My life is a circus

In the late 1960s my brother and I, though very young, became celebrities for one week during the summer, because the Circus came to our town.

We had free entry and ringside seats at the matinees and at the evening performances.

We had access backstage, to all caravans, and to the animals.

This was because our uncle Danny was an acrobat in the Circus, and so, when it came to town, we disappeared into the caravans and the trailers that made up this temporary village.

Danny was our passport to a world that was exotic and brilliant.

Delighted to see us he would parade us around the caravans, introduce us to his adopted family, the brass band, the lion tamer and his wife, the clowns, (who were not unhappy at all), the strongman (who was from Liverpool), and the dancing girls, those intoxicating, dark European princesses whose feathers and perfume made us go quiet and wide eyed.

Danny always looked forward to coming home, not only because his family were delighted to see him again, but also because he had “made it big” as far as the town was concerned.

The Circus owners, aware that Danny had this stature, liked our town, because Danny helped to sell out the shows.


His love of acrobatics began in the 1930’s. The Great Depression meant little to the Ireland of that time, since there was no work anyway, the Nation was barely eight years old, and was already in trouble with England again.

Since nobody worked it seemed natural to turn to entertainment, to alleviate the suffering that comes with unemployment, and for something to do.

Danny along with some other friends formed a “troupe” of acrobats. I think they must have been influenced by early Hollywood films, where the capacity to dance, or to sing, or to perform a trick was as important as the ability to act.

They called themselves “The Amingos”, and they are still remembered by the old people today. They dressed in “Mexican” outfits (They did not understand Spanish, hence the name), and used all manner of objects for props.

My aunt Bridie who had been given an enormous wedding present, a dining furniture set, was beside herself with grief when the Amingos arrived in one day to commandeer the chairs to use them as a kind of tower, over which they would balance and turn, now upside down, now in a pyramid, to the delight of the crowd in Market Square.

Such was their success that it was not long before a rival “gang” (as Danny termed them) set up in competition.

Their “caper” was juggling. Eventually the troupes, having decided the market was too small to sustain both outfits merged, and became “The O’Keefe Brothers”.

It was during this time that Danny decided he wanted to be professional.

This was a courageous thing to decide. Ireland was hostile to the Arts, and the idea of being a professional in an indigent country was considered madness.

Knowing this Danny waited until one day the Circus arrived into town. For the past few months he had been perfecting a high Wire Trapeze Act – No Net.

He managed to attach a cable between two buildings on the main street of the town and practised, at night, long after everyone was asleep.

He must have been a strange site, balanced precariously on a wire in the middle of a narrow medieval street, as the town clock struck three, and the fishermen were now well out in the harbour for the night.

He auditioned, and got the job.

Years later, in 1968, he appeared on television. I remember all the neighbours gathering at my grandfather’s house, complete with a television rented for the week from Bobby Chapel the telly man, to watch him.

There, on St. Stephen’s Day, at the London Palladium, Danny performed his High Wire Act, across the wide stage, No Net.


As Nietzsche wrote - “I can still stand on life’s narrowest footing: but who would I be were I to show you this art?

Would you like to see a ropedancer?”