In a grubby little yurt, on the hottest day of the year, a clown is preparing to die. The audience are seated only a few feet away, close enough to catch every sigh and shudder as Scaramouche Jones, played by Thom Tuck, begins his final monologue. Tuck creaks onto the stage with the stiff, weary gait of a man who has indeed reached his hundredth year. The performance is as funny as it is sorrowful: a clown inviting us to laugh at a life marked by exile, war and cruelty. Sweat already cascading through his face paint, Tuck describes vivid pictures from the life of Scaramouche: his birth on the floor of a fishmonger’s in Trinidad, encounters with tyrants and lovers, and his darkest work of digging graves for children during the Holocaust, trying to make them laugh in their final moments.

It is a curious, tragic and strange piece of storytelling, made richer by Tuck’s complete immersion in the role. The writing is sublime, textured with such sensory detail that we can almost smell the rum on his mother’s breath, hear the rattle of machine guns, taste the salt in his tears. Tuck has committed to returning to this role every decade, an extraordinary pledge that feels fitting for this layered biopic. In his capable hands, Scaramouche Jones comes to life; a lesson on the strange endurance of laughter, even in the face of horror. 

Scaramouche Jones, Hoots Potterrow, until 25 August, 2.45pm.