Locked up in Lincoln Castle

In the nearly 1000 years since William the Conqueror built Lincoln Castle, I am not sure there have been many nights when it has been inhabited by only one person.  The weight of history is on my shoulders because here tonight as I write this I am the only human being inside this wonderful space.  I could do anything here tonight.  Maybe if I was to block the main doors by parking the lorry up against the East gate and the trailer blocking the West I could keep off the invading bureaucrats tomorrow and throw juggling balls and flaming torches off the ramparts and keep them all at bay for a while.

In 1191 under the leadership of Lady Nicola de la Haye, (a woman after my own heart it seems) the castle withstood a 40-day siege by Richard I's chancellor, Longchamps, when he demanded the loyalty of supporters of the king's younger brother, Prince John.

Nicola, in her own right as constable, defended the castle again in 1217, during a civil war that followed King John’s refusal to honour Magna Carta in 1215. During the hostilities, rebel barons allied themselves with Prince Louis of France and seized control of swathes of England including the city of Lincoln. But the castle, a royalist stronghold, held out against the French forces and rebel barons under its formidable constable. This battle was of national significance and turned the tide of the French invasion. If the Royalists had lost, England could have come under French rule.

So not even the French managed to force an entry. And here tonight, with a little bit of judicious parking I could hold the hoards to ransom again.  I would love to know what might happen.  It’s very tempting…  Can you imagine the headlines?

I would need a good cause.  Maybe Rights for Transgender toilets (see previous blogs).  No, it really needs to be something of more national significance.  In the days after the American President had allied himself with us staying in Europe, perhaps I could offer my services to Vote Leave and keep off the French (and the rest) again in a one man rebellion that would change history yet again… and on St George’s Day too.  Well St George’s Night really but you know what I mean.  It’s a perfect time for an English rebellion against the European Dragon….

So here’s how it is.  For the next eight hours I am open to offers.  Phone me, email me, tweet me (@mralexander1234) with your best offer.  I estimate it would take me half an hour to block off both main gates of the castle and then the only way in would be the ways that the hoards of the French army couldn’t in 1217.  What a publicity coup.

Of course, Lincoln Castle was besieged for the final time in 1644, during the English Civil War, when the Royalists holding it were overwhelmed by a mightier Parliamentarian force.

I have this feeling that a fairly mighty parliamentary force would probably be parachuted in and overcome my one man, two fluffy white dog rebellion. But we could hide.  There are loads of good hiding places in the castle…. and meantime....

I think this rather wonderful fantasy has gone far enough. It’s been a lovely two day St George’s Day event in Lincoln and being the only living soul in these historic walls for one night is reward quite enough.  So I’ll hunker down, watch Penn and Teller and be away from the place at sparrow’s chirp in the morning.

All the best from a rampart near you,

Mr Alexander

Sonnet 37

I’ve been updating and upgrading my website.  I am hoping it will be ready to launch this month and there will be a blog about it in due course.  The old one has done stalwart service over the last five years, if not more, but it now is really beginning to show its age.  No comments please, I know what you’re thinking.

I decided not to attempt doing it myself again this time.  I know there are all sorts of template DIY website services out there but I really wanted someone who knew what they were doing and so far the chosen firm seems to be coming up with the required goods. 

Part of the process has meant my going through photos and testimonials which could be used for the new site and I re-discovered some things people have written to me which have cheered me up considerably. 

It was similarly with great pleasure that I clicked on a link sent me by my good friend and brother in exile, Greg Chapman. (www.condensedhistories.com) Greg is a solo performer, writer and podcaster, creator of ‘Condensed Histories’, a multi-media approach to the analysis of history and the examination of lessons and exempla offered by such an analysis. I meet Greg occasionally as we sojourn across Britain’s showgrounds in search of sustenance. He has been writing and filming a sonnet a day for 52 days in response to the up and coming 400^th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death (one for each year of his life) and I was honoured and flattered to read in his link that his latest sonnet 37 was inspired by me and my show.  You can see Greg performing it here:

https://youtu.be/eSg3tJP7yYI 

Here is it in text form:

Like magic the show turned up overnight,

Where there was empty field a theatre stood.

The families gathered round to catch a sight,

To see that man upon the stage of wood.

The music drifted out across the field,

Just like a siren's call it drew us near.

Some people stood, some sat and some more kneeled,

We waited for the showman to appear...

He walked out, and the show he did begin.

And all of his routines performed with grace.

He seemed to feed off of a hundred grins,

For there was one on each and every face.

Who knew from whence it came or where t'would go,

We were just glad to see The Travelling Show.

I also have had a number of letters which gave me that warm fuzzy feeling we all crave so I will copy one of them here. It is from Chris who caught the show at Shrewsbury Flower Show. Like Robert Frost,

“I have a mind myself and recognise
Mind when I meet with it in any guise
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.”

‘Having attended the Flower Show for nearly 30 years, I approached this year's with diminishing zest. Whilst predictability and familiarity bring a certain comfort, they also (to expand the old saying) tend towards the breeding of contempt. It was therefore with the most agreeable surprise that last Friday morning, amidst a cluster of small tents whose temporary residents offered the prospect of miracle shoe-cleaners, miraculous mops and the delights of indefatigable drill-bits, I stumbled across a miniature theatre offering unanticipated entertainment, fronted by inviting mats and cushions:  "Mr Alexander's Travelling Show", no less.

There had been no mention at all of this impending treat in the advance publicity, not even in the "Children's Entertainment" section of the official programme. As an avid (and envious) spectator of countless displays of street theatre, busking and travelling circus performances over the years, I had unfortunately arrived at the point of realising that, as talented they may be in their own special ways, one cannot necessarily be expected as a regular patron to withstand innumerable, identical performances by Messrs Malan & Boon (other regular performers at the Flower Show), even with a year's recovery in between.

And so it was that I joined the audience for the 12.30 & 4.30 shows. Both of Friday's shows were perfect: riveting, at times spell-binding and, above all, entertaining for young and old.  I wondered to myself how many of the audience (probably the younger rather than the older, excluding myself) secretly hoped (whilst knowing that this could not be allowed to happen) that the cocky boy's finger would really be severed and fall into the hat? To see the expression on the face of the little girl contemplating the prospect of picking it up (albeit protected by outsize rubber gloves) was worth the (reduced to £21 for over 60s!) admission price alone!

Thank you for providing such wonderful entertainment.  You may remember me as the man who held the big unicycle steady for you to mount for the finale.  As a sometime wanabee actor, who lacked the ability or nerve to aspire to anything more in the public eye than teaching, but who has always admired the skills of the entertainer, I can proudly add to my "showbiz" CV of bit-parts, which so far reads:

Station Porter - Galsworthy's "Little Man" ( 3rd & 4th form One Act Play, directed by (the) Robert Powell (then a 6th former) 1962

Man balancing on a plank across the back of a "muscle-man" lying on a bed of nails - Pompidou Centre square, Paris 1985

Timekeeper - "World record" attempt to consume apple (whilst juggling with same) - Pete White's "Suitcase Circus", Shrewsbury 2009

...and last, but by no means least....

Man steadying large unicycle - Mr Alexander's Travelling Show, Shrewsbury 2015




Thank you for all the joy you bring and, even if it does not bring you riches, may unending applause be your just reward.’

It is great to read such affidavits, especially when written with creativity and, in the case of Greg’s sonnet, real artistry.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Vive la Difference

On the Radio 4 news I hear that Bruce Springsteen has cancelled a concert in solidarity with objections to a new law in North Carolina which insists that public toilets are used by people following their birth gender identity, and not from their life choice one.  This is a neat segue worth following from the themes of recent chapters.  

Public toilets are of course a matter of particular concern to any itinerant such as myself.  I have an almost professional interest in them and a fascination about them ever since I can remember.  Living peripatetically has definite implications for defecation.  That’s not a sentence you read often. Cassette toilets are wonderful and if serviced and maintained properly are perfectly proprietous, hygienic and wholesome. However the emptying of them is a challenge and there are etiquettes, rules and laws about how this is done. On showgrounds it’s not a problem as the organisers usually provide suitable facilities.  Elsewhere is more difficult as, completely understandably, most people don’t like cassette toilets being emptied in public (or private) loos. British public loos are not equipped for the process (unlike the wonderfully sensible French equivalent; the aires) The issue is off-season and between stands, and in order to ration the use of the cassette loo, I use public toilets as often as possible. (My poor Mum will be turning in her grave as she had a complete anathema about them. She felt the same about fairgrounds and circuses.  You do the maths.)

As I said I have a fascination about toilets. I often visit them, especially in places I haven’t visited previously, even if I don’t actually need to do so.  I know that some people might find this strange, but surely no stranger than any of my recent revelations.  It’s not about anything other than curiosity about the spaces and facilities provided, though their use historically for illegal assignations has given them, and possibly my fascination, an very unfair connotation. Please don't make assumptions. I love vintage ceramics as much as I am fascinated by the latest toilet technology.  I do wish for more of a multi-gender approach to public toileting but I can’t see it happening for a few generations, if ever.

On the other issue though, I did recently come across a consenting male sex act in a public loo in a layby in Oxfordshire. It’s not something that happens every day. Anyway back to the thrust (perhaps the wrong noun here) I almost literally bumped into one man giving another a blow job and found myself freezing in shock then apologising for interrupting before making a sharp exit. I used the cassette toilet that night. I’m not sure why I apologised.  My natural British instinct to apologise first and think afterwards I guess. On thinking afterwards and trying, with some difficulty, to wipe the immediate visual memory from my mind, it made me smile that only one of them could have apologised anyway as the other had his mouth full. I also wondered whether they had chosen that spot with a desire to increase the excitement with the possibility of me (or anyone) discovering them in flagrente. Perhaps that’s what the teaparty makers of that North Carolina law have in the back of their minds too.  Evolution’s cruel dirty joke to make our sex organs double up as waste disposal units has a lot to answer for.

On the fascinating subject of the difference in male/female loos and their relevance to gender difference and sense of humour the wonderful (and my total heroine) Sandy Toxvig was interviewed by my almost equal other female idol Victoria Coran on Radio 4's lovely Chain Reaction - catch it before it's gone. It's an absolute gem. In fact here's the link so you have no excuse. I promise you won't regret it. I've saved it and have listened three times already. The section on her marriage at the Royal Festival Hall is worth the license fee alone. As is her definition of the difference between male and female humour as exemplified by an observation about separate gender toilets. For that reason alone, maybe there’s an argument for keeping them separate.

http://bbc.in/1RcSZD9

All the best from a road, if not a public toilet, near you,

Mr Alexander

Memories are made of this

I have some wonderful memories.  I consider myself one of the luckiest people I know.  I have met wonderful people, travelled up and down this great country visiting beautiful places seeing them at their best (and sometimes their worst) and have been involved in some great events making people happy for a few memorable hours on a sunny Spring Saturday like today. (It’s actually pissing it down in a force four wind on a freezing Yorkshire plain southeast of Doncaster, but it’s spring sunny Saturday in my soul)

The memories blend into a weave of wonder. In some bizarre and slightly macabre way I almost look forward to lying on my deathbed just to conjure them all up and to exist only in those memories.  Of course I also hope for a few more before I am ready for the final curtain call.  What performer is ever ready for that?

I was talking the other day to my friend in the early spring sunshine of Bristol Docks.  We recalled the strange and exciting trek she, Joe and I made to Greece overland to a series of gigs in Athens.  It must have been 1999. Even more oddly I was amazed at the memories she had of the trip.  She even recalled home made tomato sauce at a restaurant we stopped at in Serbia.  Now I hardly remember Serbia, let alone the restaurant… but the tomato sauce?  I am always impressed by my friends’ memory capacity.  I have another friend who can remember what I said twenty years ago.  For me it’s twenty minutes.  If I’m lucky.  So what is the difference? I’ve been pondering these things and have come up with some rather alarming conclusions.

A couple of weeks ago, those who read my blog religiously (it’s funny that use of the word isn’t it?) will have observed my self-analysis and the mini-crisis I went through.  It hasn’t gone away, just subsided somewhat.  However it has left me wondering about why I am so confused about those things, and a little more importantly why they caused me such anxiety, and I guess might again if I ever am in extremis again. Candidly and rather than beat about the bush, I wonder whether I was abused as a child and have blocked it out of my memory. And as a result my whole memory system suffers.

Now I know this may be a bit of a bombshell (lots of idioms today) but it’s a bit like that for me too.  I know it wasn’t at home.  Yes, Richard (my father) used to hit us occasionally and I do have some painful memories of those occasions, but I don’t think that’s it.  It would have been Christ’s Hospital.  That’s when I start to become anxious.  Even thinking about the place.  I’m not going to explore it further here, you may be relieved to know.  But there is definitely something happening in that part of my mind.  It may be just the antediluvian awfulness of that institution. Now thankfully changed but they were dreadful days and of course abuse of all kinds was rife in those cloistered cloisters.

The 64,000 dollar question (US game show 1955-58. Good old Wiki) is whether to open up the can of worms.  My instinct is no.  Let sleeping dogs lie.  (Enough metaphors already). But it does make me curious.  IS it worth exploring?  What would I gain? Would I get my memory back?  Do I want to?

I haven’t reached an answer to those questions and for now I’m going to leave them simmering on the back burner. (I thought I said enough).

Meanwhile I’ve a day’s damp shows to present.  Actually the stage is sheltered from the rain in a huge plastic pyramid.  One of those wonderful floating pvc palaces you sometimes see.  So the props and the audience stay dry but the sides are open and the wind dynamics of the structure are interesting.  The forecast says drier later so should be alright.  At night I am woken occasionally by roaring lions (really… I’m at the Yorkshire Wildlife Park).

Memories are made of this.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander