Growing up with Giffords Circus
It may now be beloved by a certain celeby Cotswold crowd - but Isobel Lewis finds rough magic beyond the village green cosplay
Two women dressed in jewel-toned bikinis enter the sawdust ring within a tent pitched up on a public common in the Cotswolds, and murmurs ripple through the audience. It’s not their outfits or impressive muscles (both of which give the impression of WWE wrestlers) that the audience have clocked. Rather, it is the women’s hair, which has been pulled into slick, high buns with a thick metal loop sticking out of the top of each. Eyes dart between the metal pieces, and the series of pulleys and ropes hovering above the audience. There’s no way they’re going to be hoisted from the ground by their hair, right? Surely not?
Six young men in bright, mismatched shirts run into the ring, clapping and cheering, before tumbling and flipping across the circle at super-human speed. They always land on their feet. A series of two, then three hoops are stacked up, and the performers fling themselves through them simultaneously. Soon, the largest hoop is set on fire, and the men dive and hurl themselves through the flaming ring. When the final member of their troupe lands, they are met with rapturous applause.
A plastic sheet is laid over the sawdust, as a slight man with a tuft of bright orange hair chats to the audience. Two bigger guys, dressed in stripes, hold water guns and large buckets. A viscous liquid fills both instruments, meant to look like ice cream. For the next five minutes, carnage ensues. The audience is splashed with water, and the performers are bedecked with the gunge. The substances commingle on the plastic, causing the performers to slip across the sheet like they’re skidding down a makeshift water slide. The children in the audience scream, while the adults, who far outnumber them this Friday evening, cackle and beam.
“I’m sorry, you’re doing what tonight?” my friends quizzically question, as I regale them with my plans for the weekend. I’m about to get the train back to the Gloucestershire town I grew up in for the Lewis family summer tradition: a trip to the travelling circus. I scramble to add additional context, because what they’re imagining is definitely not accurate. They’re thinking of something sexy, like Cirque du Soleil, or cheesy, like Zippos. Giffords Circus is neither of those things – and yet I draw a blank.
Sometimes, I’ll try and explain by talking about the celebrity fans who catch the show on tour across the Cotswolds every year. Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Helena Bonham-Carter are among Giffords’ starriest supporters, these double-barrelled darlings hinting at one of the most common ways to describe Giffords: an extremely middle (in their case, upper) class affair. Here, merchandise is designed by Emma Bridgewater, local craft beers are available in the interval, and dinner is served post-show at the on-site supper club, Circus Sauce.
The Cotswolds have always been treated by the stars as a bolthole to get away from the hustle and bustle of London or Los Angeles, and cosplay at a rustic country life; just ask local residents the Beckhams, Hugh Grant, and bizarre recent transplant Ellen Degeneres. Giffords doesn’t quite attract that calibre of sleb, but when Jennifer Saunders or the late Vivienne Westwood came to watch, they weren’t given special treatment. No, they squished onto the benches (upgraded to feature a backrest only as of the last few years) like everyone else. The circus is a levelling experience, packing in adults and children, VIPs and regular ticket holders.
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