“And wasn’t that last contestant great?
Never knew someone had THAT
much talent juggling horses!
Now our next contestant is someone
who if you recall, only just squeaked past
our preliminary round
thanks to mouldy cafeteria chips,
please clap,
because no one else will,
for Barold Balfour!”
Hopping around on his jelly legs,
sweating small droplets that feel as heavy as gold,
Barold bounces botherdly,
accidentally leaping into sets and cabinets
and causing a ruckus.
He makes out a polite couple of claps
and tumbles onto the stage
a rotating mass of limbs
that has knotted itself,
in a heap of anxious human.
Returning to his feet
and grabbing hold of metal amplification
he speaks, the voice squeaks, the mic peaks.
“Good evening folks!
Barold here, with a few jokes!
I’ve been working on the set since the last,
this time I think I can promise
there will be no accidents or vomit.
Sorry, Thursday front row!
Have you ever been somewhere,
somewhere you’re not supposed to be?
And you got there by mistake, obviously,
no one goes where they’re not supposed to be,
and when you’re there everyone who is
supposed to be there gets so mad at you!
‘Sir!’ they shout, or sometimes a bit more profane,
‘Sir! Your are standing on a foundry conveyor belt!
That’s gonna dump you into 1300 degrees celsius
liquid steel! What are you doing?!’ he screams.
‘This isn’t the travellator for the airport?’”
The returning silence does nothing
to dampen the spirits of Barold.
“Or what about this, you ever think
about misnamed products? Ready meals.
You still have to cook them! They should be
called ready to cook meals!
Or packing peanuts,
I ate a whole bag of them
and was in the hospital for a month!
Well, at least I was safe getting there!”
“Once I went to a country fair
and they warned us to properly secure our vehicles,
but they were not happy
when I started welding my car boot shut!”
Barold Balfour is not a comedian,
but he is not phased
and right now as he fails to land,
he still makes an impact on his dream.