Laurel and Hardy or Norman Wisdom?

This blog is like the No. 29 bus.  You wait ages for one then two come along at once.  It’s just that I need to feel a little inspired by a subject and have felt a little uninspired of late.  I write this at the witching hour, which for me is between 3.00 am and 4.00 am.  Woken by a very bizarre nightmare, which thankfully is rapidly fading into my murky subconscious, I realised I had been inspired by yesterday.

The Isle of Wight Steam Railway is run by people who love their jobs.  I spoke a little last time about a Steam Rally where it felt as though the organisers had lost the plot and sacrificed a great idea to the money god.  Well the opposite is true at Haven Street on the Isle of Wight, home of the Isle of Wight Steam Railway.  Here the love of those who work and volunteer filters down to everyone.  This simple phenomenon has created a real haven for everyone who visits.

Yesterday, despite the occasional, poorly-timed deluge, visitors had a splendid day riding steam trains, making rope, holding owls, listening to Victorian singers, doing Victorian dances and watching Mr Alexander.  From the look on their faces and the kind comments made they were caught in the spell of love for what was being woven. My good friends, the re-enactors, the Victorians were there too, all in full regalia and in good spirits (as they always are!).  A grand time was enjoyed by all!

As the Victorians were staying on site, I had promised an evening film show for them. At some events I drop a screen on the stage and show films.  I love the occasion of it.  A warm evening, the sun just set, and the flickering images on the screen slowly defining themselves as the darkness grows.  A classic film. It was to be Norman Wisdom, A Square Peg.

As a curtain raiser, I put on a firm favourite of mine, Way Out West with Laurel and Hardy. See it again before you die.  It has every element of joy, every trick of early cinema, and classic moments of great hilarity, created, as they always were, by artistry, dedication and hard work.  The audience of Victorians, now in mufti, fell about and the occasion was made even more wonderful by one of their number, Pauline, dressed in 50s usherette costume, giving out free popcorn and ice lollies in the interval.  You have the idea.

Come the Big Feature.  What a disappointment.  It seems almost heretical to say it, but Norman Wisdom’s supposed masterpiece was not very funny.  Hardly a single laugh greeted what became an endurance test for most present.  Of course they were far too kind to say so, but A Square Peg was definitely in a round hole.  Apart from a lovely cameo by the ample Hattie Jacques, the rest was pretty dire.  What did we find so funny in just post-second world war?  It felt lame and uninspired, certainly by comparison and just after the classic from twenty years earlier.  Perhaps it was just a trick of history.  Way Out West was from a very different era, and maybe we needed that distance to find it funny.  A Square Peg was somehow too modern, yet not somehow modern enough to benefit from all the current awareness and artistry of today’s screen magic workers.

I have been lying here thinking of what else made the two so different.  It has something to do with the magic of the relationship between Stan and Ol.  The wonderful difference of their status that makes their classic clowning so riveting. The relationship between Pitkin and ever-present Mr Grimsdale pales into inconsequence by comparison.  And Norman’s physical clowning skills, sad to say, are not a patch on the wonderful Oliver Hardy, whose huge girth seems no obstacle to his delicate and dancer’s finesse of movement.  Even the sad clown moment when Norman’s diminutive anti-hero declares his love for a young Honor Blackman was lame and a bit embarrassing. From the first film though, the haunting, gentle dance Stan and Ol give us to the close harmony of a cowboy choir will remain one of my top ten film moments of all time.  The sequence with the rope and the donkey is sheer comic genius.

Seek out Way Out West from your local film library.  It is an hour of heaven.  Leave Norman Wisdom to your memory of him. He’s better off there.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Netley Marsh revisited

Well it’s been a while since I put fingertips to keyboard, so this is a catchup on all things Alexander since Adlington Carnival, only a few weeks ago now but seems like an age.

The first important development is that the stage trailer is now safe and legal.  I had been worried about the axles as they really weren’t to a high enough spec. Although I have not had the trailer weighed recently, my feeling was that it was heavier the two tonne rating it came with, so the ‘can do’ guys at Chester Trailer Centre did their magic and it now is rated at over three tonnes so ample room for moderate expansion.  New axles and new heavier, chunkier tyres and tows a dream!  One less thing for me to worry about.  The down side is that the old electric mover which allowed me to finally manipulate it into tight pitches where the lorry could not go will have to be replaced as the previous one does not fit the new tyres.  I’ve booked the job in for next week.  Vast expense but I had a new booking at Beamish Museum for four days in September so my thought is that will pay for it!

My weekend off was rare and most enjoyable. A rare opportunity for me to relax, reflect and catch up on myself mid-season.  It’s been a classic season so far.  Not without its dramas (my ankle is now fully recovered) and some lovely new events the memory of which I will savour over winter nights. And meeting old friends from all.

My return to Netley Marsh Steam Rally the following weekend was typical of the best.  I hadn’t been there for a couple of years as the event had clashed with Welland Steam Rally.  For a number of reasons I had gone off Welland.  I didn’t like the monster banging machine, the ‘Sonic Cannon’ which they trundled into the arena at the end of each day.  The noise terrified all the dogs on the site, mine included, which meant that we had to take a two mile walk away from the event to escape it at the end of every afternoon, and even then it could be heard and my two became scared and unworkable.

But more significantly, the people at Welland had an entirely different attitude to me and to the event and I wasn’t sure why. Until someone told me that the Welland Steam Rally was run on a ‘for profit’ basis.  Major difference. Netley Marsh is organised by volunteers for charity (as are most of the other steam rallies I attend).  It showed, and it’s odd but it filtered down to every level of both events.  At Welland it felt as though I was there just to do a job. I had no real feeling of welcome or pleasure when I met up with the organisers and no-one from their organisers said anything to me about the shows.  Good or Bad. I don’t think they even watched them.

An amazing contrast then this time at Netley Marsh.  Those in charge made me feel really welcome.  They returned several times during the set up to ask whether everything was OK and there was real warmth from many people about my being there again, and this carried on through the weekend and it made the event a great and memorable success.  It was lovely to be back and I have already confirmed the booking for next year.

Now of course there were people at Welland who enjoyed the shows and spoke to me afterwards, but they were visitors or stall holders who knew me.  At Netley it was the organisers who made the event such a great success I believe because the warmth and enthusiasm for the event was not linked to the amount of money they had to make from it.  It’s amazing how leadership attitude can filter down so obviously, and not just in corporations and big organisations.

A week later and I’m at another place whose volunteers really make it work, but I will save the Isle of Wight Steam Railway for a blog of its very own.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

A Tale of two Carnivals

Another great North/South divide weekend.  Saturday, Witney, the elegant Oxfordshire hometown of our esteemed-by-some Prime Minister and Sunday, Adlington, the mill and coal town in the West Pennines.

I have visited Witney Carnival for a number of years.  It might even be ten.  It is one of those events that changes little.  I know where my spot is, I have one brief phone call early in the year from the organiser and apart form the gradual aging of all those I meet, and of course of myself, little else changes at Witney, the cornerstone of country conservatism.  I do like the place though.  Mostly in fact because it doesn’t change and the people are friendly and welcoming.  And because it’s the one place I meet up with my oldest friend, Pedro.  Of Pedro’s Travelling Show (www.aurorascarnival.co.uk/pedro.htm).  Pedro and I go way way back, almost to the annals of time.  We lived on the road in the 1970s and toured through Europe, mostly into Portugal, to where Pedro still travels every year. He tells me he is now a firmly-established part of the street scene in Faro where every winter he busks and lives in his lovely converted library bus.  Pedro has lived his whole life on the road. We catch up the year in Witney and reminisce about old times and dream of new ones.  There aren’t many of us left, the travelling shows of that ilk.  But it is always wonderful to see him and share a meal, eaten outside under my awning and watch the Witney sun set over the cricket field.  

Witney carnival is over before it hardly begins.  A two hour frenzy of shows, ice cream and beer (the latter not for me of course!) and then as frantic a pull down as there’s a three and a half hour Northern drive ahead and Adlington Carnival to consider.  A new booking for me, taken through an agent I hardly ever work for.  I am apprehensive as I have had one phone conversation with the Chairman of the Carnival Committee and it filled me with dread and foreboding.  Firstly that he wants me in the arena.  And secondly because he has advertised me in the programme and website as ‘Mr Alexander – clowning around’. His idea and he was rather proud of the phrase I felt.

I don’t know which is worse really. I am NOT an arena act.  I am NOT a clown. There have been two or three times in my forty year career when some uninformed organiser has insisted I go in the arena, putting up the stage somewhere around the perimeter, facing into the space.  They seem to think that at the appropriate moment, they can invite ‘all the kids’ to rush into the arena to see me ‘clown around’.  They don’t, or at any rate those who do feel they are in an alien space and don’t really relax.  The start time is often delayed because arena acts go on longer than planned and there is always a pressure to finish and shoosh the children out again so the dog show can happen.  It’s awful, all round.  Try as I might on the phone I couldn’t persuade the Chairman of all this and the call ended with him virtually demanding that I do it in the arena as they were paying me and it was their call.

And I am not just a children’s show, and certainly not a clown.  As anyone who has seen me will hopefully testify.  I entertain the children and amuse the adults.  Or is it the other way around?  The show is for the child in everyone, including the children.  But ‘clowning around’ it was and in the arena.

Three miles out from Adlington and now 11.00 pm I have a phone call from the Chairman again, checking I am still coming.  I tell him I am nearly there and expect some help with directions onto the field.  Instead he just says that there will be a few laybys I can pull into and he’ll see me in the morning.  Charming.

Come the morning as it does, I pull onto the show field and meet the Field Manager from the Committee.  Luckily he has seen the show elsewhere and agrees that I am not an arena act and between us we find a much more suitable spot alongside, but not in the arena.  It’s picking up.  However, twenty minutes later I hear arguing and notice the Field Manager with an older man gesticulating in my direction.  This must be the Chairman.  I am politeness personified and introduce myself.

“Good Morning, you must be Andrew.  Good to meet you”, extending a hand.

The hand is barely shaken. “Is it?’ (a good morning or good to meet?)

He was still insisting that I move into the arena and was obviously annoyed that the Field Manager had gone over his head.  Eventually with the arena MC and the field manager both suggesting it would be OK where I was, he reluctantly agrees.  “I just don’t want you fooling around (I’d been demoted then from a clown to a fool) while the Emmerdale stars are meeting people in the arena.”

So that was it. For him the whole day was about the actors of Emmerdale, not the support act who would fool around until THEY arrived, then stop on command.

Needless to say, he didn’t even watch either of my shows.  I guess he was too busy showing them around the arena to watch me.

I don’t think I’ll be invited to Adlington Carnival again.  But, as always, I look forward to Witney Carnival 2015 and beyond…

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

Breakdown in Hollowell

Well yes it does happen.  Both me and the lorry had a bit of a breakdown in Hollowell.  The lorry first.

I was almost there too.  The final stretch of the A14 from Junction 19 on the M6.  Major roadworks there just now to improve that horrible junction.  My mind working ahead as always.  Arriving a day early to set up in peace and calm. Meeting all the annual friends at that lovely ground.  (www.hollowellsteam.com) Wondering where Allen would site me this year.  Never-the-same-pitch-twice Allen Eaton.  Epic show organiser and OBE.  He re-arranges the showground every year so we all meet new neighbours every year.  It’s a great show for lots of reasons, but mostly because he makes it a great show.

My reverie is shattered by the brake air pressure warning buzzer in the cab, and I look at the gauges to find a drastic loss of air pressure in the tanks.  Luckily (and I do seem to be lucky in these things), a layby looms and a space is available.  Various half-hearted attempts to solve the issue but soon realise it’s an Autohome job.  While they come I read through all the manuals I have on the Cargo braking system.  Makes fascinating reading!

Autohome are the only recovery company who specialise in classic vehicles of all sizes.  If I sound like an advertisement then that’s OK because I am their No. 1 supporter and advocate.  They are inexpensive, efficient and they take real care.  But what was especially good is that they were prepared to relay me to the showground and then pick me up from there on Monday to take me back to my garage in Llay.  I don’t know of any other relay company that would have done that.  Certainly not the big ones.  It’s one trip and one trip only with them.  In talking with Bob and Jason, I find out that it’s still a family run business with many of the people who work there also as families.  Jason’s partner works for them and the whole business seems to be one big extended family.  Jason said the boss, with whom he was on first name terms, was a Vintage vehicle aficionado so that perhaps explains their service and attitude.  If you are thinking of changing your breakdown service, check them out (www.autohome.co.uk). They also cover modern vehicles too.  As I said they are much less expensive than the big guys and are much more personal and efficient into the bargain.

The lorry came back to Llay was mended in a couple of hours and we are now back on the road, a few quid poorer, but now knowing a lot more about the braking system on vintage Cargos.  The air tanks need occasional draining as the air which is compressed through to them has water vapour in it of course, and that water can’t escape so condenses and stays in the tanks.  Added to the minute drops of oil coming through from the engine-driven compressor and generally any other gunk, the tanks had become clogged as had the pipes so no air could get through to them and the rest is obvious.  Another job to make sure is done from time to time. Drain the air tanks.

And my breakdown?  Well Mr Alexander fell for someone.  Hook line and sinker.  It was fated from the first but while it lasted it was wonderful.  It was over before it began and was probably as much a fantasy for him as for her.  Nothing ‘happened’. It was entirely platonic, and they both gradually realised that it wasn’t going to work. But there we are.  It was unexpected and surprising and it confirmed how impossible it would be for Mr A to have a partner in this travelling showman’s life.  But for a few moments it was great to dream…

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

The lorry about to leave Hollowell with bored dogs