When you're height-challenged (or whatever you call it these days) and want to get into entertainment, the career options are exceedingly slim. As they say in the business, "Panto in Winter, Porno in Summer". Opportunities like Time Bandits, The Wizard of Oz and Diff'rent Strokes come only once in a lifetime, and you never see any of them in Bad Girls or The Bill.
However, once upon a time, there was another revenue stream available to the shorter performer. You could sit on a toadstool and be gawped at by people from Nottingham. And that's exactly what Gordon the Gnome (possibly not his real name) did. For years.
If you're going to have a Scottish Giant at your fair, it's pretty much a no-brainer to have someone at the opposite scale as well, and Gordon filled the bill admirably. And as winter drew in, it was almost like a dress rehearsal for the school Nativity. Gordon, tricked out in standard Gnomey garb, was a bit like Jesus in his straw manger. And we were like the Three Kings, bearing brandy snap, Bros mirrors and peas. "Ahh Mam, can we tek `im `om wi'us?" said assorted kiddies, as Gordon sat there "He can live in our Dad's shed".
It might seem rather barbaric, but he seemed happy enough. After all, he was too small to go on any of the decent rides, and when you'd spent an hour up to your ankles in mud, fighting to get past people and getting clonked on the head by assorted stupid cows who were carrying pushchairs over their head, you cane to the conclusion that Gordon had it sussed for just dossing there and getting paid to be looked at. He'd chat up a few women, wave at the kids, and probably get through a good chunk of paperback when there was no-one about. At least he wasn't working in a call centre.
The coolest thing of all about Gordon was that he was the Gnome who kept on giving. After every visit he'd dish out some of his special Lucky Beans, which were guaranteed to ensure a massive win at the bingo or something. And they actually worked, as long as you considered a child having a choking incident or the lining of your trouser pockets being irrevocably stained as `lucky'.
Gordon no longer can be seen at Goosey, so we have to assume he's sitting upon a retirement toadstool somewhere. He has been replaced by that big van with assorted six-legged dog foetuses and skeletons of Siamese Twins. Not the same, really.
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