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Disney must die.

2 October 2000
Victor gets medieval on yo mouse's ass.

Case history first, for those who are clown virgins. A number of us clowners are unhealthily obsessed with our childhoods. Within this subset I in particular am preoccupied with a) myself b) big business c) the gap between representation and reality. Apologies to Jamie for covering similar infant panic ground. His piece on clowns pretty much sums up the ethic. Sheer hatred, however, spurs me on to more vitriol against queer creatures that terrorise children.

Mice are very, very small. About three inches long. They are not six foot tall, nor do they walk on two legs nor wear a ringmaster's outfit (macabre features of the circus seem to haunt us). They are not anthropomorphic, nor are they entitled even to pretend to live their lives as humans: they may not own dogs, even cartoon ones with erectile tongue syndrome. They cannot live in houses that are proportionate to their body size, at least not as long as they are fitted with art deco washing machines. They don't steer steamboats or go out on dates with dappy bitches. Nor do they keep company with ducks (who would - know what I mean?).

Mus (as it shall be known for technical purposes) is more habitually viewed decapitated on kitchen floors worldwide. Contract cats all over the universe pride themselves on the quality pest control service they provide. Imagine the confusion if their clients set them to work on Mickey and Minnie. Mind you, Mus Pictus Maximus - Giant Cartoon Mouse, or Big Graphic Mouse if the rodent bestialists prefer - has a couple of significant flaws: its stupidity (viz. numerous situations which get out of its control and its inability to cope with anything out of the ordinary) and its supreme good nature.

Consequence of musing? Vastly more interesting viewing. Tom's pursuit of Jerry is essentially natural: Tom may be almost as big as Mammy the slave-maid; Jerry at least is a good deal smaller. Speedy Gonzalez' supermurine (my spellchecker for the last word supplied 'super urine') velocity is totally appropriate for his species, as Mus Mexicanus is known to be fire powered with anally-inserted chillies. Just wait for the grudge match, when the domestic cat gets to prove itself to Mickey Mus. Tom takes time to ponder the method of retribution and, ultimately, murder. Cats are the cleverest, remember. Pitched against the slower, less sharp, foam Florida resident, it's likely to be rather more than victorious.

Splendid technicolour scenes gather in my mind: Option One - Tom pinning Mus to the linoleum, painstakingly gnawing through the neck (an operation which, due to dimensional considerations, takes up to seven days of eight hour shift work); Option Two - the more modern practical approach with blow torch and power tools; Option Three - the Accidental Fall. Outside the laboratory it remains to be seen which method Tom will adopt. Regardless, it would certainly be worth having the camcorder handy of an evening: some fat bird off the TV might send you money.

That this course is justified is beyond question, and isn't that far from a role-reversed Itchy and Scratchy. But just in case the Mouseketeers of you out there (yes, you're right, I do really like that word) are wetting your pants in protest and frustration, here's why: because. Because you can't get away from Mus Pictus Maximus. Because he's even found his way to France. Because, although I myself came through childhood virtually untouched by this faunal scag, the kids of today (let's call them the Posh Spice generation) are mesmerised by fifty-year-old films about grasshoppers in tails, elephants with big ears (my god, elephants with big ears?), and lions who don't have sex all the time. Get this: they're even encouraged to sing songs by the Oscar-endorsed Elton John and Phil Collins. Phil Collins - the most disappointing member of the Used-to-be-Good-but-Tooth-Drillingly-Shit-Now Club. Play your drums in Switzerland - just don't press 'record' or get on the plane. It might crash, and your contribution to music would be lost in the Alpine drifts forever.

Clearly there are important questions to be asked: why are all the Native American, black or Asian characters a lot lighter-skinned than they should be (Pocahontas, Aladdin)? Hercules is ginger, for Christ's sake and, believe me, I know ginger when I see it. I know the Ancient Greeks were Celtic, but this is ridiculous. Most of all, why does the guy in the new film about Eldorado bare more than a striking resemblance to my ex-boyfriend Jim (Hi, Jim, if you're watching)? Answers on an electronic postcard, please.


Previously on upsideclown


Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
27 October 2003. Victor writes: Our Tune
6 October 2003. Victor writes: Sucking face (in a public place)
15 September 2003. Victor writes: You got any ID?
25 August 2003. Victor writes: Blood on the Boulevard
4 August 2003. Victor writes: In (paren)theses
10 July 2003. Victor writes: Island Fling
19 June 2003. Victor writes: Back (back) and forth (and forth)
2 June 2003. Victor writes: 300 clowns, 13 eight-year olds
12 May 2003. Victor writes: The swings and roundabouts of outrageous fortune
21 April 2003. Victor writes: ...just sitting there quietly contemplating suicide
31 March 2003. Victor writes: Victoria
6 March 2003. Victor writes: Relevant experience
17 February 2003. Victor writes: You will eat chips and go nowhere
27 January 2003. Victor writes: A bushy fish for fishy Mr Bush (after Juvenal)
6 January 2003. Victor writes: The Accidental Voyeur
16 December 2002. Victor writes: Gripper goes bang
25 November 2002. Victor writes: Bediquette
4 November 2002. Victor writes: Where have all the spastics gone?
14 October 2002. Victor writes: An Immodest Proposal
23 September 2002. Victor writes: Fastscan masterplan
2 September 2002. Victor writes: Dry Humping Social Club
12 August 2002. Victor writes: Beat the Mongol
22 July 2002. Victor writes: What life is not
1 July 2002. Victor writes: Stupor heroes
6 June 2002. Victor writes: Dry
13 May 2002. Victor writes: Muppet Suite
18 April 2002. Victor writes: gingermingeninja
25 March 2002. Victor writes: Sodomize with Pukka Pies
28 February 2002. Victor writes: Dave's problem
4 February 2002. Victor writes: King of the Aisles
10 January 2002. Victor writes: Here come the decorator gimps.
17 December 2001. Victor writes: Make war, not supper.
22 November 2001. Victor writes: Cough
29 October 2001. Victor writes:
4 October 2001. Victor writes: Green Gauges
10 September 2001. Victor writes: Blind weed
16 August 2001. Victor writes: Snout!
23 July 2001. Victor writes: You're not going to put this in a clown are you?
28 June 2001. Victor writes: What is a droll?
4 June 2001. Victor writes: Burt Pakamak
10 May 2001. Victor writes: Board to Death
12 April 2001. Victor writes: Tricolon with anaphora?
22 March 2001. Victor writes: Point of View
26 February 2001. Victor writes: Goth's Dinner
1 Feburary 2001. Victor writes: Les Miserables
4 January 2001. Victor writes: Flat-packed furniture
14 December 2000. Victor writes: Deliverance
20 November 2000. Victor writes: Bottomry: Exorcising Ghosts
26 October 2000. Victor writes: Body Art
2 October 2000. Victor writes: Disney must die
7 September 2000. Victor writes: Ice-cream in Offworld
14 August 2000. Victor writes: I like sweets that taste of medicine
26 June 2000. Victor writes: I've seen the future, and it's feathered

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