It's
Easter Monday, Bank Holiday, our first fee paying booking of the season. I phone John to
see if he wants a lift, he doesn't. He asks me if I've a good programme planned and I
remind him that he's the Squire now and I'm just a pleb so I give him a message about the
joys of sex and travel and remind him he's got to do that.We arrive at the local urban farm. The animals (four legged variety) have been hidden away. The sort of 1950's folk singers in sweaters that give folk a bad name are singing to an engrossed(?) audience of under 5's. The Squire and Bagman said be there at 12:30 - well we are. Where are the Squire and Bagman? Half an hour later they arrive. Many of Mersey have lost the will to live. Clive's even joining in the chorus of folk songs for primary schools.
The clouds are gathering and a few drops of rain are falling. It's now 1 o'clock and the egg and spoon race is starting. Any potential audience melt away. It's now 1:15 and we decide to start. With no amplification I decide to join our two box players and hit the bodhran as if it were a bass drum to try to attract some attention whilst the dancers come on to Hey Diddle Diss.
The Squire remembers the Foreman teaching this. The Foreman thinks he remembers teaching it. Mersey are totally clueless but do a passably impersonation of a bunch of individualistic spastics in a magnet factory (sorry if this is not PC but it creates an accurate impression).
Things can only get better - but only slowly. After Monks March with audience participation (the kids running through the arches bit) we dole out Cadbury's cream eggs (the little chocolate content) to the under 10's. As we only have 30 eggs, this has to be restricted, so the criterion is actual, not mental, age.
The rain starts to come down faster and the bodhran skin gets increasingly flaccid. Mersey's spirits (and the audience) melt away.
"Let's go to the Caernarvon Castle for a pint before the next spot" says John.
"Let's go to the Caernarvon Castle and not come back" says I.
We do the first bit.
How can I put this tactfully. Let's start with a positive - the Cains is good. But..... the service is lousy, the food is a rip off and we can't have chips because they are a side order and only available with a main course. My argument that a pint IS a main course does not convince the jobsworth employee of a major brewing concern based in Burton-upon-Trent. You know the one, red triangle symbol and name that rhymes with ass.
Two pints in half an hour and the urban farm looks a friendlier place. We have another go at the dances we learnt this practice season and they don't seem so hard. The grand(?) finale is Upton/Chingford stick. I'm opposite Clive in the middle. In the first chorus he stands still and holds his stick out vertically whilst I clash appropriately. In the second, he nearly falls over as I push forward and stands looking lost as I back off ("Come towards me!" barely wakes him up). By the end he's looking as if he remembers the dance. He looks puzzled at the gales of laughter when he remarks "that's quite relaxed, not an energetic dance at all".
Well everybody else has gone home so I suppose we should too. Shame there were no real rabbits, only a girl in a sexy Bugs Bunny costume. Good job H and Paul weren't with us - Paul has no self control.
The good news - it's over and can only get better.
Next public performances -