the other. The rats had scouted the walls in between, and both the ceiling and the floor space, and had identified or disabled several speaking tubes. They thought a room on an upper floor was being used to monitor conversations. Anyone trying to eavesdrop via a speaking tube in the wall would now hear only a muffled indistinct buzz. A listening tube plugged with rat droppings tends to be very well insulated against sound. As a bonus, it would also start to smell after a while. The rat Dubbin was watching the corridor and would warn them if anyone approached the door. His sister Cherry Blossom was keeping an eye open at the window, and the two rats in Vetinari's spy service, Fishnet and Sixty Denier, were posted in the rooms to either side, and would warn them if anyone accessed them, either to eavesdrop or to search personal belongings. And Emmanuelle had accidently knocked a picture askew(2), so that the eye-holes now backed onto bare white wall.
Sadie had hung her coat over another picture, accidentally obscuring the peepholes cunningly concealed in the frame.
"I think we're safe from being listened to now, dearies." she said. "And that bloody clown gives me the vapours." She nodded to the half-covered picture of Till Glockenspielen Performing The Amusing Jape With Balloon On A Stick To An Admiring Crowd in Bad Haltung, created by the great Überwaldean artist Johannes von Gaczy. (3) The art in the rooms here had a certain common motif that had made the ladies feel queasy.
"Eh bien." Emmanuelle said, and quickly briefed Olga on their essential tasks. "Perhaps a witch on a broomstick could go where a mere Assassin on foot cannot?"
Olga shook her head.
"Difficult." She said. "When I flew in, I got to see their castle from above. But they've got clowns patrolling on the battlements. With crossbows. When I got within range they started pointing them at me. Granted, it takes a special sort of shot to get a moving target in the air. But some people round here hunt birds on the wing and can knock them down with a crossbow bolt. And to that sort of eye, a witch on a broomstick is just a very big target."
"Please tell me the approximate shape of the castle. All you can recall. And the number of guards you counted?"
Pen and pencil were provided and Olga sketched a very rough map, with notes. Watchwomen, especially the Air Watch, were taught to be observant. Emmanuelle sighed. This ruled out the possibility of getting a lift in as a pillion passenger on the broomstick. She'd have to go in from the ground up, in the usual Assassin way.
"I think I can safely say that before I officially took a fortnight's leave to fly out here, it wasn't just Mr Vimes, it was people from the Palace who had a few words with me." Olga said, carefully. "My instructions were to seek to discreetly establish contact with you and act as a relay for messages. So later on I need to fly to a clacks tower and get a message back to the city to say we're all here."
"Can we trust the clacks?" Dotsie asked.
Olga shook her head.
"From here, no. But further out, Miss Dearheart has got some of her best people out, on a tower and a trunk we know the clowns haven't got to. I know who to ask for and we're primed with recognition codes. Even if the clowns have taken over the network, the people in the towers are Dearheart men, and sound. They're instructed to code my messages in the Overhead. That never gets checked. I fly on tomorrow, but it won't be too far. I'm also tasked with going to a place called Bad Blintz."
Two rats in the room turned and suddenly looked at her. Olga found this disconcerting.
"I've got a personal message from the girl who ran away. Erika. I'm to take it to her parents and reassure them she's safe and well."
"You can give us a lift home, missus!" Dubbin shouted.
Olga blinked. Talking rats were disconcerting, even for a witch. Emmanuelle smiled.
"Olga, chèrie. Would you kindly be willing to carry passengers? This might be helpful."
Ramkin Manor, Ankh-Morpork.
"And over here, gentlemen, we have the dragon sheds. I need to advise you that this is Lady Sybil's parish and it's always best to ask permission before entering. Also because dragons can be tricky creatures, and somewhat temperamental. Points to be aware of: the roof is flimsy. Anyone who knows anything about dragons will understand why. I also advise you, if and when we get any intruders, if they climb onto this roof, do not go chasing them. They tend to come back down to earth quickly enough."
Sam Vimes paused and reflected that the roof on the dragon pens was even more flimsy because of the time he'd personally put in adapting it against intrusion by Assassins. He was taking the time with the gamekeepers brought over from Crundalls in a very fast coach. He'd built in so many surprises for visiting Assassins that there was a real risk of staff, unfamiliar with the surprises to be found in the grounds of Ramkin Manor, becoming collateral damage. Therefore, the gamekeepers, men hardened in the eternal war against poachers, were getting the Grand Tour. He didn't want any accidents.
As he toured the grounds, explaining and occasionally demonstrating some of the little surprises built in for unwary Assassins' Guild members, he was also reviewing the current situation in his mind. After the interrogation of the surviving unlicenced Assassin, the one who'd stabbed the Gibbet girl, three named Clowns and one Jester at the Fools' Guild were being covertly watched, to see where they went and who they associated with and spoke to. Vetinari had insisted on this, pointing out that they were only the bait on the hook. He was keen to see which larger fish bit. Vimes was wary about the information that another team of unlicenced Assassins was heading into the City from elsewhere. This was why he'd beefed up security at the Manor with reliable Ramkin muscle that he could depend on. It was, he thought, highly likely any new attackers would take another poke at Erika Morgendorffer. Who was his houseguest. Nice kid, Young Sam liked her, Sybil adored her. She just knew too much.
At least Sybil insisted Olga took a personal letter from her to her parents. That and some recent iconographs as proof. So her mum and dad can be reassured. Vimes felt a stab of guilt for not having thought of this himself. Some things take a mother. He wondered what the undercover operations in Müning would find out; several Watch personnel were out there on "detached service". He was pleased with that. The bloody Assassins weren't going to grab all the action. And Olga was briefed to send reports back. Good.
"I don't think it's going to happen over the next few weeks, but every so often we get student Assassins dropping in. If you gentlemen detain any, treat them gently and don't cause any real damage to them. They just get sent on training exercises, by informal arrangement. They're just kids. Scare them, that's allowed, but go easy. Anyone else – just keep them alive? Thank you."
He made a mental note to tip off Alice Band about the new level of security at the Manor, but suspected she would suspend their informal agreement concerning remedial education for the over-confident for as long as the current emergency applied. But he couldn't assume.
"So you're going to get into the castle and find out if they're keeping prisoners there. To make contact and assure them people outside know. To make plans for breaking them out." Olga said. Emmanuelle nodded.
"All we know is that at least four people, possibly more, have simply disappeared." she said. "One is likely to be the Assassins' Guild's man in this town. For that reason alone we would intervene. To clarify what has happened and to take appropriate action. Retaliatory, if need be. I have an open commission to this effect. But it appears that this must be a clandestine mission, for now. One that leaves no outward trace of my presence. Therefore I must avoid contact of any sort with the clowns, and simply observe. Gather information."
Olga thought of her briefing at the Palace.
"Isn't the Guild office in this town on this street?" she asked. "Cement-down-the-Trousers-Street is a name that sticks in the mind!"
"And in the trousers." Aunt Dotsie said, wryly.
"That is a small stroke of luck, certainly." Emmanuelle agreed. "It might have been on Sahnetorte-Schub-im-Gesicht-Allee or Riesigen ÜberdimensionalenFlachenSchuhStraße."
Sadie frowned and painfully tried to make sense of this.
"Sahnetorte was on the dessert menu." she said. "A sort of... vanilla sauce tart. With eggs."
She performed the monoglot's equivalent of working it out on her fingers, her lips soundlessly moving.
"Also known as MorpokianischesCrème or Vanillesoße." Olga said, helpfully.
Sadie nodded. "They've got a strange way of naming streets around here." she remarked.
"Tells everyone who's in charge." Dotsie said. "Very telling."
The rat Dubbin picked his head up.
"Watch out! Humans coming!" he called, scampering for cover. A second or two later, they heard flat feet slapping in the corridor and heard loud peremptory knocking on doors.
"Raus! Alle raus!"
"A fire drill, do you think?" Olga mused.
"Ah. I think the Überwaldean fire drill, mes amies." Emmanuelle remarked. (4). They waited for the knock on their door. She allowed the Brigitte persona to reassert itself and wasn't surprised when Dotsie answered the door to two clowns, in the sinister dark-blue-almost-black motley.
"Alle raus!" the lead clown demanded.
"Assume we don't speak your language. Dearie." Dotsie said, meaningfully. She scowled.
"Everyone is to leave and assemble in the street! The parade-by-torchlight is about to happen! All must attend! By order of the Schadenfreudefuhrer!" the clown repeated, in heavily accented Morporkian.
"So what's that to us, dearie?" Sadie said. "This ain't our country. For none of us. We're just visiting."
"All must witness!" the clown almost shrieked. "All! Or do I arrest you for refusal?"
Emmanuelle intervened. She wanted no complications. Better to remain a naïve and bemused visitor to this strange foreign town with the funny customs.
"Perhaps we should attend, chère tantes." Brigitte said. "A torchlight parade sounds like a quaint and unique native custom. Something to tell people about when we return home, peut-être?"
Sadie and Dotsie considered this, then reluctantly nodded. Olga had an expression on her face suggesting she was contemplating toad-hood for the clowns, and had meaningfully donned the pointy hat. She wrapped the black cloak around her and studied the two clowns, wondering why they seemed oblivious to peril. Then shrugged and followed them downstairs. No point in a confrontation here. And the potentially incriminating stuff was in her head or concealed about her person, anyway. If anyone searched while they were out, they'd find nothing.
"I tell you what." Sadie whispered to Dotsie. "Young man there needs a lesson in good manners, and being respectful to his elders."
"I remember his Face." Dotsie replied. "Him and the other one. And the one from earlier. But no hurry yet."
Brigitte smiled. The Aunts took their time and didn't hurry. But they got there in the end. She hoped to be nearby when they did. It might be amusing.
Vetinari put down the dossier of known information and looked reflectively out of the office window. The shadows were lengthening over Ankh-Morpork.
"We will know more once the reports start to come in from field operatives, sir." Rufus Drumknott said, supportively. "The first reports from Überwald are expected before the end of the night."
Vetinari nodded.
"It is all vexatiously speculative at present, Drumknott." he remarked. "We know there is a problem, and the epicentre is Müning. And the effects have been felt here. Dissent at the Fools' Guild, the murder attempt on miss Gibbet, the arrival of a young lady with an interesting tale to tell, broken communications with the region beyond Bonk, Fools and Jesters who cannot accept the new regime trickling out of this City and seeking to join forces with those of like mind. I fear this will become more substantial than vexatious, soon."
"Dr Whiteface assures me the Fools of Quirm have declared for him, sir." Drumknott said.
"Predictable, given Quirm's traditional animosity and distrust for Überwald." Vetinari remarked. "Toleda's Iglesia de los Julios is, I believe, in disarray and undecided. The Academia di Grim Aldi in Brindisi is at present guardedly neutral. Possibly watching to observe which faction appears to be winning before it declares an allegiance. Quirmian Aceria and Lancre are firmly in the Ankh-Morpork camp, although the branch in Lancre, I note, consists only of King Verence and a peripatetic troubadour. In any case, the Guild in Quirmian Aceria is viewed as so far out on the liberal spectrum as to be schismatic and heretical. (5)"
Vetinari took a long reflective sip on his mug of tea. He went on.
"I also note Agatea sends fraternal greetings from their State Circus And Most Honourable College of The Clowning Arts, commiserates with the Guild here on its current troubles, and trusts all can be resolved soon, so that the best of our Clowns may tour there, as agreed. They appear set on neutrality, and do not favour one side over the other."
"Llamedos is for Whiteface, too." Drumknott said. Vetinari nodded.
"And such a relief to have the traditional Llamedosian clowns laying mightily about them with their inflatable leeks." Vetinari said, drily. (6) "A great reassurance in a possible time of trial. Speaking of which, Drumknott, remind Dr Whiteface I would appreciate a discussion with him concerning sloshi and its long and fine traditions? No great rush."
The street was filling with people, driven out of their homes and businesses by the insistent black-clad clowns. Brigitte Partout moved easily through the milling confused crowd, a high-class Seamstress promenading down the street, the clothes she was wearing and her general demeanour signalling unavailability to the majority of men who simply wouldn't be able to afford her. She took care to smile pleasantly at the people she passed, knowing Sadie and Dotsie were close behind acting as her bodyguard and dissuading people from getting too close. As their part demanded.
An uncautious man smelling of drink grinned and made as if to slap her bottom. Emmanuelle could have dealt with that herself, but knew it was in Brigitte's character to let the Aunts deal with it. She heard the cut-off scream and Sadie saying "Don't touch what you can't afford, Dearie."
She glanced round. Yes, Dotsie was riffling through the phrase-book, eventually locating the word she wanted, and admonishing the writhing body with a wagged finger and the words "Frech, liebe!"
She smiled, and moved on.
Over a pork butchers, the briefing said…
She located the charcuterie, which had the sign Hermann Schweinliebhaber, Metzger, over the window. There were offices on the floors immediately above. They were lighted and somebody was moving in there. She frowned, wondering if Hermann Wetterarscht was still free and all this was part of some monumental incompetence on his part. He probably hadn't even noticed what was going on around him. As one who had sought to educate him, she had her own clear memories of the sort of things Wetterarscht was capable of. It still baffled her, for instance, as to how a pupil could contrive to cut his own sword-hand. With the sword he was holding. This elevated ineptitude to a level almost of genius. She looked again The sort of discreet street door to an upstairs office, that you'd expect to see, was in between the shop fronts. There was a brass plaque on it. She couldn't read it at this distance, but expected it to read something like Gilde der Assassinen, MüningsZweigstelle.
And then she heard the music. A typically Überwaldean oompah band. But playing a military march. Lights flickered in the distance...
The two coachmen, Big Jim Cartwright and "Lead Cosh" Henderson, had not participated in the discussion with the ladies. Their rooms were, as befitted servants, in the rear of the building. Unknown to them, the rats had scouted these too and disabled the listening tubes. Knowing nothing of the true nature of Brigitte and only aware the Aunts were here on Seamstresses' Guild business, there was little that could have been said to incriminate the party. The two had decided to save visiting the local Post Office till the next day, and as their employers had no immediate need for their services, they had decided to seek out the nightlife and find a pub.
This took a surprising amount of time. Apparently the new management of the city did not approve of alcohol and was restricting its service to only a few licenced outlets. The two gathered that the Seamstresses were being subjected to similar draconian restrictions.
"The Aunts ain't going to like that very much, Jim!" said Lead Cosh.
Jim nodded gloomy agreement. Just when they were beginning to despair, they found the Bierkellar. It appeared to be populated by the sort of people who resented the restrictions being imposed by the Clowns, and who were vocal in their beer-fuelled dissent. Veteran coachmen who had travelled to many places on the Central Continent, the two understood enough Überwaldean to get the gist and make themselves understood. They listened intently.
"Somebody called…" Big Jim concentrated intently, "Der giftig Hofnarr. Hofnarr is Fool or jester, right, and Gift is..."
"Funny sort of present." Lead Cosh said, through his beer.
"No, Harry. "Gift" means "poison" round here. Somebody called.. the Poisonous Clown. Seems to be the bloke who's taken charge. Closed down pubs and Seamstresses."
"See if you can find anyone who works for the Post Office, would you? Buy him a drink. Get him talking."
And here, people who felt angry and resentful were prepared to talk. Until the black-clad Clowns arrived.
"Raus! Alle raus!"
Big Jim and Lead cosh were swept along with the resentful drinkers, the two coachmen wondering why, if they were as angry as all that, the drinkers around them didn't, for e.g., duff over the Clowns, and kick them into the street.
"Wouldn't stand for this for five minutes in Ankh-Mopork, Jim!" said Lead Cosh.
Jim, whose father had told him gloomy tales about the old-time Cable Street Particulars, wasn't so sure. The people of Ankh-Morpork had put up with it then. And worse. He wondered if the Black Clowns were the local Particulars. That would make sense. And, uneasily, he recalled where you got Particulars of the old sort, there's ultimately be a Captain Findthee Swing. Der giftig Hofnarr.
And then the parade started.
"Mes dieux!" Brigitte Partout said, with feeling.
It was horrible. It was nightmarish. It was made worse by it happening at night, so a lot of the detail might only be guessed at, and lit by lighted torches held aloft by unsmiling grim clowns.
The parade was headed by rank after rank of the black-clad clowns, marching in unison with that absurd, but sinister, straight-legged strut. Brigitte noted that uniquely for clowns, there were no pratfalls and nobody was out of step. Hundreds of clowns marching as one, in unison. The balloons on sticks looked sinister. From the way they hung, Brigitte was prepared to guess something more substantial than air filled them. They'd make very efficient coshes and maces. There was a certain coal-scuttle-worn-as-helmet aura to the headgear. It looked silly. But to a trained eye, very practical for head-and-shoulder protection in combat.
She wondered about how other items of Clowncraft might have been adapted. Joke flowers in the lapel, for instance. What would they squirt?
And then the grim, hard-looking Clowns with buckets and ladders. She shuddered. She'd heard about sloshi, the clown martial art. It had been born here.
And were those gonnes?
She looked again, with horror. No, just crossbows modified to fire custard tarts. Repeaters? And real crossbows, too. Lots of throwing knives.
Not every clown was black-clad, she noted. The majority appeared to be the normal everyday variety, in motley. And some slow learners were even capering and pratfalling.
The parade seemed to go on. And on. And on. Gloomily, she estimated some five or six thousand clowns had passed. Then she frowned. That fellow there seemed familiar. Hadn't she seen him before?
Then realisation dawned as a sense of deja-vu asserted itself. Of course. The Head Clown has no more than fifteen hundred at the most. We are seeing a great big circle here, where the tail meets the head. He is doing it this way to fool observers, who are not at all inclined to look closely, into thinking he has thousands upon thousands of followers. We are here to take the story back to Ankh-Morpork and Quirm. Olga is here watching because they want her to carry this story to Far Überwald and Zlobenia. We spread dismay and pessimism about the massed regiments of Clowns about to attack out of Überwald. This is clever! I must ensure Olga is not fooled, and her report reflects truth. (7)
And finally the parade faded away and all watching, now suitably awed at ten thousand grim Clowns, were able to return to their homes. Brigitte the seamstress looked at Olga the visiting witch, and raised an eyebrow. Olga grinned back.
And Brigitte decided she would go on her mission at two or three in the morning, while most of the world was sleeping.
Hermann Wetterarscht turned from the cell window in horror. From the high cell in the tower they'd seen the clowns parade, disappearing down into the city and periodically visible as a trail of torches.. He wondered which neighbouring city would be first.
Herr Vespemann patted his shoulder.
"You must try again with the lockpick, Hermann. Perhaps in the early hours, when few are awake and our hosts predisposed to sleep."
Wetterarscht felt gloomy. These people were depending on him. It was not a happy thought.
(1) The original conception for Johanna Smith-Rhodes, having realised where the canonical placeholder name appeared to come from, was to flesh out the barely-there-in-canon character as an exaggerated White Southern African (think apartheid Rhodesia, a nation under its last ruler Ian Smith that made its neighbour, South Africa, look liberal and enlightened in its attitudes towards black people). A Boer who in the Pratchett tradition embodied all the associations with White South Africa, taken way past eleven. Indeed, she is written this way when first introduced in The Graduation Class. A right-leaning fiercely illiberal apartheid-believer was a shoe-in for a conservative institution like the Assassins' Guild School. But as characters do, she ended up standing right behind me with whip in one hand and machete pointing at my neck, suggesting her true personality be allowed to emerge. She is still a South African with attitude and many of the knobs of South-African-ness (SuidAfrikanheit?) turned up to eleven. But has grown with her years and is indeed something of a better person.
(2) Of the great Überwaldean clown Till Glockenspiegel. Art celebrating the great clowns is pretty dire. People who paint portraits of clowns should be treated with suspicion. Regard American serial killer John Gacy, a true psychopath with an obsession with clowns and painting them. His clown art, produced in prison, has a reputation among connoisseurs of the macabre and grotesque. It is thought to be more lingeringly horrible than his actual murders. He has his own bespoke clown Face that appears time and again in his paintings, for instance. Google, if you have a stomach, for a self-portrait of Gacy, with his clown persona standing next to him with a friendly arm about his shoulders… Till Eulenspiegel is a mediaeval German clown beloved in Saxony and Bavaria, who has a chapter to himself in German folklore, and who has inspired many paintings, not all of which were done by psychopathic serial killers. They are as… unique… as you might expect. He even appears on a German €10 coin.
(3) A man who did terrible and unspeakable things. Many of which now hang in art galleries and strange private collections throughout Überwald. By express order of the Patrician, the Royal Art Gallery in Ankh-Morpork has sent all its von Gaczys on indefinite long-term loan to the Fools' Guild, so they can be properly appreciated by the right sort of art buff.
(4) As described by Shea and Wilson in their Illuminatus! Trilogy, the Bavarian Fire Drill is the observed social phenomenon that if commands are given with enough confidence and authority, regardless of who is giving the orders, people will follow and blindly obey. It works, too.
(5) Referencing Le Cirque du Soleil in Quebec here, seen as such an extreme reinvention of the traditional circus arts that more conservative practitioners denounced it as a travesty.
(6) Professional Welshman Max Boyce performed a comic routine armed with a giant inflatable leek and an unfeasibly large daffodil. He wore motley in red and green, the national colours.
(7) When General Rommel's Afrika Korps disembarked in Libya to bolster the remnants of a defeated Italian army, Rommel organised his few German tanks and soldiers into a single circular parade in Tripoli, the same tanks and men going round and round again in front of neutral reporters, film crews and British Intelligence agents in the crowd, to give the impression four or five times more Germans had arrived than was the case. Incredibly, the British were taken in, and at first didn't stop to ask why a lot of German tanks all seemed to have identical registration numbers…