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"You could indeed exhibit anything in those days. Yes anything from a needle to an anchor, a flea to an elephant, a bloater you could exhibit as a whale. It was not the show; it was the tale that you told" - The Penny Showman: Memoirs of Tom Norman "Silver King" (Published 1985)

The two young orphan foxes pressed their noses against the glass in eager anticipation at what was to come. They had heard so much about this travelling show that there was no way that the routine of the workhouse was ever going to shackle their spirits.

They knew they would be in trouble if they got caught but as the inquisitive critters awaited the moment the beast would be born; they knew that nothing would have got in the way of them seeing this spectacle. Not even the wrath of their father and the workhouse Master.

With baited breath the audience waited as the ringmaster danced paradoxes through the minds of the marveled. As he extolled the virtues of this scientific age, the grizzled wolf quoted passages from the entrepreneurs of the day, captivating and enthralling a voracious crowd and permeating a sense of patriotism never before seen under the Union Flag.

The punters were hanging on his every word as he commanded the stage with expert aplomb. Behind the orator the caged animal sat, alone amongst the crowd, belying its potential in its dormant state, like the ghost of the age it was about to slay through the hidden power and craft that will herald a golden one.

In the ringmaster's paw, there was a cane and as he glided around the creature like a bear around honey, he threatened to dip in his paw in order to reach the sweet nectar. He looked up to God and then across to his creation, the seven deadly sins infesting his senses, making him believe that through this machine, he had somehow touched God.

He looked into the throng and into the eyes of the beast, each movement calculated, each word choreographed. Words of temperance, of piety, of Methodist virtue, were spoken with the same fervour that had made this nation great and as the visitors sat stoically, listening to the show, they knew that never before had one country achieved so much.

Then suddenly everything went quiet as his booming voice became an inaudible whisper. The air lay thick with wonder and smog as the paupers held tense, relishing the finale. The orator jumped forth then back once again, his stick getting closer to aggravating the beast into life as he relished the power that he had on his crowd and the influence he had on how the natural world worked.

And as the crowd took in the show, the smog took to their fur - the coal fires matting the pelts of the foxes, bringing life to their pallor and spirit to their cheeks, coursing through their veins like the thick stench of money flowed through the hearts of the capitalists.

For this may have been poverty in every sense of the word but there is money to be made out of the poorest of souls, particularly when you tell them what they want to be told. And for a shilling a time at this sordid charade, with a top hat on his head and a dapper demure, a life lesson was witnessed by all those who could read because it's easy for a conman to present himself as the most puritan of souls.

Once all the shillings had been collected, the beast was awoken...

"The care and training of children are matters which should receive the anxious attention of Guardians. Pauperism is in the blood, and there is no more effectual means of checking its hereditary nature than by doing all in our power to bring up our pauper children in such a manner as to make them God-fearing, useful and healthy members of society."

Poor Law Handbook of the Poor Law Officers' Journal (1901)

Like angry dragons towering over God's green creation, the factories voraciously belched the acrid smoke of progression. The thick, heavy air constricted the lungs like it strangled the Sun, turning day into night and transforming light into dark. After 1850 years of Christian endeavour, the Creator was finally being outdone by the created.

Beneath the blackness of a warm summer's day, the machines scurried to toll for the bells of their Masters. Lunchtime was over and the smell of money was as infectious as the air - and as ripe as the diseases from which many were suffering.

In the office above the main workroom, the Master and Matron surveyed their empire. Fifty-three paupers of varying ills had just spent the last hour huddled over meals of Hasty-Pudding and Table-Beer. The bell had just rung, signaling that work had to resume, and that there was another six hours until the end of the day.

The Master looked down at the benches where the ants had just sat, furrowing his brow in deepest contemplation. This wasn't the first time that the two foxes had played truant and they were testing his patience with their continual games.

Young fox discipline was becoming a problem but the routine of floggings and incarceration didn't seem to be working. And the law was coming down on other techniques after some high profile cases had appeared in the courts. Stories of ducking, of violence and suspending miscreants in bags tied to the rafters were making the news and the Master didn't want to be on the wrong end of a newspaper witch-hunt.

So he would have to find a way of guaranteeing their subservience but the matter to hand was trying to track them down. And he knew of a certain fair down the road where he was sure they'd be hiding...

"The children of the poor, almost as soon as they can walk or talk, are sent to the workhouse. For girls, these are the primary schools for prostitution..."

"[Upon leaving the workhouse] On the countenance of these girls, nothing but joy and animation can be seen, while the very vulture of misery is gnawing-hour after hour- day after day - at their hearts. Originally seduced from a state of innocence, and then abandoned by every one who held them in any degree of estimation, they are left upon the world, and have no alternative but to go on in the way they have commenced."

Ins and Outs of London, W. O'Daniel (1859)

The lonely figure loitering by the lamppost knew these streets well. She had spent every day for the last year hanging around them.

So-called "Fallen Vixens" were easy to come by and many paid for their services. "The Great Social Evil" was thriving in Manchester, as where there's money, there's sex and business was booming.

She looked around the corner, checking for the constabulary. She knew she was risking it by being out on a lunchtime but the fair was providing a significant distraction and the number of clients had dropped since it had arrived. This had forced her to come out in the middle of the day, risking censure and the intimate checks that the police were authorised to carry out on vixens of her type for venereal disease.

Still, she wouldn't have it any other way. Why would she? She would never prostitute herself to a servant's life, following the commands of a magnate with more money than morals. Curse the Magdalene Asylums and their misguided piety - they were merely afraid of a vixen being in control.

And from where she was standing, with fishnet tights pulled over her lithe, supple legs and her little erect tail poking provocatively from underneath her small skirt, she knew that she was the one who was calling the shots.

Out of the corner of the eye, she spied the Master of the Workhouse and she puckered her lips in faint presentation. She recognised him from the ten years she had spent under his care and she knew that he would remember her too.He had been a cruel Master and she had been punished severely for her many trespasses. Her lack of piety and grace was always getting her into trouble. But now the boot was on the other paw and she was the one who would be empowered.

As he ran up towards her, she swished her tail in his direction, floofing it up for maximum effect whilst raising it slightly with a deft flick of the paw. Meanwhile she fluttered her eyelashes in provocative intent, lolling her tongue at the prospect of fun. She was desperate for business. This desperate.

The Master stopped suddenly, doing a double take before shaking his head and disappearing into the throngs of the fair. "Doesn't anyone understand discipline any more?" he muttered to himself under his breath as he focused on finding the fiendish young cubs.

"It is neat in all its Habits, fond of Ornament, and its Exhibition cannot offend the most delicate taste"

A poster advertising 'What Is It?' - An act shown at The Royal Surrey Zoological Gardens, circa 1846

The signs were so tempting, almost intrusive, particularly to the sensibilities of two young foxes who were overwhelmed with wonder. The aura and magic of the exhibition hall was infectious as the friends surveyed the floor to see what to indulge in next.

On the periphery of their vision they spotted a huge billboard with the phrase "What Is It?" written on it. Getting closer, they were promised that "You Won't Believe Your Eyes!" as writing underneath asked the questions, "Is It A Fox? Is It A Bear? Or Is It An Extraordinary FREAK of NATURE?"

Piqued with interest, the two foxes boldly ventured towards the stall. As they got closer, they could see that on the right of it, there was what appeared to be a large metal cage, shrouded in a red velvet curtain with gold trim. To the left, there stood a smart looking gentlewolf, with a monocle in one eye and a top hat perched drunkenly atop his head.

The two foxes paid their shillings and sat amongst the small smattering of furs who had dared to have their rationality compromised in this age of rationality.

"Foxes and gentlewolves" the showman began. "What is a freak? Is it an abomination of nature? Is it a creature so hideous and repulsive that it should be hidden away from view lest it offends our Christian sensibilities? Is it an animal that is so distasteful that no one should dare look upon it lest they question the very nature of God and His work? I say nay!!"

The showman's voice grew louder whilst the sound of intrigued chatter embraced the crowd.

"Foxes and gentlewolves, I will give you the answer. A freak is a part of nature that is not a part of nature. It is a paradox, an enigma, a combination of the rational and the irrational, and a mix of the beautiful and the ugly rolled into one. For you see, a freak is the world with no make-up on, as naked and as ugly as a dying grizzled fox, and as close to reality as you'll get without knowing God."

"For when you stare deeply into the eyes of a freak - lonely, frightened and ashamed of its own sorry state - you will realise that through the subversion of all that you thought you held dear, we are all still connected in God's unique creation."

"So ladies and gentlefolk, I give you your freak!!"

The crowd gasped as the curtain was removed to reveal a human form, shivering in the corner of the cage. On top of his head, was a pair of fox ears and attached to the small of his back was an orange bushy tail. He was supping an alcoholic drink, as if to pacify him somehow, as if it was the elixir of life that would make him accepted.

He looked up at the shocked crowd and whimpered pathetically. The foxes looked back, tears of empathy welling up in their eyes as they also knew how it felt to be alone, shunned by society and ridiculed publicly just for being who you are. A freak is a matter of opinion, they thought. And a matter of deviation from an accepted one.

It was at this moment that the duo felt a sharp tug on their collars and they turned round to be confronted with their Master. And when the foxes looked into his unforgiving eyes, they gulped in terror as those feelings of loneliness returned to haunt them once more.

They knew they were in trouble and that their paws would be hurting in the morning...