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
