Phoole Friend Martin Soan's Awesome Viddy for the Robin Hood Tax

Here's a video by the hilarious Martin Soan, whom I met along with his hilarious and brilliant wife Vivienne at Muncaster Castle's International Jester Tournament in 2007. It's for an excellent cause (one also supported by delightful vids by the delicious Bill Nighy).

Also: Keep an eye out for a Semmerling-Schaefer Mask Studios smile mask, which makes a special appearance in the video! I sent one to the Soans after they made me laugh my face completely off throughout the '07 Festival of Fools. You need one too, you know - and they're easily buy-able here. Get yours today, 'coz you're never fully dressed without a Semmerling Smile!

Muncaster Reveries, Last Chapter: Or, Back and There Again

And so today I'll finally tell the end of the story that really started six years ago, when I became Milwaukee's Official Municipal Jester, and ran a rambling road of preparations, experiences and delightful terrors on the way to the end of the International Jester Tournament during Muncaster Castle's Festival of Fools 2007.

For the earlier parts of the story, click here. I'll now continue from yesterday's thrilling cliff-hanger, where I was hoping to quietly slink away to chat with people, rather than having to revisit the so-silent crowd I puzzled that morning.

After the last act had performed a spectacular competition show, with juggling and fire and fire-juggling, and I was embroiled in a very serious conversation with a group 7-to-10-year-old children about the future of screenwriting and the joys of churning out 2-minute plays with no punchlines, Sadie found me and gently ushered me into the castle's dining room, which had been doubling as a sort of green room for those about to go on during the competition. We were all supposed to wait there for the awards ceremony. Embarrassed as I was, Sadie and Vivienne Soan managed to distract me brilliantly by asking me charming questions about how I'd constructed my clothes -- and all Phooligans know I love to jabber on about motley haberdashery! So many students ask me why I bother to spend so much time, money, research and energy on my motleys. Well, it pays off, one way or another!

(I don't know why, but I like the way Paul's sort of peeking into this shot, like a one-eyed Jack on a playing card. I just like it.)

And then we all had to troop outside, to await our fates behind the little stage, while Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington re-introduced us each to the crowd and then announced the judges' pick for the winner. The crowd cheered when I came back on, which I attribute to them having just been seriously revved up by the last several excellent acts, and also I think the children might have been energized a bit by my goofing off with them all day; my interactions with them may have caused them to forget my dreary performance earlier. In any case, cheering happened, and it surprised me.

Paul Garbanzo took the big prize, to thunderous accolades, and once he'd been hatted and coated and adorned with medals, Patrick handed around the consolation prizes -- each of the non-winning competitors received a handsome, simple wooden bowl.

The hilarious Martin Soan had changed costumes about 457 times that day, and he'd appeared for the awards dressed as the Pantomime Mrs. Havisham (yes, that one, from GREAT EXPECTATIONS). I do not have a picture of Martin dressed as the Pantomime Mrs. Havisham, but I want you to know that it's one of the funniest things ever. Chair, dress, wig, everything: hysterical! And I wish I had video to show you of the moment he received his wooden bowl from Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington, whereat he pointed into the bowl and said, "Hey, there's no money in there!"

The audience enjoyed this. But taking it completely in stride, Patrick addressed the crowd directly, on the mic: "He says there's no money in there. Look here, fellow, I'll have you know that branch came through my sitting-room window!" And the crowd roared with delighted laughter.

While the roaring went on, I grinned dazedly, and the little wheels inside my brain clicked around and lined up: in 2005, a devastating storm struck Muncaster Castle, taking two huge branches off Tom Fool's Tree. The family had saved the wood from that ancient chestnut tree and had our prizes fashioned from it. I held in my hands a piece of Tom Fool's Tree.

That felt a bit like winning. It still does. I have the bowl at home, in a nice case. Here you can see me, gripping it while getting jostled for the obligatory group portraits:

(Back row: Mike Hancock; Compere Maynard FlipFlap, Muncaster Fool Emeritus; Etienne; Martin Soan in his Elizabethan attire. Front row: Jason the Juggling Jester, Paul Garbanzo, and yours very truly madly deeply.)

Here, Martin discovers that my bumroll makes an excellent place to rest a drink when you're tired of carrying it around.

And then we all had to do big arms:

Paul was shortly whisked off to BBC-Carlisle for interviews, but the rest of us got a bit of tape in as well:

And then I goofed with the crowds again until all had calmed down and the Festival had closed.

I recall we got rain then, the first rain since Jiggins and I had disembarked in Ravenglass, just a five-minute squall, and the sun came right back out again. I'd dashed up to our perfect little room in the Coachman's Quarters to wash the glue out of my hair (my hair [I do actually have hair, and I'm sorry if you're finding this out now for the first time] is so fine it won't hold any kind of hairpin or bobby pin, so in order to make my hats stay on correctly, I have to coat my head in hair glue, which is a real thing that exists] and put on A-E clothing, came down, got rained on very briefly, and then everyone piled into a room to enjoy Paul on telly from Carlisle. That being achieved, Jiggins and I headed out for possibly our last Muncaster stroll of the voyage.

We had an absurdly dramatic farewell scene with Joel Dickinson, who was clinging to the back of a luggage-cart train as it zipped across the lawns, waving with baroque sentimentality, which we returned double, because he's an extremely nice person. And rounding the corner by Tom's Tree, we found Martin and Vivienne taking in one last skullfull of the mind-blowingly beautiful vista:

If you can arrange to recline on cannons by Tom's Tree and watch slanting evening sunbeams chase a rainstorm across the fells while in the charmingest company of the Soans, I recommend you do it.

And the next day, so very sadly, we left great Muncaster Castle, gorgeous sheepy Cumbria, and the eye-explodingly-beautiful Lake District behind. But I can't end the story without revisiting Eric Tree-Head. Remember young Eric, son of the great Maynard Flip-Flap?

The day after Eric and I first met, he recognized me at breakfast in Creeping Kate's Kitchens, even though I was out of my motley. He approached our table wide-eyed and awed, and pointed to me, and said, "You were the Queen yesterday!" I grinned gigantically. After he'd retreated, beaming, his mum confided, "You're his new girlfriend, I'm afraid; he talks of no-one but you." I was terribly impressed with myself at that. I mean, his dad was the reigning Muncaster Fool at the time -- I was happy to simply be remembered at all!

So on the last day of the festival, Eric Tree-Head, age six and three-quarters years, gave me a gift. He presented me with the stout walking staff he'd found and used during the Festival of Fools, shown in his hand below:

He was extremely solemn in giving it to me. I took it reverently, turned it over in my hands, and looked at him very seriously. "Eric, this stick has a pointed end, and I am a very silly person. Do you think it's safe for me to have a stick like this?"

He considered for a long moment. And then he pronounced, "I believe you can be trusted."

I laughed and cried.

I couldn't fit the stick in my trunk, no matter how I tried (which will amaze those of you who have seen my trunk. I can fit ME in my trunk, but this stick just would not fit in). So as we were leaving, I found Eric Tree-Head, and together we put the stick leaning up against the trunk of Tom Fool's Tree, and I said, "I'm coming back to Muncaster Castle some day, and I'm going to find this stick when I come back, all right?" That seemed fine with young Mr. Tree-Head.

It's hard to believe that "some day" is coming up in less than a week.

Will the stick still be there?

Will I see Eric Tree-Head again?

Will he remember?

I wish I could take every last one of you with me -- I'd pack you in my trunk, but I need room for the stick! Failing that, I'm bringing some tech, so I can report on adventures if there is ever a lull.

Phooligans all, thanks, thanks and ever thanks for your absurd devotion. It's the Phoole Fuel that keeps me adventuring!

Muncaster Reveries: Maybe I Should Finish The Story From Last Time!

In just over a week, Tom and I will brave the volcano and fly to Manchester, and then take a train to beautiful Muncaster Castle to do walkaround performance for the Festival of Fools 2010. I won't be competing this time around, and that pressure being off, the run-up is a breathless whirl of packing, last-minute motley-making, and other minute launch preparations.

But we haven't even finished the story of the last trip I made to Muncaster, my first visit, in 2007, when I competed in the International Jester Tournament.

To save you anxiety, I'll cut to the punchline: I didn't win. No, not even close! Martin Soan told me I should say I won 2nd place, and I grinned and followed his advice. But if you believed me when I told you that, you've been Phooled. There were no places -- just a winner, Paul Garbanzo, and, as Martin said to us after the prize had been awarded, "The rest of us? We're LOOOOOOSERS!"

The competition is really for acts with big physical spectacle and audience involvement. MoOnIe the Magnif'cent, a.k.a. the brilliant and amazing Philip Earl, would be a shoo-in for the tournament -- the judges sought acts on his zesty scale. Something talky? Not so much. And even before the day, once all of the competitors had arrived, I knew I was doomed.

Jiggins had the right idea -- she went off for insane adventures around the castle grounds with Etienne, while I stayed behind at the lounge with the other competitors and their families. On the one hand, the night before the competition was brilliantly memorable -- I was in a room with some of the funniest people I'd ever met. They were all just calmly, deeply hilarious. Usually, in a room full of people, I eventually feel that pull to be the funny person -- not that night. My services were not required. And that terrified me deeply.

Soon I was on the phone to poor patient Tom for at least an hour. "I have to come home. This is insane. I can't do this. These people are too funny. No, I mean everyone. In the entire country. It's presumptuous of me to pretend to be qualified to compete." Tom reassured me the way he always does, reminding me of the devoted people who Got Behind the Phoole to get me to the UK in the first place, reminding me of the love and generosity of the people who would come to be known as Phooligans, reminding me that I'd gotten laughs and encouragement the rest of the trip, from the too-kind Penningtons and their charming guests. I'd gotten that far, farther than any other jester I'd known. I had to try.

I had originally planned a ten-minute act of story-joking and self-effacery, and in hindsight, I should probably have stayed with it, not that it would have mattered; I was up against five acts that were all bold physical spectacle. I panicked the night before, and feared that what was funny to Americans wouldn't be funny at all to Brits, and tried to rewrite at the last minute, going instead for jokes I'd learned from the Brits themselves. I could hardly get to sleep, dreading the morning like a date with a firing squad.

And, indeed, when my performance began and I faced the crowd, I did in fact die. I bombed. I bombed worse than I have ever bombed in my life, and I mean ever. The first story-joke fell absolutely flat, with no response, and I felt myself drowning in the crowd's uncomfortable silence at a minute in; at two minutes in, lacking even one laugh, I cut and ran. I got out of there. I bowed with a flourish and bolted, polite and confused applause propelling me through the castle doors and into the depths of a kitchen in the middle of the house.

I know Americans traveling abroad have a reputation for being over-emotional, particularly as considered from the British perspective, so I knew I had to make this quick -- I found a place to hide, and I cried for exactly one minute, very, very quietly. I had anticipated failure, but I hadn't anticipated it being so very painful! I'd stuffed my bag with the brightly-colored tissues for which I'm oddly famous, the ones that seem to come in colors to match every motley I make, and I soaked two of them efficiently, with hot tears of shame.

I don't know how, but Etienne found me first. He tried to be encouraging: "Well, at least you're done!" The totally-not-helpful substance of that remark made me bark with unexpected laughter, and I wondered how I was going to put my face back together sufficiently to get back out there and get back to the thing I do well, Walking Around Talking to People. Just then, Jiggins found me too -- with my makeup in hand, ready to help repair the Phoole visage. So thoughtful, Jiggins, the Phoole Guard Extraordinaire.

As I put my eyes back together, Jiggins quietly and calmly said, "Now, there's something I have to ask you, and I do not want this to make you anxious. But did you contact David Tennant's agency about you coming to the UK?"

Indeed, I had done so. In fact, in the months running up to the Festival, I'd cheekily pinged the agents of all of my favorite British celebrities, saying, "Hi! I'm a silly American who loves your work. If you'd like to see me goof around in 16th-century motley with a fake British dialect, I'll be up North soon." I stared with saucer eyes at Jiggins as she rotated her camera so I could see the screen on the back.

"It's just that there's this guy out there, and it probably isn't him, but he just watched your performance, and, well..." And I cringed and peeked, and on that little screen, it looked exactly like him:

I died inside, even more than I'd already just died inside. Had I just given the worst performance of my entire career, with David Tennant in the house? I couldn't let that potential hang in the air -- I had to know. I whooshed out of the castle to find this guy.

I found him right away -- he'd sat down to wait through the brief intermission for the next act. As I swept toward him, all of the tiny children who had just sat through my awful cringefest swarmed around me: "Jane the Phoole! I liked your stories, Jane! I enjoyed you!"

I stopped and grinned warmly at them all. "Ah. You did, did you?" I gritted my teeth slightly. "You all must have been laughing on the inside, where it counts!" But their ebullience boiled over, and they took my hands and pulled me down for what must have been congratulatory hugs.

The Guy With the Unmistakable Hair was still in his seat. I steeled myself and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, begging your extreme pardon, Sir, but has anyone ever told you you look exactly like David Tennant before?"

The man turned around. "Who?"

My heart started beating again. The lovely young woman next to him, whom in that second I realized was his wife, prompted, "The bloke who plays Doctor Who on telly."

"Oh," he replied, not Scottish in the least. "No. Afraid not."

I turned to the pile of children. "Don't you think this man looks like The Doctor, though?"

They exploded. "It's The Doctor! Are you The Doctor? You look like The Doctor, though!" And so on.

I'm afraid I must have embarrassed the poor fellow unduly, but I couldn't just go on thinking that the bottom of my career might have been witnessed by one of the most amazing performers ever. Relieved, I laughed my head off, and, begging the gentleman's pardon, I excused myself and drew my new entourage along with me.

Phooligans know how I love to goof with kids, and I like to speak to them as if they're adults, taking their ideas very seriously and engaging them as people, not as any kind of subordinate or in-progress person. Well, these children actually ARE adults. They're incredibly articulate, well-spoken, considerate individuals, and I delight in their insistings and assertions. I passed the rest of the afternoon trying to forget my abysmal belly-flop of a show, immersing myself in nonsense conversations with the very young.

I ended up getting my picture taken with hundreds of people, and before long, each TV station crew had put me in front of their cameras. I heard a producer say, "Get her. She has good clothes, and she can talk. Get her on camera." Jiggins overheard other producers saying the same thing. So I flexed some "thee"s and "thou"s on various BBC channels. That goes a long way toward helping one forget that one's just bombed onstage -- very cheering! One crew had me juggle with Joel Dickinson; another had me do an interlude in a tour of the castle.

I barked with laughter through Martin Soan's hysterical show, and when Etienne and Paul Garbanzo made the crowds roar, I felt perhaps I should just draw off my little crowd of followers and hunker down until the whole awards thing had blown over. But it was not to be.

Soon: the rest of the tale!

Muncaster Memories, Continued

With the 2010 Festival of Fools at Muncaster Castle rapidly approaching, I'm frantically sewing, packing for both the trip and our move to a new house, and scrambling to get the best deal on our plane tickets. But I must not neglect the completion of the blague accounts from the last time I visited the hallowed haunts. More Muncaster!

Goofing with guests on the third morning of the Festival.

Here's Sadie, our indulgent and too-kind liaison from Muncaster. She'd just been for a walk with me, letting me know the hosts and guests were really enjoying my act. I was tremendously relieved -- being a Fake British Person surrounded by Real British Persons is daunting, but I was glad to know my walkaround was helping people have fun.

Checking the gate.

Huzzah the Family Flip-Flap! I cannot remember their real surname, and I'm not sure I ever actually knew what it was. But I just made Maynard Flip-Flap's family into "the Family Flip-Flap" in my notes, and it makes me happy to think of a family named Flip-Flap. When Maynard introduced us to little 2-year-old Lydia, he swung her up into his arms and said, "She's got a pooey bottom and a poor disposition." Here she's completely clothed, but we'd often see her darting around without trousers, gleefully escaped. And when Maynard was onstage bedecking the new Fool of Muncaster Castle with hat and coat and awards, Lydia seized the opportunity to appear onstage with them, "sans pantalones," as we are fond of saying (mis-matched languages at no extra charge). Mrs. Flip-Flap remarked to Jenny and I at one point, "Do you two perform together? If not, you ought to. I see a double-act here." (If only she could have seen the puppeteering madness with which we'd gotten away years ago. In a way, every adventure Jenny and I have ends up as a double-act, and they always get great notices!)

The stick being wielded as a staff by young Eric Tree-Head here was presented to me as a gift at the end of our visit to Muncaster. It was a serious, weighty, and happy-sad thing, and I have to tell you about it later.

That's all the reminiscence I can afford at the moment -- it's April Fool's Eve, FOOL author Christopher Moore comes to Milwaukee tonight, and there's so much to do!

Jane the Phoole Returns to Festival of Fools at Muncaster Castle 2010!

I know. I KNOW! It's TOO FANTASTIC! Phooligans, Phoole Friends and everyone who Got Behind the Phoole in 2007, I owe this to you. If you hadn't encouraged and supported me back then, I'd never have made it to Muncaster; and if I'd never been, I couldn't be invited back. But yesterday, a delightful exchange of emails with Sadie confirmed I'll be performing walkaround at Muncaster Castle's Festival of Fools 2010!

That means I have a lot of chronicling of the last trip to get through before a very firm departure date of May 28. Where were we? Ah, yes -- tea with Owl.

Muncaster Castle is very far north. Have I mentioned that? Where I live, in Milwaukee, WI, in May, the sun rises around 5:30 p.m. and sets around 8:00 p.m. And it had just never occurred to me to look up what time the sun rose and set at Muncaster Castle. We were shocked to discover a completely alien light rhythm: in late May and early June, the sun rises around 4:45 a.m. and sets around 9:40 p.m. I am not used to living in a world where the sun is up that late.



So that first day, when I was out romping the grounds all day, I think I was waiting for the sun to lower so that I could go back inside, because that's the performance day to which I'm accustomed -- you're out until sunset. Sadie and other castle staff kindly shepherded me inside after the gates closed, and I couldn't believe how much daylight still remained! I'm used to riding the last rays of sunlight out, and then schlepping toward civilian clothes in semi-darkness. Mad place.

On one of the subsequent days, Sadie took Jenny and I for a trip to view the tallest mountain in England. I failed to write down or remember the name of this mountain, but I think it might have been Scafell Pike. In any case, I'll get to find out for certain in May, but here are some of the pastoral scenes that rendered Jenny and I quite blissfully stunned.

My Flickr page has many more images of this entire excursion, all snapped by the intrepid Jenny "Jiggins" Higgins.

It was lambing season when we rolled through the winding country lanes, and the fields were full of leaping, kicking, baaaaing lambies. Completely deadly cute. It really was excessive. It would have been as much as our lives were worth if we'd tried to pet these lambies, as the ewes are quite aggressive, so I had to take it out on the lemurs at the petting zoo when I got home. They bore up well. But it is immensely soothing to the city-dweller's soul to be amongst endless fields of frolicking, white, fluffulent little lambs.

Jenny and I entertained Sadie mightily by blurting out, "SHEEP!" every time we passed a pasture. We had to explain to her that that's how we are at home -- out on a drive in the country, we yell out the name of any animal we see. Even in the city, I yell "PUPPY!" every time I see a dog. The three of us shared giggles over a mutual acquaintance, someone we'd just met the day before, who had never even seen a sheep before coming to the Lake District, and who wanted very much to hug one. Nothing twisted or sinister in that, mind -- he just liked how fluffy the sheep looked, and he wanted to give a sheep a cuddle. In her delicious Cumbrian dialect, Sadie said, "He could be a sheep-coodler!" and Jenny and I were done for, laughing our heads off.

Muncaster Reveries: Meal With Mascots

Muncaster Meal With Mascot, originally uploaded by Phoole.

I'm hoping to return to Muncaster for Festival of Fools 2010, as a walkaround character, and in the best of all possible worlds, I'd love to be there with so many of you who've raised a glass with me in the past couple of years, saying, "Next year, in Muncaster!" But that means More Adventure. And I haven't finished the chronicle of the LAST adventure yet. So let's journey back to the 2007 adventure and recollect the tale.

In another blague, I've talked about my training as an interactive environmental edu-tainment character, and the long performance day I grew up accepting as normal: The day begins when the event's gates open, often at 10:00 a.m., and continues, non-stop, until the event's gates close, often at 7:00 p.m. or later. A handful of years ago, that kind of schedule began to wear me down, even while pacing myself between large-scale look-at-me big-crowd happenings and what we call "hit-and-run" encounters, making brief exchanges with large numbers in moving crowds. For many years, I prided myself on being able to be "on" for a close-to-ten-hour performance day, with little to no time "offstage" or out of the performance area -- I would take all meals with the audience, and spend every minute of the day with patrons. But four or five years ago, I suddenly couldn't do that without having extreme consequences at the end of the day, where I'd crash very, very hard, often needing to be completely isolated from other people. Too many faces, it felt like. I'd need to be a complete hermit on the weeks between gigs to recharge.

So I started to take a break once a day, right in the middle of the performance day, usually after a large-ensemble number or parade or other spectacle. I take an hour to be very quiet, eat a little something, rehydrate, recharge. When I first began doing this, I felt incredibly guilty, particularly while performing at shows where there were few or no other lively walkaround characters. The sense of responsibility, as twisted as it may have been, was simply too deeply ingrained.

So at Muncaster, the first day I appeared as Jane the Phoole, I emerged around 11:00 a.m. I wasn't on a schedule at all -- I was doing it simply because it delighted me, and because I couldn't bear to not be Phooling at the Festival of Fools.

At noon, Sadie, our kind and indulgent go-to person, plucked at my elbow. "Don't you want to take a break? You've been at it for a whole hour!"

I grinned at her as if she were making fun of me. "I'm fine! Cheers!" And I was off entertaining another family, letting the kids jump on me and tell me the very silliest of jokes. And so on for the next few hours: Sadie or Becks would find me every hour or so and say, "You've not taken a break yet! Are you sure you're all right?"

I thought, "I'm in England, it's bright and sunny and cool and dry, and there's A CASTLE HERE. I'm perfect! NO WAY am I stopping!"

Finally, about 4:00 p.m., Sadie put her foot down. "You're having a meal now, no question." Jiggins fetched me a sandwich, and, reluctant to be away from the lovely kind people visiting that day, I plopped down on the castle lawn.

Inevitably, a small crowd formed immediately. (Phooligans know what happens at a festival when I stop moving for too long -- eventually the whole world ends up gathered around me, conveniently enough.) At first, a choir of towheaded kids chirped nonsensical riddles at me while I nearly choked from laughing, and then along came this charming woman with her labrador retriever dog, and just when I thought the company was at its most delightful, along came Muncaster's Owl Mascot, and we THINK Peter Frost-Pennington himself was inside the thing! It was too fabulous. Muncaster Castle is the headquarters of the National Owl Trust, and the mascot costume is made of thousands of owl feathers moulted and otherwise shed by the hundreds of owls resident in the castle's owlery. "Chouette!" the French would say.

Later, Max the Meadowvole, another mascot of Muncaster Castle, joined us for a chat and a chew too. I felt truly honored that my humble repast should be host to such noble guesties.

Muncaster Revisited: Brilliant Times With Brilliant Kids

More meetings with writers, originally uploaded by Phoole.

I haven't posted any episodes of my Muncaster Castle adventures since the end of March, no doubt owing to a Renaissance Faire having consumed most of my energy over the past several months! No excuse. But on days at my home show, the Bristol Renaissance Faire, when the going gets difficult, when the audience gets drunk and mean, when the secret ego-battles roar out of control, I fling my mind back to those magical Muncaster days, and think, "Did that really happen?" I've been carrying around with me the soft-cover Moleskine I used to chronicle the trip's events as they happened, just to assure myself that someone else was there, that the place and the people are verifiable by someone besides me. And I've been longing to get back to posting about the journey, if only to make myself so beyond-starved for the place that I have to return immediately.

This photo shows me doing what I did most of the time when I was "on" there -- hearing jokes and stories from extremely articulate and interesting children. On the right in this picture, in the green t-shirt and tiger face, is six-and-three-quarters-years-old Eric Flip-Flap, son of Muncaster's 2006 Fool, Maynard Flip-Flap. His surname, of course, isn't actually Flip-Flap, but I cannot keep their real surname in my head -- it gets flip-flapped out and replaced. So I always called him Eric Flip-Flap -- that is, until he and I discussed his career plans.

"So, young Eric," I said to him, grandly, "Of course you're going to be a fool when you grow up?"

"Of course," he replied simply.

"What will your fool name be? Will it be Eric Flip-Flap? Continuing the tradition?"

"No," he announced, and you could tell he'd thought it over. "My fool name will be Eric Tree-Head."

I exploded with laughter, which made him laugh, and we both fell over. I asked him again later, though, and he meant it. Eric Tree-Head.

Muncaster's Festival of Fools: It Really Happened!

I know you know already, but time's passage makes it feel like a Fun Daydream I Had Once About Getting On A Plane With Jenny Higgins and Going To Jester Summer Camp. But in the past week I've had three delightful remembrances of the amazing experience:

• I chatted with Étienne last week, and he's staying chez nous between his weekends at the Bristol Renaissance Faire this season (August 9-10 and August 16-17). It was great to talk shop with him again...it's validating, you know? Makes me feel like I'm a professional entertainer or something.
• A Lovely Woman who works at a Jewelry Shop at BRF (the one on Guildhall Corner, where they sell those wire-and-bead hair cages -- you know the one) was Paul Garbanzo's neighbor at a show recently, and Paul told her the people at Muncaster spoke highly of me [faints from glee, slides under desk, gets lost among software boxes, clambers out covered in dust], and he gave her brochures from this year's Festival of Fools at Muncaster Castle, and asked her to pass them along to me. Who's on the front? I'll give you one, big, brocaded, shiny guess:

• Feeling nostalgic, I happened to be noodling around the world-wide interwebs, just having a look-see at what fools around the world are up to. And I found Joel Dickinson's linked to PhooleWorld, listing my little essay about him as a review! Go peek at his site!

The Prize: Mugging With the Master, Maynard Flip-Flap

Maynard said, "We've got to get our mouths together." I was over the moon!, originally uploaded by Phoole.

It was when I watched Maynard Flip-Flap's show that day that I experienced the first true terror of my expedition. Maynard's a variety performer of immense talent and brilliant subtle manipulation of audience. He won the 2006 Jester Tournament at Muncaster. His show was hysterical, and I hope I can take you to see him someday. His show is an assemblage of the sort of stunts that make you first ask, "Why would anyone want to do that?", and then ask, "Why would anyone want to do that So Very, Very Well?" He tried to hide in a very low hedge; he stuck a Hob-Nob on his forehead and then wriggled it down into his mouth; he balanced audience shoes on his nose; he clambered through a wire clothes hanger; he caught an egg in a colander attached to a helmet. He's hilarious and mildly disdainful and Just What One Wants in a funny man. I'm terrified of him. It's great. And he said, "We've got to get our mouths together," and this shot was born.

Jane's Ever-Present Entourage

Laffs with Maisy (in pink) and Joseph (in grey and black), originally uploaded by Phoole.

Every day that I appeared as Jane at Muncaster, I'd quickly acquire an entourage of children who just wanted to spend the day with me. The grounds for the Festival of Fools aren't small, but they're all fairly visible from everywhere, so parents seemed quite comfortable allowing their small ones to roam a bit and find their own fun. Maisy, I remember, was the girl in the pink jacket, and she wants to be a writer when she grows up. Joseph is in the grey and black jacket, and, if I recall correctly, he likes writing knock-knock jokes.

As ever, I would try to insinuate myself quietly at the back of a house for a show -- but my entourage would quickly make my presence known. Unlike many audiences at home, however, it was very easy at Muncaster to incorporate my Child Prodigy Crew into the audience for the particular stage act I wanted to see -- British children seem trained in how to be an audience. It really is remarkable and comfortable to be around.

Muncaster Cute Puppeh Overload

A few dogs were frightened of the gown, but most of them seemed to say, "Ah, Jane's here!" and run right over for pettings., originally uploaded by Phoole.

I am devoted to CuteOverload.com and their ever-renewing lexicon of cuteness terminology. I'm also besotted with dogs. I love dogs of all kinds, and the fact that about half of the people who attended Muncaster's Festival of Fools brought their dogs with them made me adore the patrons even more greatly.

A few dogs were frightened of the gown, but most of them seemed to say, "Ah, Jane's here!" and run right over for pettings.

Turnip Lady - Closer Look

She was approachable and vulnerable., originally uploaded by Phoole.

The Turnip Lady!

The Turnip Lady!, originally uploaded by Phoole.

The Turnip Lady at Muncaster was a simple, precious street character in the Grand Old Style of Doing Things the Ron Scot Fry way. Fry is the Artistic Director at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, and he was my first teacher and mentor for street performance. Ron's technique for doing street theatre is this:

Put on a costume, get a name, and go.

That's it! It works for him, and it works for some others. For others, different approaches are required. But that's not the point here. It worked for this sweet lady. I believe she's Muncaster's gardener's wife, and she wanted to be a part of the Festival of Fools and contribute to the ambiance, so she created this Turnip Lady character. She's a natural fool; her motley is humble and really adorable, down to the burlap cockscomb; and she's approachable, vulnerable and likeable, and she gives out not-quite-fresh turnips, and that's really all you need to make smiles happen.

At the Bristol Renaissance Faire, there's this bloke who's been a part of Friends of Faire forever, and I wish I could remember his real name right this very minute -- but he plays this brilliant turnip-farmer character, very simple, very much covered in clods of dirt, great props, extremely accessible. I tried for years to con him into joining the Street Cast at the show, but he prefers his time to be his own, and I respect that. But these two characters together would be Turnip Perfection.

My carriage arrived, but it was booked already.

My carriage arrived, but it was booked already., originally uploaded by Phoole.

My Friends of Phoole at home will easily appreciate this photo. I am always trying to get a ride in a stroller, carriage, pram, wagon, or whatever is wheeled and nearby. This precious British baby was more than happy to relinquish the ride to me...which ended up being par for the course there. Very Obliging Babies at Muncaster. It was truly refreshing to know that that particular gig was always going to work.

Bench! And chatting with Joel.

Chatting with Joel and his camera guy., originally uploaded by Phoole.

A friend of Joel's was video-ing his act that day, and he had a shirt on that said "Bench." on it. Here is the story of why that makes me laugh:

When I was five years old, my parents enrolled me in piano lessons at Herb Granquist's Imperial School of Music in Geneva, Illinois, where I grew up. I ended up having some small talent for piano, most of it being "faked" since I preferred to play by ear instead of absorbing all of that difficult theory nonsense, but nonetheless, I ended up being inserted into all of these young people's piano competitions around the county.

At one of them -- I must have been age seven or eight -- I was competing in a group that included a wider range of ages. As such, a wider range of sizes of children had to be accommodated at the piano, so there was an adjustable-height chair available for use by the toddlers, and an adjustable-height bench available for the taller kids. Each competitor was asked if they'd like to use the chair or the bench, and it was usual to be polite and say, "I'd like the chair, please," or "May I please use the bench?"

At one point, this tiny little boy, probably age 3, clambered up onto the stage to perform. And without waiting to be asked, he just straight-arm pointed and bellowed, in a surprisingly deep voice, "BENCH."

My brother Joe (4 years my senior) and I were seated in the house, and Joe exploded with laughter at this. "BENCH!" he howled, and I got caught up in it, and we laughed for about three hours.

This "BENCH!" became one of our Things We Said All the Time for the next twenty years, particularly when describing neanderthal-like people and their very basic-but-loud demands for things.

A few years back, I related this story to Tom (the outstanding specimen to whom I'm blissfully wedded), and it delighted him, so it became part of our parlance as well. And at the time, Tom was engaged as the airbrush makeup artist for the ensemble of faerie characters at the Bristol Renaissance Faire ("The Fantastickals"), and so as he airbrushed their brightly-hued skins onto them daily, he regaled them with the tale, and soon all of the faerie performers had added "BENCH!" to their piles of catchphrases as well.

Imagine our horror/delight when a browse of internet photos one day revealed a pic of some guy wearing a t-shirt that said, simply, "Bench." We howled with laughter. Why did it say that? Where could we get one? We later learned that "Bench." is a popular brand in the UK, the way Abercrombie and Fitch is over here, so a visit to a mall somewhere in the UK would surely reveal a gruesome concatenation of clothings covered in the word "Bench." Hooray!

So it was with great pleasure that I found Joel's videographer to be thus attired. I demanded the shirt of him on the instant, and he nearly gave me the thing; but it wasn't that warm of a day, so I relented and said he must keep it, and I'd acquire my own (which I later did). But Jenny and I could hardly stop giggling the entire time, periodically muttering "BENCH!" to each other under our breaths.

Joel Dickinson!

Joel, with accolades., originally uploaded by Phoole.

Becky Allen, one of our fantastic coordinators at Muncaster Castle, said, "You cannot miss Joel's show." She pronounced it "Jo-El," like "Kal-El" and "Jor-El" from Superman. Sadie (our other fantastic coordinator at the Castle) pronounced it the same way, so we did too. And Becks was right: See this rising star if you can. He's 13 years my junior, and he's already doing what I want to be doing for a living. He does fringe festivals and gigs at castles, and beyond his completely precious and hilarious stage act, he does walkaround work too, and does it just the way one wants it done -- he's approachable, identifiable, likeable, vulnerable, and the rest of the qualities Gary Izzo's crystalized as the formula for a solid street character. To see so much talent in one so young was formidable. To see so much cute in one so young was just further torment for Jenny and I -- and we both have incredible, adorable, amazing husbands, so that point just needs to be out there. We did, though, immediately develop performer crushes on Joel.

He used the Bacharach theme from the original CASINO ROYALE in his act, for one of the several hilarious patron-interactive moments...and you know what a victim I am of Bacharach. Dad, I know, I'm sorry, I know it pains you, but I love Burt Bacharach, the cheesier the better! So that theme will now always remind me of those days in Spring in England, seeing and meeting the very kind and funny Jo-El Dickinson.

Walking Around Talking to People

Meeting with some of my writers., originally uploaded by Phoole.

I have a tendency to file positive memories away under the tab of the One Negative Thing that transpired during any experience. I flamed out during the competition itself -- this will be verified by viewers of the forthcoming film. But the part of my Muncaster Castle adventure that involved Walking Around Talking to People as Jane the Phoole will forever be counted by me among my chiefest successes and joys. The People were Lovely to Talk With. I encountered no resistance, no shirking, no backing away. Everyone was open to encountering my offers, and even if my jokes were terrible -- and I promise they were! -- I got laughs and smiles from everyone I met.

"You're Jane the Phoole! We have jokes for you!"

Lovely British people coming to see Jane., originally uploaded by Phoole.

I've performed with the Bristol Renaissance Faire in Kenosha, WI since 1990, and I've portrayed Jane the Phoole at that show since 1994. I love the crowds at Bristol, and they're extremely kind to me, to the point that I've got something of a healthy following there.

My hordes of adoring fans notwithstanding, there's still a large percentage of the audience there and at other US events who don't "get" jesters or fools, or who don't have any notion of women having been Royal Fools. Some of these people skirt my distant social perimeter during early encounters (whether out of Fear of Clowns or just because, really, the visual impression I give is, frankly, disturbing, especially out of context, vis-a-vis the cleavage and the tea-cozy silhouette), or they challenge me directly, saying, "I've never heard of women being jesters. All women from the Renaissance were wenches, right?" And American kids are not to be approached directly for street theatre encounters -- doesn't work. I let American kids approach me when they've decided I'm harmless, or when their parents have told them, "It's okay, she works here."

I didn't know what to expect from UK families and kids meeting Jane the Phoole for the first time.

I certainly didn't expect the words I heard when I first stepped out of the coachhouse in farthingale, giant bumroll, gown and gigantic hat:

"You're Jane the Phoole! We have jokes for you!"

Three families with kids greeted me the moment I came downstairs, and the kids all had jokes. And I didn't have to say One Word. I didn't have to establish distance, safety, non-threatening physical attitudes, anything. All I had to do was show up.

It felt fantastic. Everywhere I went on the grounds, families Ran Up To Me, asking if it was all right if they could just have a word with me, and could they possibly share just one joke with me? Little girls told me they'd read about me in Elizabeth I's diary from when she was just a Princess. Little boys told me the same knock-knock joke about Doctor Who over and over, and I was delighted. Even tweenage girls, who in the States wouldn't be caught dead talking to a walkaround character, enthused about how great it was to meet a female Fool from Shakespeare's time. I enthused back about how great it was to meet smart, strong young women in trousers from the future.

It felt Too Good. It was so easy. And the rest of the day, I Walked Around Talking To People, and I'll tell you more about that next time.

Creeping Kate's Kitchens

Creeping Kate's Kitchens, where we ate delicious things!, originally uploaded by Phoole.

Muncaster Castle's stables are converted into an Extremely Precious Restaurant, where we ate breakfast every day. I realize that Many, if not All, Castles in the UK do this, and it's Old Hat to people who live there or who travel there frequently. But it's a novelty to me. Charmed, precious, adorable, and subdivided to allow for intrigues!

On the morning after our first Muncaster sleep (full of quiet gentle hootlings from the owlery beneath our window, which I will mention again, yes), we slogged down to the stable for breakfast and met some more fools. Maynard Flip-Flap (whose "real name" I have taken pains not to learn) and the Family Flip-Flap dined at that table just to the left there, and I was terrified to meet them, as Maynard was the 2006 reigning Fool of Muncaster Castle, and his Career is Impressive, and I know what it is to be Kept from Eating by the Stares of Well-Meaning Fans. So we just tucked in and tried to make toast and ate black pudding and so forth.

When we'd finished, Becky Allen introduced us to Family Flip-Flap, and I don't remember a thing about it, so I'm certain I must have arsed the encounter with some bungled attempt at cleverness and then wiped the event from my memory. Be consoled to know we became better acquainted later in the journey -- particularly Jane the Phoole and the youngest generation of Flip-Flaps. But Mrs. Flip-Flap was Perfectly Kind, and a Bold and Intelligent and Funny and Lovely Woman. And Maynard is an hilarious genius.

Tom's tree. Feel it.

Tom's tree. Feel it., originally uploaded by Phoole.

Tom Fool's Tree. Thomas Skelton, Fool to the Penningtons at the beginning of the 17th century, was fiercely devoted to the family, and was cruel. He'd sit under this tree, and you'd traipse by and ask, "How do you get into the castle?" and if he liked you, he'd show you the way in. But if he didn't like you, he'd send you to your death in the swampy marshes below.

I've been to the Vatican, and the sheer gigantic monstrous hugeness of the interior of the building shocked me and chilled me and made me have all kinds of ecstatic feelings (even though I don't believe in imaginary friends per se).

Seeing this tree trumped that. I suddenly got, in a very visceral and personal sense, that it's been really awfully important to be a fool. And that fools have done important things: protect their families, fight in battles, tell the truth. I had learned all of this from books, of course, but to be In the Place, Seeing the Things, sitting where they sat...it makes a difference.