Wimbledon to Nuneaton

Cheese to chalk is what came first to mind.  Two one day stands, one week apart.  I love Wimbledon and have blogged about it before.  Last year it was wild and wet but last week at the Wimbledon Village Fair the vast blue sky from the first light of day over the Common promised a classic British summer event.  And it didn’t disappoint.  The shows went brilliantly and Rhys Edwards, the film maker (rhysedwards.tv) who is shooting a documentary about me, was there to capture it all.  He even strapped a mini camera to the big unicycle to catch a saddle eye view of the audience as I ride with all the children running after me.  Great stuff! The shows met with wild enthusiasm and the contents of the hat reflected that and matched the Wimbledon ability to donate!

I have tried to examine why my show is so popular in Wimbledon and why I have to work so hard to even gather an audience in Nuneaton.  It’s exactly the same show, and the two were one week apart, but where, in Wimbledon, the audiences start to gather at least half an hour before the show time and by the designated time (ish!), you cannot move out there without me having to do anything, in Nuneaton I am lucky if there are two or three people, sheepishly hanging around at the edge of the square, wondering if they dare come forward. I have to use every call up line, every buskers trick to make an edge.  Forming an ‘edge’ is so hard in Nuneaton.  An edge is what the busking trade knows as the small but tight ring of people around a busker which will automatically enlarge into a crowd once the show starts.   There is no point in starting the show without an edge.  People will just walk on, probably thinking ‘what an idiot… I’m not going to stop for that’, but if there’s an edge, others will join.  The natural human herding instinct, along with natural human curiosity, will mean that the crowd will just grow from the edge without the busker having to do that much to build it.  Of course the show has to be at least half good for them to stay, but they will at least gather for a few moments to see what it is they are missing. And then I’ve got them in my magic showman's web!

Some of the difference is down to the culture of the two places of course.  If you are living in Wimbledon you will know about theatre, and the Scala in Nuneaton was turned into a Bingo Hall years ago and is now vacant.  It’s money too of course.  When I asked a child volunteer last week what she would do with the £1 million note if she won it, she said her Mummy wanted a Lamborghini! You could tell it was Wimbledon.  In Nuneaton, I’m in the Market Square and the public have that look of the poor, are scared that I am going to rob them or try to sell them something, like the fat butcher around the corner from me selling £20 meat deals from his huge lorry.  So the ‘Entertainment, here, free’ line helps a lot! 

But they did gather in the end, the (thin ish) edge was formed and I could start the show, they enlarged and, as happens mostly these days, they were appreciative and generous in the hat, considering it was Nuneaton and the look of the poor.  I did receive a tenner from a woman who hadn’t even watched the show but said she had loved watching what was happening and loved the music.  ‘It’s Chinese tonight’.

I am not making moral or political comparisons either.  I don’t prefer Wimbledon to Nuneaton. They are just so different and they reflect the way things are in Britain today.  In fact I had some lovely feedback after both events, but the one which made me feel humbled and pleased me most was a guy in Nuneaton, in his forties, family hanging back, the look of the poor, who said he was reminded, watching me, of Max Wall (1908-1990).  Now I am not in the same league as Max Wall (if you don’t know his work, check him out on Youtube, you won’t be disappointed), but I am in the same game and it was an intelligent observation and I shall remember Nuneaton for it.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Grumpy old man

I have a fear that I’m losing my veneer of polite acceptance and I am becoming an intolerant grumpy old man.  It’s a nightmare really and I need to be told by those near enough to me when it’s happening.

I think I was close this week on two occasions at the Ilfracombe Victorian Week.  It was a wonderfully sunny week with only one day off due to rain which I wrote about in my last blog.  After that day the sun came out and stayed out.  Actually the first grumpy old man episode was on the Monday which was ‘school day’.  The local Infant School come annually en masse in costume to the green where I have the theatre.  I do two shows one immediately after the other as there are a lot of them and also the lower end of the infant school are only four and five, and they have far less understanding of the conventions of performance and so need a completely different approach.  Anyway the two shows one immediately after the other went very well.  I did a little bit of proper education prior to the show about the names of hats and that seemed to go down well, and then two different age-appropriate shows.

What made me grumpy was during my consideration of the event afterwards.  I was sitting at the front of my space, watching the children go and saying goodbye to them, thinking about what had just happened, which routines had worked well and what I could learn for next time. There must have been twenty adults, a mixture, I guess, of staff of the school and maybe some parents enrolled into helpers for the day to help chaperoning.  There was no way of telling which was which, they were just adults looking after children who had just been entertained for about an hour and a quarter by me.  During the shows the adults had sat in the sun doing very little really.  A nice little break in their day.

What upset me was that not one of the adults said anything at all to me as they left.  OK, so I wasn’t expecting a ‘thanks’ or a comment that they’d enjoyed the shows.  But nothing.  They just walked off.  What made me think about this at all was one small boy, about six years old, who as he left smiled at me and said, completely unprompted, ‘Thanks for the show’. Thinking back, exactly the same had happened last year. Without the small boy.  Which was possibly why I didn’t notice it then.  It left me feeling angry and grumpy that not one of these teachers or adults had given the fact that they’d just watched two free shows and, cumulatively had spent over an hour just sitting in the sunshine, any thought that a ‘thank you’ would have made a difference to me and to my real worry that something seems to have gone wrong with our education system. 

Was I justified to be grumpy about this?  Would I have been bothered a few years back?  Possibly not, so I think it’s age and growing intolerance that acts as a spur to even thinking about such things..  I do think though we seem to be losing touch with some of the social values which, when I was a teacher, I felt were just as important as any curriculum, specifically, respect, politeness and courtesy.

Rant over.  The other grumpiness incident definitely was grumpy old man stuff.  On Friday I lost it with the cowboys who were shooting guns all around the promenade and as a result Blue, my younger dog became terrified which she does whenever there are bangs or thunder or fireworks.  What annoyed me was I had been told half an hour before that it wasn’t going to happen.  And then it did, and I had to cancel the first show to attend to a hysterical hound.  Mr A was not a happy man as a few people found out.

So I’m sorry to those who experienced the grumpy old man I became on those two occasions and if anyone knows a grumpy old man remedy please email me.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Cowboy night

So I’m at the Ilfracombe Victorian Week and it’s all going quite well.  One day of bad weather with no shows, but to be honest I needed the day off.  Relentless three shows daily for ten days plays havoc with the bones, and of course the cybernetics of the bones; the joints. On the wet day I put it all out, did a ten minute warm up and the rains came.  A deluge all day so nothing for it but to put it all away and retreat to the lorry where I fell asleep for three hours and woke not knowing where or who I was.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I remembered it was Cowboy Night. Sounds intriguing? Well I thought so. I knew nothing much about it except that in the past few years at Ilfracombe I had been disturbed by men dressed as cowboys shooting guns along the High Street and terrifying the dogs.  So my expectations weren’t high and the only thing which decided me to go was the fact I’d been cooped up all day in the lorry and that I had been told that last year’s was an absolute storming evening.

The event was at the top of town in the Bowling Club.  The venue was decidedly inauspicious. No sparkling water and no ice at the bar. Luckily I’d brought my own water as most venues here don’t seem to have sparkling water and it’s about the only drink I take now. But it has ideally to be with loads of ice.

The gathering company of Victorians I knew from this and other events.  My good friends Colin and Alice kindly gave me a lift there and it meant I could sit with them.  A long dilapidated room with formica tables and chairs down both long sides and a wooden dance floor that had seen better days.  A venue from Hades.  Anyway I was there and there for the duration as it would be extremely rude to leave.   I have to say though I was struggling for my sanity.  Colin and Alice tried to keep me buoyant.

The event began.  It was masterminded by John and Rosemary Blythe, both like me, enjoying late middle age.  He, a joiner apparently, and his wife, who seemed to do a lot of the spade work behind the scenes while he presented the show.  It was ever thus.  The items on the agenda were motley and bizarre.  A quiz about Buffalo Bill that was so difficult and specialised that I didn’t even know one of the answers. Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs. (I kid you not.) A Circassian Circle dance. A peculiar game that entailed throwing mini lassoos over a pole on a treasure chest to pull the contents towards you to win a Lottery ticket. A lucky spin the wheel number game.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I am not being cynical or cold-hearted about these things.  They had a distinct and peculiar charm, especially when all participating were dressed in Victorian Cowboy costumes and the sun was setting over the sea from the window opposite.  It was like being in a flashback in a Fellini film. I was beginning to enjoy it as an outsider watching these lovely people and probably realising that, as most of them were of my generation, this was an event that wouldn’t be repeated many more times and once gone would be gone forever.

However the evening’s climax was unexpected, charming and extremely funny.  It is difficult to describe, but put simply, our host provided the kit for three teams to build a proscenium arch theatre and all the props, masks, script and instructions to put on a performance of Edward Lear’s wonderful nonsense poem, ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.  Down to the very last detail of everything required. All in kit form. I cannot tell you how uplifting the ensuing half an hour was.  It was funny, charming, endearing, unforgettable, wonderful and extremely British in every positive way as all present laboured in teams to build their theatre and present their oeuvre. My friend Colin has provided a photo and it captures something of the magic of it all. 

It was one of those occasions which, when I am lying on my death bed, I shall look back at my life and say ‘I would NEVER have missed that night.’  I will laugh and breathe my last.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Heat, a hat and heady honeysuckle

An uneventful and leisurely drive down from Salisbury to Ilfracombe.  Salisbury, where I spent a morning en flaneur re-visiting all my old haunts from over forty years ago where as a young, ex-drama school, full-of myself acting asm I joined Salisbury Playhouse and three weekly rep for my first professional engagement.  Much of it was as it was and much was gone and very different.  The best was to visit the Arts centre in which, two years later, in 1973 or 74, I ran the first event which helped launch it from a beautiful but redundant church into a vibrant community arts centre.  A Five-Penny Festival ran every day of the Easter School holidays and over four hundred children came there daily for drama, events, making and processions for five pence a day (you could buy a large Kitkat for 5p then). The space there now is spectacular. (www.salisburyartscentre.co.uk) I spoke briefly to the operations manager, one of a team of 18 full time staff and almost as many part timers who now work there developing the arts for people, just as we dreamed of all those decades ago when the odd band of individuals found ourselves in possession of the keys to the church.  I was uplifted and so proud to see that wonderful space now extended and renovated, vibrant, popular and successful and to think that I had somehow helped the rebirth of that extraordinary space.

And so to Devon where the sun is shining and provides my dream location, next to the theatre overlooking the bay (photo below) and just along from the harbour, complete with the infamous huge pregnant woman sculpture by Whatshisname.  The half a cow ‘artist’.  The scent of honeysuckle is all-pervading here this year.  Everywhere we walk around the lorry, it’s optimistic aroma assaults the senses.  The area was the Victorian gardens of a huge hotel, demolished a few years ago to make way for the Landmark Theatre. I think it isn’t actually honeysuckle but a species of palm which grows everywhere in this balmy gulf stream infused county.  And it’s warm and mellow and it’s oh so happy.  So happy that I bought a hat!  A replacement for my two-year-old panama which now is held together by hidden Jaffa tape (an extra sticky brilliant orange version of gaffer tape!).  It was expensive but at least I now am earning and can afford to invest a little into the show, and especially as the old one was looking below standard.

A couple of days to do the washing, roam and relax and tomorrow I am revising some evaluation reports for Cat’s Paw Theatre, so I am keeping myself rooted a little in the real world and not becoming totally seduced by the romance of my life, which, accentuated ferociously by the heady notes of honeysuckle, the wonderful warmth of the summer sun and the shade of my lovely new hat has threatened to take me over at times today.

Victorian Week in Ilfracombe is another of those volunteer-run events whose core of dedicated individuals never cease to amaze and excite me with their energy, enthusiasm and eccentricity.  I am trying to come up with a Mr Alexander special for them again this year but as yet nothing has emerged.  Last year it was ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse’, a recitation of the famous Victorian Parlour poem which I had learned by heart for the occasion.  Not sure how to top that one this time.  Perhaps better to attempt something of an entirely different nature.  Let it ferment for a couple of days and something will emerge. I fancy something of a mentalist nature, but not sure what.

The weather forecast is mixed but we’ll see.  I shall put the awning up which now has a brand new and rather fetchingly camp burgundy beaded fringe along the top edge.  A great success and lends the awning a real Victorian look, rather like a flamboyant standard lampshade!

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

The view from my window towards Ilfracombe harbour at night (the dark bit in the middle is the sea which you can't see!)

Theatre? What’s that?

At the start of my ‘Showbusiness Show', usually the first show of the three I do in a day, I talk a little about the old Variety Theatres and the tradition of weekly rep.  I tell the children that my set is called ‘a theatre’, pronouncing the word as if it is a new word that the children will not have heard before.  It’s a little gag about how theatres, especially the older touring houses, are struggling to survive and have been since the invention of television.  Of course I am of the generation that knew life before tv, but there are far less of us around now!  The children (as well as many of the adults) who watch my shows increasingly need to be educated into the conventions of Variety Theatre.  They experience Variety via the many shows on mainstream tv, and then the many repeats of the same show, year on year.  They watch audiences responding to the live event, but of course they don’t respond from the comfort of their sofas (unless of course it’s a football or rugby match!).  They are voyeurs to the Variety experience and don’t know what to do when they encounter my show for real.  Hence the education bit at the start of my Showbusiness Show.

I love the set up day at a new show.  Yesterday morning, after one of those overnight trips down from Derbyshire and a brief stopover in Nottingham Services, I arrived at The Vintage Nostalgia Show (  website ) on a lovely site near Salisbury in the Wylye Valley.  The show is one of a breed of new themed shows that are cropping up now.  This one is perfect for me as I am both vintage and nostalgic.  Almost hundreds of stalls of wonderful paraphanalia from those years before tv and a delightful programme of music and dance from the forties and fifties. And me!!

As I was setting up, but before I had dropped the stage down, a young a man, mid twenties came over and hung there, pregnant for a chat, so I became his conversational midwife and made the first move.  His name is Chris. He was a helper on the slots; a stall of vintage slot machines. He looked at my trailer, looked at the words Theatre Royal on the frontage and said, ‘What’s this?’ 

‘It’s a theatre’, and I apologise if I sounded a bit sarcastic as I gestured at the sign.  I was very tired and I thought it was obvious. In any case it was lost on him.  ‘Theatre? What’s that?’ he asked, innocently.  I asked him whether he’d ever been to a theatre.  He said he hadn’t.  ‘Where you from?’ ‘Swindon’ was the reply.  I told him I thought there was a theatre in Swindon ( website ). He said he had seen the sign.  I looked at him to check he was not just being very subtle and leading me up his garden path, but no, his was an innocence born of telling the truth.  I took to him.  ‘So you’ve never been to a theatre?’  He confirmed the sad truth.  ‘Well, you’ll have to come over and see the show tomorrow then’.  After a few more pleasantries we parted company.

There will be increasing numbers of young people who have never have the chance to experience live theatre.  This is both a sad legacy of the advance of technology and of the state of our education system.  I have tried to avoid politics in this blog, but this is reprehensible.  We are abnegating our responsibility to the heritage of our nation by denying our young people the opportunity to experience live theatre.  OK yes we do take them some of them to the annual Pantomime, but it’s almost the only experience that some children will have of live Variety Theatre.  But there’s a lot more to Variety than Pantomime, as I am trying to demonstrate with what I do.  Nor is it a meaningless, mindless entertainment.  I hope my audiences leave with more than just a half hour spent amicably.

Below is my new photo taken from the window at the stalls at the Vintage Nostalgia Show.  That stuff at the top is blue sky.  Nice to see it again after so long in the rain.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander