Hoxton Idiot and Funny Face Man (05.06.09)
Waiting in the rain outside Cargo we were approached by a homeless man who wanted to make us laugh with his funny face. He was wearing a padded coat and fairy-light-lit angel wings. I was surprised to see a bottle of Pimms sticking out of his coat pocket. Pimms? His patter was pretty inoffensive and relatively amusing; he wanted to entertain with his round rubbery-cheeked face in the hope of getting some money together for somewhere to stay.
Unfortunately I was standing next to a Hoxton Idiot of the first order, equipped with an ear-piercing, artificial, falsetto laugh. He was trying to entertain his blonde girlfriend with The Laugh. Funny Face Man told us he was broke and needed a bed for the night. Hoxton Idiot responded with The Laugh, shrieking like a hyena, bending over double and holding his stomach as if his sides were splitting. Funny Face Man took this in good part, and bantered a little, before returning to his story – ‘Just walking around the streets trying to make a couple of people smile tonight. I’ve got a funny face I can do that will make you crack right up, and I’m hoping if it gives you a laugh you might be able to help me out.’
The Idiot pulled out another high pitched, trilling, ear-offending cackle at this juncture, slapping the homeless man on the back and pointing at him before staggering, bent double across the pavement in a mime of helpless amusement. As the homeless guy hadn’t got to the funny part of his routine, this threw him considerably. ‘You’re funny yourself, you are! Yep, very funny. But let me show you my funny face and hopefully it’ll give you a belly laugh, not this big,’ he made a gesture with his hands about a foot apart, ‘but this big,’ he widened his arms to their full span.
‘Yes, give him a chance,’ I said to The Idiot, before turning back to the homeless guy. ‘I want to see it. Carry on. Show us the funny face.’
The homeless guy pulled his coat around him a bit, and widened his stance on the pavement. ‘Right, well brace yourselves. I’ll show you the face and hopefully it’ll crack you up.’
He bent double, so his face was hidden from us down by his knees, and did some mysterious face manipulation with his fingers, turning his cheeks in and his lips inside out, or something like that, before triumphantly lifting up to show us the face. But The Idiot was quicker.
Before the homeless man could fully present the funny face there was a screech of laughter: high, wavering, intrusive, compelling. A hysterical, ham laugh, which started with the head held back, sound streaming skyward and ended with The Idiot curled over his toes – hopping round in a tittering, shoulder-shaking circle on the pavement.
The homeless man’s funny face melted away as he goggled in disbelief at The Idiot. I tried lamely to show my appreciation of the face but things had started to turn nasty.
‘You are a prick mate. A prick of infinite magnitude. A prick like I have never seen before,’ the homeless man spat at the Idiot. ‘Do you think it’s funny to laugh at a homeless person trying to get a bed for the night. It’s raining. Look at me. Do you think I do this for fun? A fully-fledged cock, mate. An absolute and utter cock.’
‘What? What have I done?’ the Idiot responded with a mock horrified expression. ‘I don’t get it. I was just laughing.’
‘I’m a homeless man out on the streets in the rain trying to get a bit of cash together for a bed by making people laugh. That’s what I’m trying to do. And you are taking the piss, you prick. With your fucking laugh. You are a tosser. A total tosser.’ The homeless man had started to push through the crowd to shove The Idiot.
‘But I don’t understand. I was just laughing. What’s the problem? That’s my laugh.’
I stepped in to try and arbitrate. ‘Look, you were being a bit of an idiot. He was just trying to make a bit of money. You should have given him a chance.’ Actually, I hated The Idiot too.
I dug a pound out of my purse and gave it to the homeless man: ‘Here, I enjoyed it. Hope you have an alright night. See you later.’
The homeless man put the pound in his pocket. After zipping up his coat, he pointed a dirty finger at The Idiot with a final jab. ‘You’re a prick. An utter prick. A prick of infinite magnitude,’ he said angrily, ‘A prick like I have never seen before.’ Then he turned his back on us, and with fairy-light-lit angel wings flashing, set off down Rivington Street.
I looked at The Idiot. ‘Is that really your laugh?’ I asked him, distastefully.
‘Yes!’ he nodded indignantly, rolling his eyes, ‘That’s my laugh. My real laugh.’
I turned to his blonde girlfriend. ‘Is that laugh actually his real laugh?’.
‘Yes,’ she replied, in great embarrassment. ‘It is.’
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