Shanghai Ball

If you've ever seen Cirque du Soleil, you'll know what can be achieved using nothing but 12-year-old contortionists and endless training. Apparently those guys poach a lot of their talent from Chinese circuses like the Shanghai Acrobats, who we went to see last night. I almost had an aneurism.

First off, the MC was a gorgeous little SH girl in a flouncy dress who obviously got the job because she told the guys her English was excellent. It was excellent in that she didn't speak for longer than 30 seconds and we understood none of it. Didn't matter. She looked a bundle and had enthusiasm to burn.

Next came The Tumblers of Chaos (or something like that). Followed by the Hula Hoops From Hell. Then the Hat Jugglers of Doom, ably backed up by the Titanic Re-enactment of Insanity. The Bicycle Tumblers of World Economic Downturn followed. Then, The Male Pole Dancer of Certain Testicular Bruising and the Plate Spinners of the Apocalypse. But all these acts (which went for nearly 90 minutes of gut-busting antics) were but a mere lead up to... THE BALL OF DEATH.

Many of you will have seen a “Ball Of Death” act. It's a metallic, mesh sphere with a motorcycle rider inside who gets up enough speed to pin himself to the bike and the bike to the inside of the cage so he can ride it upside-down.

This was that act, taken to the next, China-driving-standard-level-of-certain-destruction.

The first bloke (dressed in red) comes out, belts around a bit inside the cage, builds up enough speed to go north to south - and then takes his hands off the handlebars and crosses his arms. We gasp.

Next guy comes out (fancy yellow and sequins), gets up enough speed and he's doing latitude passes of the globe, while first bloke does longitude passes. All the while communicating their intentions to each other with the ubiquitous Chinese traffic horn. We love it and clap and gasp.

Next bloke comes out (blue with tassles for him) and I turn to Daddy Gag Reflex next to me and say, “I've never seen three at one time.” He giggles and nods. Next bloke joins the internal spherical insanity and they are describing electron paths around a nucleus of madness. Then they all take their hands off the handlebars again and we start screaming.

Next rider comes out. Number four. (He's in flashing green.) DGR is screaming for pedestrians and a shark to be added to the cage, because at this point, anything is possible. We are going mental. Four guys doing about 40 kph in a 20 foot sphere at all angles that can be achieved in a three dimensional space... no hands. It cannot get any better and I start to hyperventilate.

And then... a girl in black leather comes out on a motorcycle and it appears that she wants in. We are screaming. People are throwing their undies. I'm just yelling “On. No. Get. Fucked. You. Cannot. Be. Serious.” But yes she is. In she goes and five nutbags on Shanghai motorbikes are whizzing around inside a globe of fencing wire, looking like a multi-coloured blender of lunacy. I don't know much more I can take, DGR and I laughing so much we can barely see the spectacle through the tears. I'm about to look for a bag to breath into when...

They separate the top and bottom of the Ball of Death from the middle latitudes. There is clear air between the tropics of Capricorn and Cancer. The riders are locked into their paths at whatever position they were in, or risk flying out into the audience. I start to choke with the pure love of it. I cannot be happier. The crowd is out of control and it is clear that we have all witnessed something wonderful.

The four male riders all exit the cage to ovations and only the girl in black leather is left, flying around the inside of the globe like a fly in a bottle. Just when I'm ready to think about an exit and a good lie down, she goes hands free, stands on the pegs, produces a Chinese flag from nowhere and holds it above her head. As she is tying it around her neck like a super-hero cape, the place loses what's left of its control and goes spare. I collapse on the floor in a laughing, applauding pool of protoplasm.

Ten seconds later, it's over. After cleaning ourselves up we exit to look for our transport, and there in the foyer are all the acrobats, still in costume, trying to sell us the DVD of the performance. I felt cheap saying no to Mr Red Costume, someone who's just risked his life to entertain me, but what can you do? Watching it on TV would be a pale imitation and I just can't do it.

The Ball of Death is a 'live' thing.