Pow! Mayor and Phoole Collide With Your Face at High Speeds!

Amazing photo by Steven Townshend

Richard Weber, as Bristol's Lord Mayor Egads Newcastle, is one of the most amazing people ever.  This photo, much like this one, conveys what it's like to play in the street with him. ALSO: he is very beautiful, both from a distance AND up close - a difficult feat for most, but he makes it look easy!  I didn't actually chomp his face after this instant.  Not that I recall, anyway!  Cheers again to Steven Townshend for the fab snappery!

Jane the Phoole Gives a Terribly Impressive Talk: American Association of University Women, Milwaukee, Nov. 6, 2010!

Come hear Jane the Phoole discourse on her most favorite subject in the world besides bad monkeys - Jane the Phoole - at the November meeting of the American Association of University Women's Milwaukee Branch!

When?  Saturday, November 6, 2010.  My talk begins at 1:00 p.m., and it will be followed by Questions and Answers!

• If you like the really inspiring things the AAUW does and are considering joining the organization (visit their website here for more information), contact the branch's Secretary, Kathe Bogdan (click here to email her, or call 414-276-6820) to inquire about attending the pre-talk social from 11:30 a.m. to 12:15 p.m.
• If you'd like to join Jane the Phoole and the Milwaukee branch of the AAUW for a luncheon before the talk, contact Kathe (see the previous paragraph) to make a luncheon reservation.  Luncheon is from 12:15 p.m. to 1:00 p.m., and the cost is $15.00 per person, which will be collected at the door.

Where?  The Astor Hotel, 924 East Juneau Avenue, Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53202.  The luncheon and the talk will be held in one of the two large banquet rooms on the main floor; on the day of the event, signs will guide you to the room.

How Much?  The luncheon is $15 - reservations are required (see above).  There is no admission charge for the talk!

Wherever Shall I Park? Use the parking for the Astor Hotel.  It's gated; you push the button and say, "I'm with AAUW, Apt. 202," and they let you in.  There's no fee for parking.

I owe many thanks to Phoole Friend Julie Ferris for arranging this magnificent display of effusion -- she's the chapter's Foundations Chair VP of Programming and President Elect, among the many amazing things she does.  Cheers, Julie!

I'm looking forward to this immensely - it'll be a treat to talk about Jane the Phoole in a slightly-less-distracting environment, and I'll be discussing facets of being a female Elizabethan royal fool that are extremely interesting to me and, I hope, highly amusing to you!

Stronghold Olde English Faire! Oct. 2 & 3 2010, Oregon, Illinois

Join me, Jane the Phoole, at the Stronghold Olde English Faire this coming weekend!  Click here for every li'l detail about this delightful event at the scenic Stronghold Castle.  Phoole Friend Odorferious Thunderbottom will be there selling ThunderPickles (he's a Privy-Keeper, and here's his eye-searing Privy Council site), and there will be droves of other fun frolickers besides, including Phoole Faves the Guild of St. George and the deranged Anne Sommerset, Lady Percy, the Countess of Northumberland in her first visit to the Burleigh household -- brawling imminent!  On the subject of brawling, Phoole Skoolmaster Bob Charron of St. Martin's Academy of Medieval Arms will may possibly join Phoole Faves the Guild of St. Michael for demonstrations of the principles of Fior dei Liberi's Il Fior di Battaglia, and in any case, the Trayn'd Bands always deliver action-packed fun!  Phoole Faves the Ogham Duo are among the many excellent music acts.  And there are many more treats besides.  It's one weekend only, so hie thee thither with all speed!

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!

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!

Bellissima Mama Zini

ND131 863, originally uploaded by A J Stevens.

I'm no good at writing about serious things.

Frieda Paras-Jones passed away yesterday.

In addition to being a couture genius, a design wizard, a fabric-shopping Genie of terrifying power, and a not-to-be-withstood force for truth and good in any project she worked on, she was a pioneer in creating the art form that is now my career: Looking Amazing while Walking Around Talking to People. Not content to simply make, design and oversee the most amazing clothes, she created and guided brilliant characters, playing incredible ones herself, like the irrepressible perfect hilarious Mama Zini, Italian mother to 47 bambini, all born in the same year. Poor Mama!

T. Stacy Hicks, another of my mentors and former Guildemaster of the Bristol Renaissance Faire's Guilde of St. George, wrote this about Frieda:

"It is with the heaviest heart I have ever felt that I send out this news. Yesterday afternoon Frieda Parras-Jones passed away quite suddenly. Most of us know she and her husband Guy from their business at BRF where they operate under Muscovy Trading Company. Some of us remember her as Mama Zini and a select few of us remember her as Mary, Lady Sidney. None of you will ever understand the impact that Frieda had on the Guilde of St. George at BRF but suffice to say that the standards she set decades ago are among the founding principles of our group; so much of what we do, wear, and are that is so commonplace it passes as understood and daily routine in our Guilde is a direct reflection of the work and practices she helped form in the early days of the court in California.

"Plans and arrangements have not been set. When I spoke with Guy this evening he wanted everyone in Wisconsin to know that she was completely at ease and in no pain. I spoke with Frieda this afternoon, just in our routine of checking in with each other, and she was her usual brassy, happy, dishy, bitchy self. Thank you all for understanding that Guy would like some privacy at this time, but he's still making plans to be here this summer."

And Andrew Elkins, General Manager of RPFS, writes this:

"Below please find the official announcement on behalf of the Renaissance Pleasure Faire and Guy Jones on the passing of Frieda Paras-Jones.

"It is with great sadness and loss that the Renaissance Pleasure Faire must announce the sudden and tragic passing of Frieda Paras-Jones, Costume Designer, loving wife, dear friend and long-time member of our Faire family. She passed away peacefully late yesterday afternoon after lying down for a nap. Her influence and vision for the Faire was second-to-none and will be whole-heartedly missed. Guy, Frieda’s husband, has expressed his gratitude in the support offered. At this time, he is focusing on the necessary arrangements. There will be a private service for family only, but there will be a memorial service at the Northern California Faire this fall and we will certainly have a memorial at the 2011 Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Guy has asked that during this difficult period that he not receive any phone calls or flowers. Please wait until he contacts you or reaches out through a message from us. At this time, all the family has been notified. You are now invited to express publicly on Facebook or other forums your feelings of loss and memories of this wonderful, beautiful, creative woman who we dearly loved.

"ON A PERSONAL NOTE: Nothing can express the pain and hole in my chest at the loss of Frieda. She was my friend, co-worker and someone I held in high-esteem and with great love in my heart. Her passing is a great loss to Guy, the Faire, our community and personally. She was at the top her game. We were working on many exciting projects for the faire in the near and upcoming future. She had a hand in all of them. She would tell me that the show must go on and it will, but everything I do will be influenced by her incredible vision and creativity and I do it in her memory. All she ever wanted was for us to be at our best, but she was the best of us. I will miss her terribly."

She was the best of us -- that is beautifully said. I miss her so much already.

Many thanks to A. J. Stevens for the kind permission to use the brilliant shot above of Frieda Paras-Jones as Mama Zini, horsing around with Her Majesty's Master of the Horse, Sir Robert Dudley (played by T. Stacy Hicks) at Renaissance Entertainment Productions' Renaissance Pleasure Faire South last Spring.

Phoole's Pilgrimage, Part 4: Sadie, a Snail, and the Room of Requirement

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

It never really occurred to us before, but in getting to know Muncaster's Events Coordinator, Sadie, a bit better on this trip, we realized that Sadie is the UK version of our friend Mary. Exhibit A:

This is a picture I took of Sadie (using my Palm Pre), near Sca Fell. It looks like a lot of pictures of Mary anywhere, except that Mary will occasionally allow her picture to be taken, as long as she's got her tongue stuck out at the camera.

The similarities between Sades and Maaaary (as we call her) don't end there. Either of them could have subbed in for Jack Palance in City Slickers. Either of them could also reenact any of Calamity Jane's Pony Express rides. They are, in a word, tough! We should be glad they're on our side, and that they've got healthy senses of humor.

Tom and I are both Anglophiles, and of the two of us, I'm possibly the bigger Gigantic Geek for All Things British. I was raised on BBC TV and radio, comedy and drama, and a steady diet of Wodehouse, Wilde, Tolkien, Douglas Adams and Stephen Fry from a very young age, and the default setting in my brain has always been, "If it's funny, clever, cultured and articulate, chances are it's British."

So, in getting to know Sadie better, it was so strange to hear her extol the virtues of American things! We were driving into a caravan park to drop off brochures to attract visitors to the Festival, and we laughed at how many campers had satellite-TV dishes hanging off of their tents and caravans, whereat Sadie revealed she'd lived in some pretty rough places, herding cattle on the Great Plains. She's lived and worked on cattle ranches across North America (you can learn more about the ranch she worked on in Montana here); she misses Hershey bars; she loves True Blood; she grew up watching The Dukes of Hazzard, and when we showed her photos of Tom and his best friends clambering into the General Lee, she flipped. While I often daydream about just upping and moving permanently to the isles where my motley make so much more sense, she's practicing with the bullwhip she got while driving cattle in Australia and learning deep South slang. She's a real cowgirl who's had crazy adventures all over the world, and after that conversation, we frequently joked about just trading places with her -- sending her back to the States to rope and ride, and moving in with her folks and her dogs and doing her jobs in the UK for her.

Another thing she has in common with Maaaary is this: she has two dogs, of the same breed, one of which is calm, the other of which is completely, utterly koo-koo. But we'll meet her hilarious puppehs in a later chapter.

So after devouring a thoroughly wonderful meal at the Brook House Inn (in Eskdale, quite close to the tiny town of Boot, which became important a few days later in our trip), Sadie took us to see more fells and deep lakes and verdant rolling sheep-covered hills. In honor of our friend Rico, Tom found a good rock to throw out into the lake:

And we saw this huge snail, which was curious to us, because back home, the snails are tiny:

And then Sadie took us back to Muncaster, to settle in for the first good night's sleep since leaving the US. We didn't, though, because the sun-staying-up-nearly-all-night thing is a huge novelty when you first arrive, and we weren't sleepy enough yet. We went for a little stroll around -- I had to show Tom the cannon bank, the brain-melting vistas, and Tom Fool's Tree, for starters.

When we'd wandered around to the lawn side of the Castle, where the Kingdom of Fools' stage gets set up, we found Peter Frost-Pennington and his son Ewan grappling with a tent, preparing for the arrival of Maximus, a Roman Soldier who'd be there during the Festival of Fools, recruiting and training young soldiers and gladiators. (We learned a great deal more about the Roman history of the area a few days later.) We helped get the tent put up, and it was delightful to pass a bit of time with Peter and Ewan. They're hilarious, much funnier than we are, not that it's a race, but there it is. And then Peter said, "Have you ever visited this room? I don't think you have."

And there he indicated a door we'd never really noticed before, probably because it's as old and beautiful as the rest of the castle, and it blended into the rusticated stone and vines. And Peter showed us the room behind the giant old door. It was definitely J. K. Rowling's Room of Requirement, containing wonders. You're going to have to trust me on this one -- we didn't feel like we should photograph anything there. But Antiques Roadshow could spend a two-week special on this room, and we felt humbled and really pretty giddy that we got to have a look.

When the sun finally started to actually set, we knew we'd be doomed if we didn't rest up for opening day of the Festival, so we bid our hosts goodnight and climbed up to the Coachman's Quarters, prepped costumes and props for the next day, fell into our incredibly comfortable beds, and passed out. (If you click here and then select the Virtual Tour of the "double room [disabled access]," you can see the actual room we stayed in.)

In Part 5, the Festival of Fools begins!

OWLS!

The World Owl Trust is headquartered at Muncaster Castle, and they are fantastically wonderful people. And owls. SO MANY OWLS! When you visit the Castle, visit the owls. You can adopt an owl for a really amazingly low fee, see a wide variety of species, and even get your picture made. How could we resist? WE COULD NOT. So here are two very nice pictures of Fasso Latido and Jane the Phoole with owls:

But of course I love I Can Haz Cheezburger?, so I couldn't resist making these very nice pictures (taken and very kindly shared by Trystan Williams) into LOLz:

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!

The New Motley! By Steve Spitzer

Phooligan Steve Spitzer rewards his friends with brilliantly-detailed memories via his camera, and I'm so grateful! Enjoy. Many more shots from the Janesville Renaissance Faire are at Steve's Facebook here.

Jane the Phoole Loves C2E2!

I had a fantastic time at the Chicago Comic and Entertainment Expo, a.k.a. C2E2, this past weekend at Chicago's McCormick Place, promoting the Bristol Renaissance Faire! Everyone I met was delightful, kind, energetic and intelligent. I had great encounters and engaging chats. I learned that, while most children whom I meet at Renaissance Faires prefer flight over invisibility, children at conventions prefer invisibility over flight, and if monkey-tail-having is introduced as an option, it gets chosen far more frequently by children at conventions versus children at Faires. I met Rich Koz again! I made new friends and laughed with old friends. Here are some snaps from the event, with many more to be found at the Phoole Flickr Page:

More soon!

"Zis is not funneh!" by Ivan Phillips

Zis is not funneh!, originally uploaded by theta_sigma.

Every person in this photograph is wildly uncomfortable. That WWII German soldier reenactor is not having Monarcho and I in the slightest. And we don't really know what to do either. So we do the hands-up posey-grinney thing. So awkward! Cheers again to Ivan Phillips for the moment-catchery.

Chemise by Hicks, Lighting by Caravaggio

, originally uploaded by theta_sigma.

Ivan Phillips has a way with capturing the light at hand, worthy of that fighty Caravaggio rascal. I just hope he's a better sport at tennis. Didn't Caravaggio kill someone over a tennis match? I think he might have done. Yet another fine moment snapped by Mr. Phillips. And I am crazy about my new chemise. I've never worn a chemise I didn't make myself before. This one was my Christmas present from my sewing mentor, Monarcho himself, T. Stacy Hicks. It makes the dress feel brand-new, regardless of how many times the thing has been shipped around the world. Cheers, brilliant makers of things!

Up to No Good With Jane

, originally uploaded by theta_sigma.

Don't I look conspiratorial? I would not trust me in this moment. But I think these nice people did. Alas for them! Cheers as ever to Ivan Phillips for the excellent snappery.

Monarcho and Jane, in flagrante something-or-other

, originally uploaded by theta_sigma.

Another precious moment captured by the brilliant Ivan Phillips.

"Hampton Court...Not!" by Ivan Phillips

I love this shot of Monarcho and Jane in the hall at the gorgeous, modern Westin North Shore, where ReenactorFest was held last weekend. It was snapped by the immensely-talented Ivan Phillips, whose Flickr collection will delight you hugely.

It reminds me of my favorite Henri Rousseau painting, Carnivale Evening:

Phoole Fave: SCROOGE IN ROUGE at In Tandem Theatre through Jan. 3!

Matt Daniels and Marcella Kearns in SCROOGE IN ROUGE. Photos in this entry courtesy Mark Frohna Photography via Third Coast Digest.

Above, behold the MONSTER TALENTS of totally-brilliant Phoole Friend Marcella Kearns and the extremely-amazing Matt Daniels in In Tandem's SCROOGE IN ROUGE, which runs through this coming Sunday, January 3, 2009. Clickitty-click here to get tickety-boos for this outrageous, scandalous, hilarious panto.

The premise is that a turn-of-the-century British music-hall ensemble of twenty-three is ready to do a lavish musical version of Charles Dickens' beloved A CHRISTMAS CAROL, but twenty of them have succumbed to food poisoning at the last possible second. So four performers have to take on every role in the show.

That's Funny Enough, but this show is So Much Funnier than I can describe. Barbara Castonguay wrote a great review of the show in the Third Coast Digest, clickable here. It's from this excellent review that I got the photo above -- these photos appear in the piece courtesy Mark Frohna Photography, and, by the way, we all should probably go get snapped by Mr. Frohna, as his pics make everyone look super-ultra-famous, which is grand.

Chris Flieller (above, with Marcella Kearns again, photo once again nicely done by Mark Frohna Photography) will make you shoot stuff out your nose, too, 'coz he's screamingly funny in this too, AND you get to bring refreshments right into the hall with you, so SIP STRATEGICALLY, though you cannot possibly plan for calamities such as these. Be prepared to wear beverages, basically, I guess. And do not underestimate the stealth laughs served surreptitiously by pianist Alfred, played by David Bonofiglio -- his is the sort of quiet, brilliant, slightly mean character for whom we all get giddy.

So if you can get a tickety-boo, get in there and see this thing! I'm taking MBTC to see it on Saturday, January 2 in the afternoon. I fear they may be sold out. But I have other fears too, many of which prove baseless, so, you know, give it a try!