PERSIA! PERSIA! PERSIA! Or: Jane the Phoole in an Exciting Adventure with the 300 Battle

By Steve Spitzer: A victory romp for Jane the Phoole, rabid Sir Thomas Radclyffe the Earl of Sussex (portrayed by Frank Skony), Gertrude the Bringer of Total Rampaging Death (portrayed by Sandra Howard), and silent assassin Lady Ann Seymour the Countess of Warwick (portrayed by Mary Hough).

What made me take up arms against a sea of Barbarians last Sunday? Was it the soul-cringe I've felt the past several months that life is short and should be enjoyed sans prohibition at all times? Was it the surprising and endless kindness of the Barbarians themselves (savage though they could seem)? Was it boiling frustration with the endless, pointless, ego-fertilizing Machiavellian machinations surrounding me in nearly every social sphere? Was it a burning need to smash people with stuff?

Regardless of the root of it, I woke up this past Sunday morning with a death wish. I hurtled through my morning with what my venerable college roommate Paul Herbert (a/k/a "PHB," which is short for "Paul Herbert's Butt") would call "Thanatos-Glam" or "Than-Glam," which is that feeling you get when you're on a subway platform, and you get very close to the dangerous precipice, and something in you says, "You could just tumble over." I don't know where the feeling came from, but there it was, pushing me to do even sillier things than I usually do.

I quickly understood that I wasn't the only person enthralled with Than-Glam that day -- everyone was up to strange heroics on Sunday. At the morning Joust of Skill (mind your speaker volume if you click - the music will terrify you if you aren't careful), a young man named Keith approached the dais with two wingmen, humbly asking if anyone ever proposed to their fiancées at the Joust. I assured him that it would be brilliant to do so, and it was, and his sweet Lady Heather nodded vigorous, joyously-tearful assent when the question came, eliciting thunderous cheers from the excited crowd:

Photo by the beautiful Satine Keala

Then Sir Maximillian and Master of Arms Sir Mauldron got up to a world of hijinks during the tournament itself. In one moment, Sir Maximillian (portrayed by longtime Phoole friend and brilliant leather mask artist, the legendary Matthew Mansour) rode slowly over toward the dais, made eye contact with me, and just started singing, "Did you ever know that you're my heeeeerooooo...", which naturally killed everyone on the dais with explosive guffaws. In another, Sir Maximillian and his mighty steed Kilvarough managed to sneak up on the Master of Arms; after nearly leaping out of his saddle in surprise, Sir Mauldron snapped, "Get away from me, or I'll stab you!" Again we all barked with mirth -- and the dais was jam-packed, by the way, full of beautiful people. And at some point the Quintain attacked Sir Wilfort and unhorsed him, which I confess I don't understand, and later his horse's caparison just flew away, which made even less sense! Wyckham Field was Bizzarro-Land Sunday morning, and it was a delightful time of Big Laffs.

Feeling strangely invincible, I remembered that Lady Warwick and I had planned to get ourselves some weapons and join Barbarian Battles for their 300 Battle that afternoon. So I drifted up the hill with Phooligan genius Ivan Phillips and Mistress of Misrule Magnolia May in tow, and I selected my weapon. As Ivan notes, it had a strange effect on me:

Photo by the brilliant Ivan Phillips. MBTC calls this "The Angry Hamster Face" and it is not often allowed at home.

Barbarian Battles are a company of merchant-adventurers at the Bristol Renaissance Faire and many other excellent venues around the world, and they deal in sheer, unadulterated adrenaline. They allow patrons to try out their less-harmful (not harmless, of course, if wielded dangerously and without caution, but useful in conscientious brandishment) daggers, swords, warhammers, spears, pikes, throwing stars, throwing daggers and more, and they offer these weapons for sale. All day, you can enjoy patrons and participants alike whacking one another silly with these things, and I'm here to tell you this: it's a joy to behold, and it's an even greater joy to join in!

At 4:30 p.m. every show day at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, Barbarian Battles organize what they call The 300 Battle, essentially a reenactment of the Battle of Thermopylae. (I haven't seen the movie, but from a glance at the trailer, it's exactly completely correct, albeit in full color.) Lady Warwick and I had made up our minds to join in Sunday's battle, and I'd Tweeted my intentions that morning, so we were committed to action. The day before, the too-kind Barbarians presented me with one of their excellent stout short swords, but I wanted to buy a gigantic two-hander sword, because in my tiny brain, it made sense to compensate for my little Tyrannosaurus-Rex-proportioned flipper arms with a monster sword. Of course that doesn't actually work, but it amused me at the time, and I had fun running around town brandishing the thing:

Photo of Jane on her way to attack Little John by Ivan Phillips

Jane the Barbarian with Maid Marian (Stephanie Murphy) and Little John (Heath Denikas) by Ivan Phillips

So I carried the frightening foam instrument of Phoolish destruction around with me all day. I ran off to show the thing to Ivanovich the Impossibilist and Dinty the Moor, and they agreed I was completely terrifying and warlike; and everyone we encountered approached with a measure more approbation than usual, which interested me.

Excitement about the battle sparked all over town! Phoole Friends working at the Front Gate reported patrons had been asking, "Where's the tiltyard? When is Jane the Phoole in the big fight? Are we here in time to see it go down?" Phooligans checked in from all quarters reporting they'd be in the stands cheering us on. And my very own barbarian horde, the Nation of Dark Cloud, surprised me with their reaction to my announcement about joining in the battle.

His Majesty King Zavier of Dark Cloud himself came forward and said, "Jane, we'll be your guards in the battle. Just tell us when and where."

I was really moved by this -- I got a little choked up. I mean, it's not every day you have a King of a Barbarian Horde declare not only his fealty to your cause but also offer to defend your silly hide in a massive war! I'm serious when I tell you that that was an intense little moment.

And the hours between flew by, as I toddled around the city waving this enormous sword around, daring patrons not to laugh at my awful, horrible jokes. Everyone was delightfully obliging. Then I collected King Zavier and his two Lieutenants, and we went back to Barbarian Battles for a briefing on the order of battle. Once the Battle Barbarians had instructed us, patiently and clearly, on how the battle would proceed (I was very excited about everything, so I had to ask them to explain things very simply and with a little repetition -- you know how I get), the Dark Cloud legion retired to their pavilion to prepare, and I descended the hill toward Bristol Castle to retrieve Lady Warwick.

Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Radclyffe the Earl of Sussex decided he wanted to fight too, and Lady Warwick invited Mistress Gertrude Bridgewater, Mistress of the Bedchamber in the Sussex household (formerly of the Norris household) to vent her frustrations in the fray as well, and Gertrude was beside herself in glee at the invitation. We happy four trudged back up the hill to make ready for the Battle of the 300.

The forest fairly vibrated with the energy of the fighters and their supporters preparing for battle. Phooligans clustered around us, some revving us up for the clash, some providing gentle well-intentioned warnings about what we were about to face. It occurred to us for the first time that we might well get the ever-living snot kicked out of us, and that we'd be running around on the sand at Wyckham Field, which was dusty, gritty, and, by the late afternoon, baked to a blinding glare. But a razor-fanged King Zavier and his tall, black-clad Lieutenants arrived and met the Noble Party, and said to us: "We'll look out for you. No one will touch you."

And as absurd as the whole situation may seem, in that moment, we were bathed in golden shining tingly protective reassurance. I thought, "I will never have this feeling again. I'd better savor it."

The Bristol Renaissance Faire's own Royal Brass came to blast fanfares for the battle, which humbled and awed me completely. I wish they had a website; I'd like to link to it and connect you to them. They really make the entire show, and Pete, Jim, Tom and Jennifer always make me feel like I'm in a Really Exciting Movie of Thrilling Moments of Pageantry when they play.

And then it was TIME. The Barbarian Battles barbarians led the martial procession down the hill to the tiltyard, beating their weapons against their shields, representing the Spartans; and the Persian team's barbarian Generals allowed the Phoole Party to lead their part of the march, chanting "PERSIA! PERSIA! PERSIA!" all the way. Swords aloft, marching and chanting, my heart began to pound, and I realized we were a part of something much larger than ourselves, much more ancient, much more powerful than I'd reckoned for as an afternoon's amusement. Gertrude was beside me, and I thought I heard her growl more than once, and I wondered if she would suddenly change into a slavering werewolf and devour the enemy, but I put that down to those novels I've been consuming lately. And I admit that I turned to Warwick and murmured, sotto voce, "I think maybe we might be about to die." We laughed, but I think we may all have wondered, just even only a little, if we'd survive.

Entering Wyckham Field, we were stunned and thrilled by the patrons packing the stands - and on the dais, Sir Robert Dudley the Earl of Leycestre presided, ready to provide color commentary during the battle. The dais was jammed full of the glitterati of the Elizabethan age -- Lord Mayor Egads Newcastle was in attendance, as was the young Christopher Marlowe, Her Majesty's Dwarf Thomasina, and a host of dazzling characters besides.

And then someone cried havoc, and we let slip the dogs of war!

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by Cara Strong

Photo by James Martin

Photo by Laura Kresch

Photo by Laura Kresch

I know "epic" is a word overworn, but it applies. EPIC BATTLE! And Gertrude was the fiercest among us, charging in again and again, wiping out, face-planting, getting back up, and returning to the front line. Warwick and I began delivering some strategy for the younger fighters -- we'd block for them with our ridiculous huge gowns, making holes for them to get through the Spartan defenses, if their sheer terror didn't stop them in their tracks, which it often did. Sussex clamored through the lines, limbs gangling everywhere - over the din, I heard Lord Leycester comment, "And now there seems to be an orangutan on the field -- no, sorry, that's just Lord Sussex." Dust and sand filled the air and ground our teeth. Battle cries soared, and swords thudded on shields and shoulders and backs. And throughout, little boys with big swords kept encouraging us: "Ladies, you're doing really well. Jane, you're doing a good job!" And that too was overwhelming.

And then the day was ours! Persia broke through the Spartan defense for the seventh time and seized the trophy helm, and the victory cry went up. Valiant soldiers returned loaner weapons to the indulgent Barbarian Battle horde, and the Barbarian Queen took Gertrude's sword from her hands with a kind of reverence that made our hearts swell with lung-burning pride. Later, Barbarian Battles and their fierce-but-kind Queen would honor our Gertrude with a gift of a sword for her to keep, and I think each of us, we few, we happy four, we band of usually-merely-decorative Nobles on Progress, shed a tear of proud joy for Gertrude, our surprise Berserker protectress.

None of us will ever forget that day, that march, those cries, the frenzied fray, and if you've never tried Barbarian Battles or engaged in the 300, I hope this little tale inspires you to heft some of their swords and give them a swing. There's something in the experience that defies description, and you and your fellow-fighters will share a bond thereafter that's unlikely to be forged in any less fiery a furnace than the sizzling sands of Wyckham field!

Jane the Phoole is a Certified Kilt Inspector!

Jane the Phoole is a Certified Kilt Inspector, originally uploaded by Phoole.

I don't yet know what duties come with this title, but I look forward to finding out! Cheers to enthusiastic Phooligans Clay and Randi Stiller for the honor!

The Bristol Renaissance Faire's Guilde of St. Lawrence Babysits A REAL DUCK

(Photo by Phoole Fave and Super-Genius Ivan Phillips.)

All the best people I know have been receiving discouraging news lately, and we've all been feeling a bit run down by the oppressive heat and humidity, and by oppressive oppressors. So I thought I would just mention that if you visit the Dirty Duck Inn at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, of which the Guilde of St. Lawrence are proprietors, and you do so in the late afternoon, you may encounter AN ACTUAL DUCK.

Last Saturday, in my guise as Jane the Phoole, well-dressed blurter of idiocies and occasional wisdoms, I was tooling around in the wake of some powerful Counties: the Earl of Leycester and the Countesses of Sussex and Warwick were there, and a servant of the Sussex household colloquially known as "Pie Boy" because he is content to be paid for his services in pies; and I'm too addled to recall who else was in the company, but there we were, idly sauntering to the North end of the city close to day's end.

We were hard by the Inn, and the Earl said, "Let's go frighten the lower classes -- they never get to see us up close." This sounded fun, so we breached the innyard and caused a conflagration of shocked and terrified bows and curtsies and other abasings, which, I can tell you, always warms the cockles.

And then, out from under a countertop, a white duck slapped his way out onto the cobbles directly in front of our little raiding party. He had bright orange webbed feet and a little Doc-Emmett-Brown tuft of feathers puffing out the back of his head, as if his little duck brain had exploded, and he tilted his head around, exactly as if animated by Nick Park, quizzically assessing all of us as we guffawed in surprise.

"Where is the innkeeper?!" thundered the Earl, and Master Peter Cabot leapt handily over a table and presented himself in a sweeping reverance (I seem to recall -- though of course in my memory now, the whole episode has turned into a Very Exciting Short Film with dramatic music and tight edits and heightened drama, so it's possible that didn't actually happen).

"How, fellow, didst thou come by this duck?" asked the flustered Earl. (Small animals and large birds of all kinds are a tremendous laff-riot novelty with the visiting nobility on Progress at Bristol, you may have gathered by now.)

And calmly as anything, Master Cabot replied, quietly, "Why, my Lord Earl, God hath provided us with this duck."

And for some reason, that struck us all as the Funniest Thing Anyone Ever Said Ever, and we fell about laughing, the duck surveying us with mute wonderment the while.

After I have pretended to be a functioning adult in modern society for a while longer, I will have more amusing little anecdotes with which to distract you, but I hope you have enjoyed this duck tale in the meantime.

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 Review LIVE! Bristol Renaissance Faire's Friends of Faire Garden 7/25 2-4pm

Photo by Tom Charney

This coming Sunday, July 25, 2010, from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m., I'll be talking about my most recent journey to Muncaster Castle to the assembled beloved crazies at the Bristol Renaissance Faire's Friends of Faire Garden!

If you're not a member of Friends of Faire, a scant $5 gets you a single-weekend membership -- email Dayna Thomas at nlraf_unilady@yahoo.com for more details. While many of our adventures will be posted here on the Phoole Wor(l)d blague, there's at least one anecdote that can only be related in person, so you'll want to get there and hear it straight from the Phoole's mouth!

Open Wide the Gates! Weekend 1, Bristol Renaissance Faire 2010

Brilliant snappery by Brent Price II; find more heart-expanding work by this fine Phooligan at http://www.stunninglight.com/

I've only just fully recovered from Opening Weekend at the Bristol Renaissance Faire - and it's a good thing, too, because tomorrow's Weekend 2! Her Majesty's Progress in Bristol is full of international intrigue, romance, derring-do, devoted and adored mad Phooligans a-plenty, a joust by Phoole Faves the Hanlon-Lees that will blow your mind with everything from horror to hilarity, and -- yes! -- PORPENTINES. Here are some more of the magic moments:

Photo by Larry Maka

Photo by Kayoz Swicago, with more amazing work at http://yourphotoworld.com/

Photo by Deniiiiiiise Prohaska! I am not actually drunk in this picture, although over on the FaceBook, T. Stacy Hicks captioned this one as "Drunk, Drunker, Drunkest." With Jenni Glueckstein as Magnolia May and Richard Weber as Lord Mayor Egads Newcastle.

Another precious moment from Denise Prohaska. T. Stacy Hicks captioned this one: "She has no idea where she is right now."

Photo by James Tampa. These pirates needed to keep their identities a secret, and I happened to have a package of false moustaches, which I had just received as a gift from indulgent and generous Phooligans Clay and Randi Stiller. These moustaches shall be mentioned again later.

Joy Blast! Photo by James Tampa. Gabriel, the tiny fool on the right, blasts people with joy! I recommend it!

Phooligan Photo-Taker Extraordinaire Ivan Phillips captured many little moments with a lens of magnificence this past Sunday, and I hope you enjoy these little glimpses. The glamor? He captures it. Let me show you it. The following several moments transpired during an encounter with Sir Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leycestre, Her Majesty's Master of Horse -- and one of Her Grace's other best friends. T. Stacy Hicks and I portray Leycestre and Jane as friends who have faced a great deal together, and Phooligans enjoy the pauses from intrigue which punctuate our adventures:

Photo by Ivan Phillips

T. Stacy Hicks as Sir Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leycestre, Master of Her Majesty's Horse; photo by Ivan Phillips

Photo by Ivan Phillips

Photo by Ivan Phillips, composition and framing once again by Caravaggio, I think

Photo by Ivan Phillips, and doesn't this look like a movie still? Somebody get us a movie.

Photo by Ivan Phillips: "The Monkey List!"

Photo by Ivan Phillips, with Jenni Glueckstein as Magnolia May, Bristol's Mistress of Misrule

And now: PORPENTINES. Porkchop the Porpentine's adventures from last year are chronicled here. But Porkchop's not the only porpentine on the block now, for he has a new baby sister. And her name is:

BEANS!

Photo by Denise Prohaska. Here Beans snuzzles Magnolia May's fingers, making us all wonder if chompage would shortly ensue.

Beans was born on April 1, 2010. She's an April Fool's Porpentine Baby!

Photo by Denise Prohaska. You cannot handle this much cuteness. No one can. Just fall down.

Photo by Denise Prohaska. Can you stand it? You can't!

Photo by Denise Prohaska. Here, Porkchop gleefully devours Lord Mayor Egads Newcastle's deleeeeecious fan.

Photo by Denise Prohaska. There's nothing in the world that can't be improved by letting a baby porpentine clamber up your cleavage!

Photo by Denise Prohaska. Here, Porkchop begins his ascent of the Lord Mayor. Brent Price II was on hand as well, and here is a series of pictures he took of the rest of Porkchop's Adventure On Top of the Lord Mayor's Head. Click and enjoy!

The Bristol Renaissance Faire Opens Saturday 7/10/2010!

I am PURE FUN! So is the Bristol Renaissance Faire, opening this weekend in Kenosha, WI and running every Saturday and Sunday through Labor Day, including Labor Day Monday (that's 6 September for my UK Phooligans), rain or shine!

I get to have a line during the Opening of the Gates Ceremony - be there early (my guess is 9:45 a.m. would be a great time to jostle for a listening position) or you'll miss it!

Every Faire day at 11:00 a.m., they're letting me be the Mistress of Ceremonies for the Joust of Skill at Wyckham Field -- DESPITE the things I've done in the past! Or, perhaps, because of them...?

And at the Globe Stage just before 1:00 p.m., His Highness Prince Hercules Francois, duc d'Anjou et Alencon, or the Prince of France for short, and the Lord Mayor (I think! I hope!) and I will be goofing it up with the crowds in anticipation of Her Majesty's arrival. Who'll be the lucky lady selected for double-barrel wooing on the Queen's behalf? Stunt double call is at the Globe Stage just before 1:oo p.m.!

Phoole's Pilgrimage, Part 5: The Festival of Fools Begins!

Photos by Tom Charney - An unstable girl in a stable yard

(This chapter continues the tale from where I left off here. Click here to get all of the chapters in the story so far.)

Bright sunshine and deep blue skies awoke us Sunday morning. We crept down to Creeping Kate's Kitchens for breakfast. Like all good castles, Muncaster has converted their stables to an eatery, with some of the stall partitions still standing to divide the dining room into cozy little nooks. At breakfast, we both ate cereal with milk, which we cannot do at home -- there's something about American milk that makes both Tom and I quite ill! But UK milk has no adverse effect on us whatever. It's the little things.

On our way back up to our room in the Coachman's Quarters, I had a little reunion with the thoroughly-upstanding Joel Dickinson and the excellent Iain McNicol (who doesn't have a webpage, as far as I can tell, but why not nip over to the FaceBook and ask to be his friend?), who would also be performing throughout the entire Festival. Joel was there to do his gently-brilliant interactive walkaround juggling, tricks and magic gig, having added some delightful sleight-of-hand since we last played together in 2007, and running Circus Workshops for the patrons at intervals throughout the day in the big marquee tent on the stable-yard lawn. And Iain coordinated the other walkarounds and contributed his own very funny performance as his rustic local farmer character, complete with bunny puppet. I felt a bit of an idiot not recognizing Iain right away when we encountered him that morning -- the last time I'd seen him, we'd both been in biggins-caps, the wearing of which impairs my memory greatly. But it was great to see them again. It was yet another little confirmation that I hadn't just dreamed my first trip; it had actually happened, and there are extant witnesses.

I took a moment to freak out over the fantastic poster of me hanging in the stable yard on the front of the gift shop. Thanks to Muncaster's PR Guru, I am even more super-unbelievably-internationally-famous than ever. And the PR Guru's name? Quite coincidentally, it is Steve Bishop. Phooligans and Phoole Friends who have been with me through my entire career will remember a different Stephen Bishop, who used to be the Bristol Renaissance Faire's head costumer, and who used to portray the Russian Ambassador to Elizabeth's Court. He had hilarious eating habits, it will be remembered. Muncaster's Steve Bishop has a diametrically-opposed temperament to the Russian Ambassador of yore; he's rather reserved and quiet, and it's very funny to Tom and I that such different people have the same name.

And then we were out with the guests! I'm completely spoiled for UK audiences: at the very least, patrons at Muncaster humor Jane the Phoole, responding to assumptions with assumptions of their own, and it makes me work to keep up with their clever inventiveness. Very rarely do UK patrons refuse interaction -- small children may be shy at a first encounter with my very-overdressed character, but every grownup we met was ready to incorporate me into their world, with handy comebacks at every turn. I enthused wildly about the temperament of Muncaster guests here on my last voyage, and the 2010 Festival of Fools guests didn't disappoint!

We enjoyed a hilarious act by Jason the Juggling Jester, who had been one of the competitors in 2007 (when I made my own feeble attempt). His show has really grown. It's extremely funny, has lots of hilarious audience-interaction moments, and I wish I had a website for him to tag with little videos all over it, just to share it with you -- we genuinely dug his show, and I hope he's there the next time we're there. His act is tight timewise, and his running gags are endearing, slightly dangerous, and very fun!

Meanwhile, this was Tom's first visit to Muncaster, and the sights filled his eyes and heart with wonder, as they always do mine. Here are some vistas, courtesy the camera of MBTC:

Our window, and the blue sky that greeted us Sunday morning.

The Nose Bag, a little snack shop in the Stable Yard.

Ancient Stable Yard wall.

Coachmen's Quarters.

Skylights and chimney-stacks over Creeping Kate's Kitchens.

Another view out another window in our room.

The road separating the Owlery (left) from the Coachmen's Quarters (right). Our rooms were up on top; our windows were the four furthest on top.

A pond, home to ducks and a few geese.

Can you even stand it? I can't. Makes the heart skip a beat every time.

It just looks like that. Really. But more so.

In the left foreground, you can see just an edge of the glorious ancient rhododendron plant that's over 150 years old. It's huge and beautiful.

The clock on the castle works properly and marks the hours with a clear chime. Back home, Tom and I rely on our mobile phones (and his nifty TokyoFlash watches) to tell us the time, but we could barely get any mobile signal at the castle, and Tom was Fasso Latido most of the trip, so we came to rely on the castle bells for the hours, especially as the position of the sun was completely unreliable as a time-telling tool, since the sun stays up in the sky much longer there than it does in the Midwest US. The "magic hour" photographers crave at dusk lasts much longer than an hour in Cumbria. The chiming of the clock was just another one of those covetous, authentic little history-glimpses for which we live.

We met a variety of hilarious guests that day, including a rowdy table of holidaymakers who pointed to one of their number and said, "Oi! He's a knight, you know. Knighted yesterday. No, honestly he was!" I turned to the fellow they'd indicated, and he confirmed, "Yep, I'm Sir Mike now."

I had to laugh, because back home, I get that a lot! US audiences are fascinated with obvious class-based social systems. US society spends so much effort pretending to be egalitarian; when US audiences get a chance to goof off, they like to openly acknowledge the class systems they secretly covet. So when patrons back home announce themselves as royalty or nobility, I take it in stride, and I often beat them to it by making up outrageous titles and new names. I think I learned this particular habit from T. Stacy Hicks, when I found him naming audience women "Lady Iphigenia Throgbottom" and so on. "Rumbleseat" is another favorite surname of his. I've stolen that gag, haven't I? Well, I will give him some of my gags in return when we next convene, and maybe we can call it even.

But it was odd to encounter UK patrons naming themselves with glamorous titles. "Sir Mike?" I giggled. "Please can't I call you 'Sir Michael,' just so it sounds more proper? It's a bit like calling you 'Sir Jeff' or 'Sir Steve.' It just doesn't flow somehow." Fasso and Jane had fun goofing with that whole group -- they were lively and silly and kept us entertained too.

As the crowd began to thin toward three o'clock, we wandered back to the castle proper, where we accepted the little audio-tour hand-transmitter thingies and made our way through the hallowed halls of the beautiful old place. I took my own Tom Fool to see the famous panel painting of Thomas Skelton, fool to the Penningtons in the late 16th century and early 17th century, the Fool who inspired the Festival.

On the stairs up to Tom Fool's painting, we were alarmed to find three genuine Canova relief panels which I'd somehow missed during my last visit -- I've now been in the presence of actual Canova sculptures in five different countries, including the Vatican. We discovered a portrait of Dame Askew upstairs, dated "1574" right on the painting, which made us hyperventilate a bit, because, as we like to say at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, we've been doing "1574 since 1989." (Learn all about the Pennington family history here.) And in the Tapestry Room, we had little heart attacks upon scrutinizing the fireplace, discovering the date "1588" inscribed in the back panels, with maritime-themed andirons and decorations. Despite the fact that one of Tom's characters, Sir Ralph Sadleir, died in 1588, that year makes the heart leap for us Elizabethan enthusiasts, being the year of the defeat of the Armada.

While we were having our minds blown by the fireplace, a patron scooted past the doorway to the room, stopped, came back and did a big double-take. We turned around to grin at him with the little audio-tour gadgets in our hands, and he laughed in surprise. "I thought you were waxworks!" he said. "You look perfect in this room, you know?" And we did.

We took in as much of the castle as we could, and when we realized we were the only non-Penningtons left in the building, we grudgingly trudged toward the door. But we spent a few delightful minutes chatting with Phyllida Pennington and Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington (I like including their surnames because I love all of the hyphens. I have a hyphen in my first name, and I just giggle over any hyphenated names, especially surnames with more than one hyphen). Phyllida, alarmingly, had been working the door at the castle. She is young at heart, to be certain, but of advanced years, and it was sobering to realize that, as much privilege as the family enjoyed in prior centuries and generations, now the castle's maintenance is a great deal of hard work, and the entire family is devoted to the estate's intense upkeep and elaborate events. Patrick loves the gardens wholeheartedly, and those gardens are a lot to love, especially as the entire vasty estate exceeds eighty acres and includes hundreds of diverse species. And Phyllida dons her kirtle, wimple and veil and acts the part charmingly as she welcomes guests to tour the halls. Tom and I admire them intensely, and it was humbling and invigorating to be able to chat with them, however briefly. We didn't want to make their day any longer than it needed to be, though, so we excused ourselves after a bit and went to enjoy the waning sun on the cannon bank.

Here I'm taking in the sight of the gigantic rhododendron I've mentioned above. The thing is epic in scale! And when one's wearing 20 yards of upholstery fabric, one wants to sit on as many low stone walls as possible. It's just what's done.

We toddled back toward the stable-yard lawn to see what stragglers were left after the day's entertainments, and we were delighted to find that most of the patrons we'd seen all day were still there, lazing about on the lawn, practicing circus tricks they'd learned from Joel's workshops during the day, and drinking a last pint while listening to the big sound of the Holborn Hill Royal Brass Band, which we greatly enjoyed. Sadie commanded us to have pints, so, knowing her to be quite fierce, we obeyed quickly, and basked in marches and overtures by the marquee while chatting with Sadie and Stuart, a production manager at the castle who loves gorillas. We talked monkey and gorilla behavior extensively, and it was one of those perfect times you remember for the rest of your life: brass band, Tom Fool Ale from the Jennings Brewery, marquee, lawn, happy people, and talk of all kinds of monkeys and apes.

During the happiness, though, we realized we'd forgotten to eat supper, and we'd also failed to ask the kitchens to send plates up to our room for us. So once we dragged ourselves back to the Coachman's Quarters to change (and wash the glue out of my hair, as mentioned in my 2007 tale here), we decided to try to walk into Ravenglass to get a bite at the Ratty Arms.

While the walk was scenic and beautiful and perfect, it was also long -- it took us an hour to climb the hills and descend the valleys along the narrow road, dodging fast cars on unaccustomed sides of the road (it was only our second day abroad), and by the time we made the Arms, the kitchen there had closed as well. So we resigned ourselves to -- more pints! And a packet of crisps. We took our meager supper out on the deck by the La'al Ratty narrow-gauge railway.

After a short while, a woman came out of the Arms, chatting on her phone, and presently we recognized her as having been part of the "Sir Mike" party earlier that day! We wondered if she would recognize us "out of drag." I caught her eye at one point and smiled, and asked her, "Did you enjoy the Castle today?" She looked puzzled for a fraction of a second; then realization popped her eyes wide, and she hung up on her call, saying, "I've gotta go - there are entertainers from the Castle here!" and she promptly sat down with us, grinning madly.

She looked Tom in the eyes and commanded, "All right. Talk to me. In your voice." Tom carried on with his Fasso-standard Chico Marx impression, and she shook her head broadly. "No no, I want to hear how you sound. What do you really talk like?" Tom smiled and said, in his best John Lennon voice, "Should I pretend to be from Liverpool?" She looked grave and admonished, "Oh no. Don't do that. No. You shouldn't. Come on!" And we gave in and talked like Americans from Milwaukee, introducing ourselves in real life. Her name's Mo, and she's married to Sir Mike!

I had to know why everyone in their party was insisting he was called "Sir Mike," and she told us a Most Surprising Tale of Heroism and Gallantry!

Mo and Mike live on Piel Island, which has a fascinating history, and, curiously, has its own King. Not surprisingly, the ancient and scenic island welcomes many tourists, and it happened that on that Monday, a vicar from somewhere else in the UK had been visiting Piel Island. The vicar had had some kind of accident and had fallen into the water, and he would have drowned if Mike hadn't leapt into the foam and SAVED HIS LIFE. For real. And the King of Piel Island had knighted Mike, making him Sir Mike, a Knight of Piel Island.

I immediately felt like a Giant Jerk for having made fun of Sir Mike before, and I said so. "No, he enjoyed you immensely!" Mo reassured me. But I asked Mo to convey to Sir Mike my admiration and assure him that, had I not assumed him to be like the faux-knights of home, I would have deferred to him much more mightily! We chatted on with Mo for a good bit more, and she told us all about the Furness Peninsula and Barrow and the charming and relaxing sights to see and things to do there. On our next trip, we really must include a day or two visiting the area. Mo said, "Just mention Mo and Mike when you're there; everyone knows us." I felt certain that was true.

And then she returned to her party, grinning, and we realized we'd had several pints and not a lot to eat -- and that the walk home was going to be long and silly! And it was. As we tottered back toward the road, a black cat appeared out of nowhere (black cats are good luck in British superstition, I'm told) and ran up to Tom directly, as if saying, "Oh, Tom's here! There you are, Tom!" He has that power over most animals; it's as if he's known throughout the Jungian unconscious of all critters, and they're really excited when they get to meet him in real life. We saw another cat further down the road, as we struggled up the farmland hills near Muncaster, but that cat was firmly feral, regarding us for the briefest of moments, just registering Tom's presence for a second, then lunging back into the tall grass, hunting a vole or some other little running furry thing.

We got back to our comfortable room and collapsed, and that was our first day at the Festival of Fools! In the next chapter, we'll meet a Dog Called Smiley, get mistaken for the King and Queen of Muncaster, and have even more silly adventures. Click back often!