THE QUACK

It was whilst I was singing the Mallard duck song on Radcliffe Square to a bunch of confused teenagers that I was reminded of a childhood memory. 

It was the summer of 1999, I was 7 years old, and our family had gone to a Lanzarote resort for our holiday.

My brothers and I were heavily encouraged to join the kid’s club. We went on treasure hunts, had swimming races and competed in sand castle contests. It was halfway through the week when the club leader made us aware of the talent show that would take place on the last night, and she told us to prepare an act that we could perform in front of a judge and our parents.

My brother quickly joined the group of girls who were practising the dance routine of Step’s Tragedy. It had been released the year before, and everyone was performing this hand-to-ear dance.

I didn’t think this was original enough, so I went away, alone, and thought hard about what I could do instead….

After a week of various activities that kept us far away from our sunbathing parents, the night of the talent show arrived. It took place in the basement bar of the resort, which was filled with tanned parents sipping candy-coloured cocktails. I was waiting behind a screen next to the makeshift stage. Next to me was a girl in a tutu and a boy in a magician’s cloak. I didn’t have any props for my act; it was just me and my best orange dress, which I had saved for my performance.

One by one, the kids walked onto the stage, performed, and were met by rowdy applause. 

The act in front of me was the girl in the tutu. She had bragged earlier that week that she already had her dance routine sorted before she even arrived on the Island. I watched from the side as she twirled around the stage to some classical tune, then finished off with a curtsy – then it was my turn. The kids club leader introduced me onto the stage, “And our next act is Mary. Her act is…err…comedy.”

I shuffled on, and she shoved the mic into my hand. I turned to see a row of white lights and no faces. 

“I’m going to tell a joke first,” I said, kissing the mic. Silence. “Two crisp packets were crossing the…erm….road…and a car stops….and asks…..do you want a lift?….and they said…no we’re walkers.”

My mum’s familiar laugh could be heard over the rumble of chuckles. I cleared my throat. “I’m now going to put my tongue on my nose,” I said and did just that. It was met with disgusted moans – not the reaction I hoped for – but I knew the next part would get them.

“I’m now going to do my impression of Babe the Pig.”

And I was off singing, “lalalala”, to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, in my best Babe the Pig voice.

I belted out the whole song, and when I was finished, there was silence. I took a small bow to mark the end, and my parents kicked off the applause. 

I shuffled back off the stage, confused. I couldn’t understand the underwhelming response, especially as the act had been so well received at every family gathering.  

The girl group and Joe were after me. The girls were perfectly in sync with their hand movements and turns. Joe, meanwhile, had just discovered breakdancing and was trying to master the backspin that we had seen on MTV, but he looked more like a bug stuck on its back. 

The winner was announced, the girl in the tutu of course. She had won a dinner voucher for her family to eat at The Dolphin Hut. The night before, we had eaten there, and Dad hadn’t been particularly patient with the waiter – so it was probably for the best that neither Joe nor I impressed the resort’s judge.

After that night, I hung up my performance hat, or so I thought, because there I was on my Sunday afternoon, finishing off my mallard duck song in Radcliffe Square…. and being met with a familiar silence.