IN the 1950s, Heinz looked at pickles and wondered what went with them? The answer was simple: clowns. Middle-aged men in small hats and lots of make-up would make tummies rumble for jarred pickles. Look out for the clown with a face so stitched in the upwards grin that when eyeing his puke-encrusted sausage, he still smiles broadly. Unless he is, like Bom Bom, actually turned on by such things. But, then, Bom Bom’s a wanted man who only took to clowning because he had a tube of congealed pig’s blood, chronic anaemia and a chronic need for an alibi:
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