Clock swap

‘Hey Mate!’ The Liverpudlian twang was unmistakeable.  The two words rhymed perfectly and the ‘t’ of the ‘mate’ was almost sibilant, hissed through closed teeth, ‘You wanna hand? I’m bored and I can help if you wan’ ’.  The speaker, a gangly youth called across the divide between my yard and the big house. He’d heard me sweeping and scraping the weeds and accumulated detritus in my yard.  ‘Yeh sure come over.’ The arrival of the youth a few minutes later was accompanied by a torrent of self description, his name, Jonothan and an endearing introduction, ‘I can’t read or write much but I know how to mend a bike.’  My sort of man then. 

This was my memorable meeting with the newest member of the Barrowmore community and someone I immediately warmed to.  Within half an hour I had been treated to a life history and some priceless pearls of wisdom.  I wish I could remember them all.  Amongst the best was his description of his favourite pastime, skip rifling.  ‘Some people think I’m not normal but I think it’s them.’

A young man of twenty seven, tall, thin as two yards of pump water, sporting various home-crafted tattoos and a stooping way of looking at you like a shy dog, always looking for approval and encouragement.  Which of course I gave him.  He disappeared to reappear minutes later to show me his bike which he had decorated himself and acquired various parts from Halfords’ skip which he confidentially assured me was the best around, ‘and he had permission to go through it even though he had once been questioned by police for stealing by finding but they had left me alone when I told them I had permission.’

He told me he loved my workshop. ‘A real man cave’ he said, appreciatively eying the array of tools, wood and piles of all sorts in my man cave.  ‘Can you help me with a clock?’, disappearing to reappear a minute or so later with two motorbike brake discs and a plastic wall clock.  He explained what he wanted to do and I warmed to his creative thinking.  He wanted to use the attractive polished disc as the background to the clock and the mechanism and hands of the wall clock to provide the mechanism and hands.

Within ten minutes with Jonothan watching closely and continuing the running commentary of aphoristic truths, interspersed with observations about people’s attitudes to him, I had achieved his horological vision.  The glue had to set so we left it and he said he would be back the following day.  He had noticed the pile of unicycles and I lent him one, preceded by a quick unicycle lesson.  He went away glowing.  Lovely. He put the first smile on my face I've had for a while.

The following day arrives Jonothan with bike, rucksack full of skip presents to give and an apology he had forgotten he had to go to see his mother in Chester.  He pulled out a pack of new coping saw blades, a reel of soil Ph tester strips and a clockwork Smiths vehicle clock which he said an old guy he used to know had left him after he died. On the plate into which the old man had inserted the clock was a scrap of probably 1950’s newspaper cartoon with the saying ‘It’s a shame to throw it away – there must be something you could make with it.’ A relic of the days when ‘Make do and mend’ were giving way to the affluent post-rationing days I found myself in all those years ago, and in many ways still inhabit.

He made me a present of the clock as a swap for the brake disc clock he had taken back to his room just before.

I now have jigsawed a suitable hole in a suitable location in the lorry for the quietly ticking clock in place of the battery one I had there before.  It keeps perfect time too.

I think I’ve made a friend, cemented with a fair clock swap.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

No more two day weekends

It’s not that I dislike one day events.  The drama of the concentrated celebration always makes for memorable afternoons in the British summer.  Some of my favourite gigs are one day wonders. There was a time when I’d do two single day events of a weekend and not even catch my breath.  But time is taking its toll on my poor old frame and the knees particularly are complaining about all that work, travelling, setting up and striking.  Not to mention the shows which of course are still and have to be a concentrated burst of energy.  So it’s time now not to take more than a single one day booking of a weekend.

A catch up then since last time I wrote.  Hollowell Steam Rally was its usual self.  Yet another new location on the field this year as always swapped about by organiser Allen Eaton and this year finding myself next to my colleague and co-performer Greg Chapman who I meet up with a couple of times a year. It meant we could alternate shows and I could have a bit of a break while he did his escapology and juggling shows.  It is always a gentle lead up to and get out of the Rally as I try to arrive with a day or so to set up and I’m always invited to the helpers’ meal in the beer tent after everyone has gone on the Sunday night.  I feel a really strong part of the event and it is a traditional feature of my year.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been going to it annually for thirty years. How times have changed and not at the same time.  It wasn't a memorable Hollowell but you have to have the background so the foreground detail stands out.

Then the following week the two one days at Witney followed by a new venue; Southwell Racecourse in Nottinghamshire.  Witney Carnival always means a catch up with Pedro, alias Pete Dodd of Pedro’s Travelling Show.  He does a flamboyant circus workshop and lives in his lorry too.  The only other person I know who does.  Every winter he drives through France and Spain and busks in Faroe on the Algarve.  I envy him his freedom to do that.  Anyway we spend a night over a meal catching up on some of our news and then say goodbye for another year.  Maybe next year if I stick to my vow not to perform twice in two venues I can spend some more time with him.  We have a great deal in common.

However this year I had to hurry a pack down and hit the road by 7.30pm.  Three hours drive from Oxfordshire and arrive alongside a deserted racecourse in Nottinghamshire for a quick bit of shuteye before a 6.00am set up and shows all day.  The manager of Southwell Racecourse was a lovely man and the Family Race Day event had his stamp on it.  A real family occasion. Totally unlike Family Race Day at Chester Racecourse which I used to do where it was an excuse for people to get drunk and behave outrageously. At Southwell everyone was polite and looked as if they were having a good 1950s style day out with their families. My friend Colin arrived from Sheffield and it was lovely to have his moral and real help taking everything down as I was by then too tired to think straight.  He earned his Level One Bunting Engineer qualification. I had to get back to Chester for two final days of Cat’s Paw.  Hence by Tuesday I was like a piece of chewed string and an injured knee giving me some considerable pain.

If you detect a note of the blues then you’d be right. Perhaps it’s just the obvious fact that something has to change.  I am 67 this year and still doing a young man’s show.  I’m asking for trouble really so it has to change before trouble changes me.  Currently I am contemplating a year off.  How on earth I could afford it with all my financial demands I’ve no idea but I do think I need to regroup, rethink and realise my limitations.  I’ve never been very good at that.  Your advice as always will be welcome.  I have quite few readers who also write to me and I welcome any constructive comments. I feel some of the joy has gone from what I do.  It doesn't show in the shows.  Not yet anyway.  But it has to change before it does.  Pedro just does the gigs he loves doing, but I can't afford to do that.

What with the madness of Brexit, the change of political leadership and some other major demands in my life, the winds of change are blowing not just through our pathetic excuse for a British summer.  It’s so cold this morning I’ve had to light a fire. It’s July.

All the best from a strange road near you,

Mr Alexander

Loanhead for you, Loanhead for me

I worked my way north for four days from Ilfracombe to Loanhead last week.  The longest trip ever between gigs in my travelling life, it was both relaxing and enjoyable to watch Britain unfurl through my lorry windscreen.  The best was the last day of course.  If you are ever planning a road trip to Edinburgh from anywhere in the West of Britain, I thoroughly recommend the A701 crossing from Moffat.  There is always a temptation to cross further South from the M6, but the A701 is by far the most sensational route in terms of scenery and natural beauty.  It is also not such a major hurdle, once you have made a reasonably easy climb out of Moffat, the remainder of the trip follows the peaks of the hills with some amazing vistas opening at every turn.

Scotland’s galas are special, and Loanhead’s one of the best I have attended. I think they are closely tied into ex-mining communities and a way which historically they allowed hard working families to have a day to really look forward to every year, and which allowed for one local family’s child to be promoted to Gala Queen for the year.  It is a fascinating tradition and galvanizes the community in a way which doesn’t happen elsewhere.

I arrived a couple of days early which allowed a slow and easy set up on the field, the town’s Memorial Park. The day before the gala all the local schools (during school time) arrived for a special show in the park.  Part of the show involved them all singing the Loanhead Gala song

Loanhead, Loanhead Gala Day (repeat three times)

L-O-A-N-H-E-A-D

Loanhead for you, Loanhead for me

I had the song earworming through my head for the whole stay.

The gala day itself is over almost before it has begun.  A big parade to the park arrives at 1.30, three shows with the last one at 3.30 and then everyone was gone.  Luckily the promised rain didn’t arrive and the afternoon ended in warm sunshine and very well-attended shows. 

Also on the field was a colleague, Andrew Van Buren with his illusion show, and it was a great pleasure to have a few minutes to catch up with him.  Andrew’s father Fred started a family tradition of illusionists which is wonderfully told in a DVD which Andrew gave me.  Andrew is establishing a celebration of the life of Philip Astley (1742 -1814), the ‘father of modern circus’ in Astley’s home town of Newcastle next year and I look forward to being involved with that.

As I was setting up on the field the day before the usual line of portaloos were being run alongside my pitch.  As I watched it became obvious that the line of toilets would reach right into the space that my audience would occupy.  I went over to the men and asked them to stop as it was obviously some mistake.  The leader of the men was a Glaswegian and built like a brick version of the plastic toilets he was unloading.  He also had anger management issues.  Why is it that Glasgow male citizens often have this classic character trait?

You can imagine the situation as I remonstrated that the line of toilets couldn’t come into my audience space and he insisted that he was placing the toilets where he had been told to do and I could just ‘F*** off’.  I managed just in time to find a committee member to ask angry toilet man to put them elsewhere, but not before he threatened to drop a toilet which he had lifted single-handed from his truck onto my head.

Oh the joys of open-air entertainment.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

An open letter to the Ilfracombe Victorian Celebration Committee

As I work my way slowly north to Scotland after a week with you in your lovely town, the changing landscape of Britain unfurling in my lorry windscreen has allowed me time to reflect about the week gone by and I am making those reflections in this open letter.

The weather was against us from the start.  It was a one day wonder week but thank goodness the one day was the Saturday. Of course we are staunch in our attitude to the weather in these islands and none so consummately so than the fabulous array of Victorian re-enactors who form the solid British backbone of your event. The strolling Victorians who wend their way from many corners of the country in such superb costumes made the week all it was.

But other things made it such a great occasion too. The town’s traders and shopkeepers who for the first time in many years rose to the occasion and dressed themselves and their windows with such artistry and colour.  The superb art competitions which produced a dazzling array of work so professional that the young person’s winning entry was shown in one of the town’s gallery windows alongside a picture with a £3 grand pricetag.

Many people and groups deserve individual thanks and praise. The Junior and Infant schools who dressed up and made their way into town against the rain to show their willingness to take part. The event and venue providers who all rallied round to offer fantastic discounts and offers, Rita Clews, Ilfracombe’s own Queen Victoria, The Studio Players, the Marriotts, Alison Nicholson, Sonya Moore, the Holy Trinity bellringers who rang a special peal, Sara Hodson and Ilfracombe Museum, the Library, Angle Twitch and Exmoor Border Morris, Heather McNeilly, Susan Pengelly, Laurence Butler and Ilfracombe Musical Productions, the classic car club, Barbara and Events4Ilfracombe, Carole, Kate and the Landmark, Martin Morbidans who played the piano and Mel Risk who designed the logo.  Thanks to the team of photographers for some wonderful images, particularly to Tim Lamerton, our Victorian clad photographer. And then thanks indeed to all the professionals who were paid small amounts to bring soldiery, street organs, song, dance and drama shows, and extraordinary displays of talent to the town. Thanks to all those I've forgotten to mention by name...

Thanks of course to those who gave money to our Kickstarter project and to those who gave small and not so small amounts.  The event could not have happened without you.

And finally to the backroom boys, or in our case the girls, who made the event work in the way it needed to. To Joe and the street collectors, to Suzanne Jordan for updating the website and keeping it updated.  And lastly to Lindsay Derbyshire for being the first volunteer who responded to my ‘Needs YOU’ call out and without whom this year’s event could not have happened. It is Lindsay who has been solely responsible for raising the profile of your event locally, nationally and internationally via Facebook and Twitter and animating the superb collection of photographs which will be there for your use in future years.  Lindsay has also been there every day as my unpaid stage manager.

Given all the above, it was therefore with some sadness that, having crossed a very wet Celebration Circle at the beginning of the Upstairs Downstairs party on Sunday night, I was confronted by your Chairman who demanded £15 from me to come to the last official event of the Celebration.  My two guests, the wonderful Grymmtooms’ Travelling Museum who had worked all weekend outside in the inclemency of the weather, were also similarly refused entry.  I took my props, which I had already put in the hall in preparation for doing a special cabaret performance which I had been asked to do by one of your committee and left.

So a final suggestion for future events.  When people like Lindsay, Suzanne, Joe and many many others invest their own time and money to make your event such a success, as the Ilfracombe Victorian Celebration 2016 certainly was, it might be at least a decent thing to do to take the opportunity of the last night party event to thank them, maybe buy them a card, a bunch of flowers or a bottle of wine.

As it was an Upstairs Downstairs party, perhaps you could have told those who you invited in free so you could thank them, to join the servants at the back of the queue for the food.

All the best from a road near you,

Mr Alexander

My wondrous new website

Well the old one had done great service.  The result of a short course a few years back at the local college where I learned enough HTML to cobble the thing together but it was certainly showing its age. (No parallels please) So it was time to move up and engage the professionals.  After a little research I discovered Verb Marketing (verbmarketing.com) in Liverpool and they have created new Mr Alexander smart phone friendly website.  Please do check it (mralexander.co.uk) and them out. I am very happy with the result, although as in all things there are always possibilities for improvement.

I wish the Royal Mail would improve a bit.  For the second time in a couple of years they have lost an important parcel sent to me and intended to arrive by their guaranteed next day delivery service.  A long story which I wont bore you with but the gist is that Timpson’s had to send my repaired Loakes (Quality Shoe) to me as they had delayed mending them. Royal Mail failed to deliver and they have still not been returned.  Which meant I had to dash out to buy a new pair.  Now I love Loakes Shoes. Hand made, British and quality. A bit like I aspire to be. But they need to be worn in.  Ideally slowly an hour or so at a time, building up to a full day, with manipulation of the leather between wears.  They then mold to your feet with the attention of a dear close friend and last more than a lifetime. I had no time, so the battle between my new Loakes and my feet is on and currently the Loakes are winning. I am at the wonderful Crich Tramway Museum and the road from the lorry to the stage is a painful half mile.  Timpsons, to their great credit, have offered to buy the shoes for me.  A tidy £165.  My grandfather, himself a shoe salesman, would turn in his grave at that price.  If the others do come back I shall be a man of two pairs of Loakes. A sure sign of success in life you must agree.

The layout at Crich needs some improvement too.  Although I really love the place I still haven’t found my spot.  It often takes a few years coming to a show every year to find just the right site for the stage.  It has to face the sun, sit on firm level ground, be easily accessible with the lorry and away from other distractions, particularly noisy ones.  So this year I’m definitely in the wrong place.  A vehicular song and dance to pull on, facing South East, on extreme cobbles and with a Gavioli organ alongside.  I hate fairground organs.  Well let me say I hate them next to my stage.  I like them in small doses if they are a way away.  The incessant 4:4 time, driven I guess partly by the demands of the machine, always reminds me of soldiers marching to war.  I deliberately try to walk out of sync with it when I leave, yearning for syncopation and offbeat mellow jazz.  It also means that I have to leave to preserve my sanity and can only work when my show is timed and they turn the thing off.  For many entertainers this is fine.  It’s what they do.  Half hour spot then sit around drinking tea until the next timetabled spot.  Not this entertainer.  I love the times between shows when I can play and practice with my props.  Many of my best routines have been developed improvising in these interludes. But the sudden blast of Colonel Bogey from the Gavioli puts paid to all that and I am forced to sit around and drink tea like other entertainers.  My body and mind go cold and bored and it takes even more effort to rise up for the next show. 

Maybe next year they will find me somewhere to fit in.  I love the place and apart from the exact location I fit the place like a glove. Or maybe like a pair of well worn Loakes.  I can dream of and work towards both.

All the best from a rather painful road near you,

Mr Alexander