Quickly, while the memories are still warm... grab my hand. I'm starting from the "real" start of the tour, because nobody cares about the crappy Bristol and Dawlish gigs and the rainy rehearsal periods. TAKE ME STRAIGHT TO GLORIOUS EAST PRAWLE.
29/7 East Prawle A curious way to begin our mysterious journey into the unknown, saying goodbye to two precious houses that have played parts in the lives of several of the PB cast members. Sam's house was the hardest logistically, and so it was that at just after 3pm the contents of the tour as well as those going on it were spread out on my patio for what was to be the last time. It swiftly became apparent to me that (1) demand for tea far outstripped supply, and (2) we had a lot more stuff to take on tour than we had cars to take it in. Not one to be daunted by such beaurocratic problems, Sam managed to fit everything into the four glorious road-stallions of the tour. I'm still not exactly sure how he did this, given that he was at that time the most stressed out human being I have ever seen in my entire life. But he managed it, and soon (not soon at all, it took fucking ages) the tour was officially ON THE ROAD. Thanks largely to Max's mapreading, which I shall call "Maxreading" (other contenders included "Bollocksreading" and "Lost"), our journey took just a little bit longer than those taken by our colleagues - but the sun was out for the first time in weeks, the vibe was, if not in the car, then at least somewhere in the county (waiting), and George, the Jones and I had a delightful meander down to Devon's south coast, stopping only for (1) me to glance at the map for 4 seconds and solve a problem it took the Jones at least an hour to get to grips with* (2) a dash over a country gate into a field for an incredible view,
and (3) an attempt to find CHILLINGTON, an incredibly named town in the vicinity of East Prawle which turned out not to exist (see 31/7). East Prawle brought with it an incredible pub, a rejuvenated Sam, and hints that the vibe was skulking his way even closer across the good-tilled earth. After having a really great ginger beer (luscombe's) and setting up camp by carlight (hilarious; we later became incredibly elite at it, of course) we decided to encourage his approach with a late-night beach mission. We lugged drums and guitars down about 30 minutes of track and eventually found our way to the beach irretrevably barred by massive cliffs. Still, the view was stunning, so we took stock, played some tunes, enjoyed the full moon, got terrified by the full moon (Max and Will only), and traipsed back up the track to the camp, stopping only to get majorly spazzed out by someone's washing, which we took for a ghost.
30/7 East Prawle Awoke to the sounds of George explaining to the assembled that he'd been fined £10 by the owner of DERRICK'S FIELD (?derrick?) for having a pee in a hedge. This later turned out to be a HILARIOUS FARMER JOKE, causing us to clutch our sides and roll around making many animalish noises until the feelings deserted us. More or less at this point, we headed into town for a lunch of crisps and pink lemonade which we took to the green, where Max and I played several tunes to delight young and old
whilst Katy painted the faces of the nearby children (don't worry, home readers: she did ask them first). One of these children turned out to be (allegedly) DAMON ALBARN'S NIECE. We discovered this by playing an awful cover of "End of a Century". So he's hopefully heard the story about two pirates playing an awful version of "End of a Century" by now. We have to hope. Anyway, then came the performance. I don't want to say that the tour peaked early, but I think most of those present for all the shows we did would have no hesitation in putting this one near the top. The setting, ambience, weather and turnout were all incredible, and everybody loved it. Most especially, we loved it. I messed up several cues because I was so busy loving it. Not being mushy, but when I'm 100 and on my deathbed it'll be one of those things that comes back to me. In a good way, I mean. Not a dark way. If that's possible. ANYWAY, afterwards we went to the pig's nose for a drink, which quickly became a VERY-EASY-TRIVIA-ATHON, or at least did after I walked out of a scrabble game (come on, I had a Q *and* and Z) to start answering questions like "What does 'USA' stand for?". I have a degree, so I can answer this one. Anyway it was a great night (know any other pubs with showers in them which the good, the bad and the queen have played at? didn't think so) and it ended as most of the best nights do - with sleep.
31/7 Looe Our first beach gig; the gig which spawned tour anthem "One Dark Night". A gig of pain; a gig of nations. Performance, even. Must start using theatrical lingo don'tcherknow darling. Dinner on the terrASS? Word. Anyway. Packed up the contents of DERRICK'S FIELD, moved them to a family campsite in looe. Our route there turned out to take us through the supposedly-fictitious CHILLINGTON,
from whence I posted my degree certificate to the people running my master's course, an event which has to place in this narrative. Campsite had showers, which already we craved, but Max was told off for stringing up his hammock in between the rungs of the children's play area near our tents. Looe itself excited an array of feelings in me: it is a very pretty place, with a carpark almost its size adjacent to it for the billions and billions of middle englanders who pile into it every summer. I don't like the British on holiday: we are a coarse, unattractive people, and have no respect for cars. THEY COULD KILL YOU. Sheesh. A flyering/facepainting mission to the beach went slightly awry (Katy: "wrong") when after flyering the world's MOST BORING PIRATES we accidentally set up camp in the most obscure, unvisited part of the beach. On the plus side, Max bought a new fishing rod whilst I found a new friend: Kilmer the Octopus, whose reassuring weight even now rests on my dashboard. A less successful purchase was Max's hilarious clockwork hand buzzer, which did nothing. At dinner, phil was lamenting. "If only I had a sharp knife?!" he cried. "Well, well!", said I, handing him Opineleruuu. I'd been waiting for that moment since first I laid eyes on the blade in Birmingham's "Brutal Sports Store" (I think it's actually called that). The evening's performance was one of my favourites: only a medium turnout but lots of very appreciative kids and a setting which was pretty much literally perfect (apart from the distant strains of 'Wonderwall' bristling in on the sea air. What the hell is a 'Wonderwall' anyway?).
Spent the post-performance playing Mafia, a game I wretchedly despise, but which George "Games" Wigzell really likes (quelle surprise!). Let the record show that I got down to the last three despite hating it because I am ninja. Let the other record show that if everyone knew Max like I do he'd have been out in the first four seconds. Swindler.
1/8 Looe Woke up on the early side and, leaving Max in a gentle repose (read: brutal snoring lump) headed off for an early morning swim with some of the ladies. Let the record show that I did in fact entirely go in to the ice-cold wine-dark ocean, though I failed to emerge looking hunksome and manly in my tight red speedos, instead passing a towel around my clinging shorts and praying for relief from whatever sun god was listening. Seriously, though, it was okay once you got in. Suddenly the Jones and Sam turned up, and together with Katy and them I roamed atimes amongst the protruding rocks to the left of Looe's beach. For this was one of only two days off we had, and if there's a better way to spend a day off that exploring rock pools I frankly want to know about it. Anyway, after a great deal of adventuring in this department (including a discussion of doing the next tour in a pirate galleon), we headed back to the campsite for a game of tipple (editor's note: this might actually have been on the previous day, I'm hazy) and then back to town to shop for dinner ingredients (it was our day to cook). As I sat guarding the car I listened to Noir Desir whilst watching the dirty, scummy holidaying brits (no offence) swarming past me to burn their myriad hides on the four inches of sand they'd find space for themselves in on Looe's compact beach. None of them would ever dream of climbing the rock formations to their left and setting out across their backs as Sam and Max had done. Was in danger of getting seriously upset about Things (it happens a lot these days) when those two gentlemen returned with risotto ingredients, which cheered me immeasurably. Went back to the campsite, cooked the risotto, ate it, came back down to the pub by accident (chased Esther because her tailgate was open, couldn't be arsed to come back), bought rock from sweetshop for 30p (didn't realise in the half-light that it was the same one I'd spurned the previous day for being sketchy with apostrophes; wouldn't have gone in if I had), went back to the campsite, feared the scallies, max created a zone in the tent properly for the first time, fingered Opineleruu in sleeping bag, feared scallies, slept.
2/8 Looe Katy's birthday and also a day of great triumph for us: THE DAY WE TURNED THE PIKEYS (sic?).
But I'll get there. In the morning Max went fishing. "Want to come fishing, Bil?", he asked. "There's no room in the car, by the way. Or the boat". Thus it was that, the rest of the non-fishing cast seeking solace at the monkey sanctuary, Sam, Lucy and I found ourselves back at the rocks, on top of which I read a recently-purchased Private Eye while the other two wrote stories for my MYSTERY STORY-WRITING CONTEST. Later it would turn out that Lucy never finished hers, whilst Sam's completely disappeared from inside my guitar (?poss. absorbed into the wood, from whence its melancholic tone continues to affect my chantes?). After a brief swim, we "got it out for the lads", by which I mean, put on a performance of our play in the campsite. This was the only campsite performance we actually did, and though it went well I'm pretty glad - the beach ones were much better. Before the show, a large number of really irritating children gathered around MusicZone Corneruu (TM) and were generally twatty about the fact that we were talented at something (yeah, I know, I know, but you know). We were dreading the perfromance, in fact, Max announced that he was "not feeling it"**, but largely thanks to the incredible talent of our acting troupe (I don't think I ever respected them quite as much before or since) they were soon BROUGHT INTO THE LAND OF FLORIN, and the most scallionish of them sat around with us at the stove afterwards and watched us cook the catch of the day in mute admiration. They also joined in a brilliant chorus of "shake my change box", which quickly became a cast favourite. My fish was raw but at least I was hardcore about something. With-me-forever-moment-of-trip-#343 was the expression on the face of the girl Lucy tickled with her 'peacock feather'. That one should get us all out of about four years of purgatory.
3/8 Falmouth One of the most peculiar days of my entire life. This day still doesn't quite compute with me, partly because the incredibly changeable weather makes different parts of it seem like different times of the year, and partly because of the vast array of quality of the events themselves. Some were horrifying, some beyond awesome. This day defies description so much that instead of summarising it as with the rest of this journal, I shall simply list the good and bad things. Comme ca:
- Nearly killed myself, Max, George, Esther, Genny, Heather and Jenny in brutal car crash.
- Only 8 people came to the show.
- Drizzle causted rust on nut of my guitar which will never completely go away.
- Inigo hand clapper finally gave up the ghost after months of faithful service - may it rest in peace in Kimberly Park.
- Max fell on his accordion at the end of the Zoo of death, causing a great deal of mirth but also knocking the entire bass key arrangement out of kilter.
Those were the bad things, by the way. Meanwhile:
- Found a fancy dress shop called "the Drill Hall" fashioned from an old C19th drill hall by an ancient legend called Bernie who talked with us extensively about performance licenses, music and local government and later not only put up a large poster advertising our play on his front door but came along to the show himself and clearly loved every second.
- Had the second best Fish and Chips of the tour in the Docks area underneath one of the most awesome RN vessels I've ever been in the vicinity of.
- Had a really nice busking session with Esther and the Dapper Swindler on Falmouth's high street.
- Had a bizarrely enjoyable and high quality performance from everybody despite the above setbacks.
In the evening, while Max tried unsuccesfully to fix the Worldmaster in our tent, I asked Sam to text THE ORACLE*** for the number of the nearest accordion repair shop. Then I sat in the girls' tent and talked about feelings (not really) until they all went to the pub, at which point Sophie and I had a shower together (not like that) and then sat on the swings until they got back, talking about feelings (not really). I don't really know what else to say about Falmouth; much of it is still a blur. I think I might have finished processing this one when I'm 50 or so, so come back and ask me then.
4/8 Newlyn Dawn hit us with all its brutal savagery. It was 9am. We were in Falmouth. We had a performance at 7pm in Penzance and only the following resources with which to sort out the worldmaster situation: (1) Max "Cheddar Spear" Jones, accomplished diplomat, gentleman-swindler, accordion pratfaller (2) Will "High Pants" Tattersdill, male model, telegraphy expert, driver (3) The Peugeot (pron. Pew-Jot), capable if slightly overtaxed voiture, and (4) the phone number of an accordion repair shop in wadebridge (34.4 miles away from where we were, 49.7 miles from where we had to be to perform). Lynx-like, we leapt into action. On the phone, we were bounced around most of the peninsula as people recommended likely repair shops, until finally one in Truro said "I think there's one in Cambourne but I don't know the name of the shop, its phone number, or where it is". TO CAMBOURNE WE DID GO, and, stopping on the high street for a high quality pork roll, we eventually found a music store. They couldn't help us. But they gave us the number of a man in St. Ives who might be able to! We phoned this man and were told he was out shopping with his daughter. Killed time by driving to Hayle and visiting the Lunch Box (a place of yore), where we ate another roll, this time with bacon and egg, and we weren't even hungry. Feeling slightly bloated, we finally got in touch with Peter Marshall (for it was he) and headed to Lelant, his small village of residence. Peter Marshall was a retired carpenter, and knew how to fix accordions only because he collected them. Having interrupted his lunch, we passed a penseive hour in the pub awaiting his results. Eventually he phoned and said that he couldn't fix it BUT that he was willing to lend us one of his. While Max drooled over the instrument he was proposing to lend us for free (which was a gorgeous 108 bass-key job), I formulated OPERATION PICARD, the code-name for the great wadebridge trip. This incredibly complex plan involved night-time driving, gatecrashing a friend's house in Padstow, keeping Peter Marshall's accordion an extra day, and not necessarily getting our worldmaster fixed. Satisfied with this plan, we got into the car ("IT'S IN THE SKY!", shrieked Max, trying to find a road atlas that was actually on his lap - I don't blame him, I was feeling pretty special by then myself) and pegged it to Newlyn, leaving our broken accordion behind as a kind of security deposit for Peter Marshall's (which was worth probably about six times more). We also left it behind because it wouldn't have fitted in the car. NEWLYN WAS NICE EXCEPT I WAS NEARLY KILLED BY SNIPERS. A waterfront park was our venue,
the sun came out, we played music on a convenient raised circular arena with ocean views of Mt. St. Michael, Peter Marshall's accordion was fantastic,
I tried to learn one of Max's sword tricks (my near fatal error, as it later transpired), and we eventually did a solid performance to a good crowd. And a bunch of scallies who tried to ruin things. But failed!
Taking only 320834 wrong turns, we headed for the delights of George's maison in Rinsey, where the other Theatre Alchemists had pitched our tent for us (bless them!) After playing the Rizla game with the gang until I was SICK of it (.33 seconds), we went to an ABANDONED TIN MINE with George, Sam, Dale, Phil and Sasha. Sam, Sasha, George and the Jones went skinny dipping at the bottom of some perilous cliffs we'd clambered down whilst the rest of us sat around and talked about who would die first if this were a horror movie (this is at about 3am by the way, keep up). THE STARS WERE BIG, AND MANY, AND FILLED ME WITH A NAMELESS DREAD.
5/8 Most of Cornwall's Extremity Our day off, ever shall August the 5th be known hereafter as "Peter Marshall day"; for call Max and I he did in the early morning to tell us that against all expectations he had fixed the Worldmaster overnight! This led to the abandonment of much-dreaded operation picard, and instead we took another trip in the direction of Lelant, where the kindly and awesome genius accepted nothing more than ten english poundies, a bottle of fairly average wine (the costcutters of kernow need to broaden their drinks selection) and a hastily-constructed thank-you card signed by the entire cast (except George, who was having a lie-in and whose signature I brilliantly faked). Spurred on by the completely ridiculous incredibility of Peter Marshall, we decided to go and do some advance flyering of St. Ives, but there were no parking spaces (see 6/8) so we proceeded on down the coast. A picture is worth a thousand words here:
We were caught in a cycle of weird days, flotsam bobbling at the fringes of the whilpool of FUCKING STRANGE. But we made it back to George's, where we were told that not only were we meant to be cooking dinner (whoops) but that we were making lasagne (which neither of us had cooked before) with Quorn (aaiieee). Naturally we triumphed and passed an "enjoyable" evening playing another of George's brilliant games - the HAT game. A whale, but liberated. I preferred the earlier game I played with George's brother, Will, where both of us had to say "yes mate?" with corresponding hand gestures if either of us was addressed by name. Classic stuff.
6/8 St. Ives Okay, right. I break St. Ives. But everything in its proper order: delighted once again in George's morning view (not that one) before packing everything up and driving to a campsite that was (1) closer to Newlyn than Rinsey and (2) further away from St. Ives than Rinsey. At this campsite we were aksed not to blaspheme ("oh my god") because there was a vicar on holiday. This blog entry is long enough as it is without me having to deal with THAT one. The Jones finally got his hammock up, but we immediately had to leave for St. Ives. Played "Gay Messiah" by Rufus Wainwright very loudly through the car stereo as we left; don't think he heard. Right: here's the deal with St. Ives. Never go there. If you do, don't. If you still do, don't go by car. There isn't a sodding parking space to be had. Also, the town is full of (ie. "contains one of") those really annoying old women who assume all young people will be rude and who are therefore rude to them preemptively. I respect their tenacity, but not their right to exist. "You can't stand there", she said, gesticulating at the street corner (we were waiting for Sam to come out of a bank, not "loitering"). "I bet I pay more road tax than you do, bitch", I mumbled, foppishly. Of course I didn't say that. I was aggressively polite as any English gentleman would be in such a woeful situation. But she had SOURED MY VIBE, a feeling that worsened after spending about 20 minutes looking for a chippy and finally finding an AWFUL one on the harbourfront. PROBABLY the WORST fish and chips I've EVER had. Anyway, then we played on the beach, found a weird bridge, played under it,
decamped to the campsite for no reason, came back again (I love driving!), spent 4 hours parking, did a show on the island, which is admittedly beautiful, saw that one family in the audience were the family who stole my parking space earlier, broke them, broke St. Ives, broke the people of St. Ives and those visiting it, especially broke some hideous night club girls who blocked my vibe UNE AUTRE TEMP in the night chippy, paid £1 for a saucer-sized pancake at 00h30 (ahh communal cooking) but pulled the evening back by watching the stars with Jones (it was a bit Pearl Harbor) and discovering a Narnia Lantern in the middle of our tent area with Genny. Exciting times. Blasphemed very loudly before going to sleep; don't think he heard.
7/8 Porthtowan Awoke to a dirty rainstorm, but was warmed inside by watching the Jones taking down his hammock in it. New campsite wanted £3 per car to park next to the tents because "of the environment". So we parked them about 60 yards away and wasted loads of petrol driving between the tents and the parking places to unpack. Nice. Porthtowan itself had an oddly American feel to it - a stretch of shops, most of them shut, surrounded by mountains on both sides and with the sand from the beach at one end migrating up to the pavings of the other. It also had a LYING PIES SIGN, which lied in large friendly letters about the availability of pies. The beach itself was excellent and included a cave system we never explored as well as an ocean which I explored a little too thoroughly (thanks to Genny and Sasha). The performance was one of my favourites, everyone really went for it with delicious results and we had several nice beverages at the beach bar afterwards. Then it was back to the campsite for some classic moments, most lamentably "not that one", most hilariously "can you guys stop laughing now? it's been about 20 minutes and I'm trying to go to sleep".
8/8 Newquay Tried very very hard not to hate Newquay and almost succeeded; but it is an uninspiring place, rammed full of people who are, and I pull no punches here, fass. Worst for me (although for no one else) was the Barracuda nightclub, which towered over the beach like an Orwellian brain haemorrhage, though I was also put off by (1) impossible parking (2) a guy playing bagpipes (3) a man from Kodak taking free pictures of blandard bikini babes on their 3 sq ft of sand, (4) a different beach full of disinterested people. I played them some Kylie. On the other hand, there was a great ocean rock to climb, an acoustically rewarding tunnel was explored (Max's trip highlight?) and the performance itself went very well, although I had to change my shorts in the interval. Max found a small plastic turtle on the beach, named it Jeeves, gave it to me in my Harmonica holder instead of the harp. Still reeling from the excitment which ensued, we proceeded to the horror that was SUMMER LODGE, a "holiday park" (nb. not "campsite") which charged an outrageous amount for the worst tentxperience of the tour. Its "reception" was an American-themed "diner" with Karaoke and Casino machines and things. It was like Blackpool had really lost its commitment. Briefly escaped clutches of said horror with Sam and Max to sit in a field and cook ridiculously firey chilli while the others went to a nightclub in newquay. Cos we know how to have a good time.
9/8 Polzeath Got up, saw Summer Lodge by daylight, threw up violently, discovered Summer Lodge had only portakabins in which to dispose of the vomit my body had crafted, smeared it tactfully all over their stupid trash-england casino-vegas-blackpool-club-house-nightmare instead, left for Padstow. Padstow wins the SPECIAL PRIZE. I love it. In particular I love RICK STEIN'S FISH AND CHIP SHOP. Oh my god. There are no words. Sat on the quay with Rick's bounty, some ginger beer, Sam and Max. Perfect weather. Felt good. Then popped up the road to Polzeath. Busked on the beach for some time and read Love it! magazine in an attempt to reconnect with the real world. Unfortunatley this effort proved part-successful.
Potential punters on Max: "That Man looks like Jack Sparrow". The evening's beach peformance to a large but stand-offish audience passed off sucessfully.
Had a drinkie in the Oyster Catcher, returned to the campsite and played Just A Minute with loads of the cast until about 2am. Wished I had done a drama degree. Heard them playing Word Disassociation through my tent wall as I drifted off to sleep.
10/8 Bude An emotion charged dalesbirthday saw the team wend their way from Polzeath's Little Avalon breakfastery (who refused to let us pay seperately, wtf?) to Bude's Atlantic Diner (who didn't, whoopee). Bude was a little nondescript, but with a great beach which we flyered doggedly before retiring to the Atlantic Diner for an incredible burger of six. In flyering we were assisted by the world's most boring australian ("tonight on the beach there, will be, , performance of, the, princess, bride. A very. Exciting? play with. Pirates, and. Things. Tonight. Yeahh"), but hindered by a rapidly advancing tide which almost-but-not quite destroyed my guitar. One last brush with infinity.
A sunset performance of the play on the beach (setting ideal again) was attended by such distinguished figues as 'my parents' before we made our way back to Exeter for an emotional farewell drink. Phil destroyed his machine with glee, we binned our mat with glee, although kept all the other elements of MusicZone Corneruuu for future reference. Some of the troupe took a little longer get back to Exeter than others because of a "cunning", "deliberate" shortcut by Esther, but it doesn't matter because we went through CHILLSWORTHY, a delightful bookend to CHILLINGTON, and the dirty sign-free fog-encrusted roadslips of north devon draped themselves over the tail end of our adventure artistically. When civilisation was eventually reached, I was overwhelmed by a number of remarkable emotions including "happiness", "sadness" and "get shower". As you can see, we both came back from the wilderness as wild men; savages. We were barely recognisable. Here's me shortly after the ordeal:
And here's Max:
Yeahhhh.
11/8 Birmingham Lunch on Cathederal Green in Devon's capital. A final farewell to more beautiful new old friends. As we left Exeter, we passed Katie on the street entirely by chance. She leapt and waved in the searing sun.
Fin.
* In his defense, it must be said that the Jones improved exponentially at mapreading over the course of the tour
** This happens at 63% of events attended by the Jones.
*** A service which I heartily recommend, although they were later unable to help me out with the locations of Open Mic nights in Newquay.
