Order! Order! Here Come the Lords!

 

On the eighteenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...two cute 'n' snoozy hedgehogs! Altogether now...aaaahhh! Maybe keep the image close to hand in case you need a calming moment during today's story fracas...

...it doesn’t take long for Kenneth the Phantomime to discover a bit of a problem with his Mummers Play plan. With one turtle dove and two French hens disappeared into the woodlands in search of materials from which to fashion a horse’s skull on a stick, Kenneth’s cast is reduced to himself, one turtle dove and a single French hen who has no intention of getting involved in any sort of acting whatsoever.

‘I don’t do public performances,’ says Madame Tussaud, stoutly. ‘I am more than happy to sit and watch, maybe do some knitting so I don’t nod off during the boring bits, but that’s my limit.’

‘Just you and me then, kid,’ says Juan, punching Kenneth in the arm in a roister-doister kind of way.

‘Ouch!’ says Kenneth, rubbing his arm. ‘Was that necessary?’

‘Just being positive,’ says Juan.

Kenneth is unconvinced but undeterred. ‘It is impossible to do a mummers’ play with only two actors,’ he says, ‘even if one of them has enormous theatrical experience and received rave reviews for his one Phantomime performance of ‘Three Men in a Boat,’ where he played all roles by himself, including the dog AND he didn’t get his feet wet once. We need to draft in, well, at least eight more players, preferably ten.’

Juan opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. ‘No,’ he says to himself. ‘I can’t. It would be a very bad idea.’

The Phantomime’s ears prick up. ‘What?’ he says. ‘What were you going to say? What would be a very bad idea?’

Juan shakes his head. ‘Forget I said anything,’ he says.

‘Well, I can’t now, can I?’ says Kenneth, crossly. ‘It’s like telling someone not to think of an elephant. What do they automatically do? Think of many, many elephants. Come on, Juan – what were you going to say? I don’t mind a bad idea. I’ve been the author of many bad ideas myself, and sometimes they manage to work out okay.’

Juan sighs. He is in too deep now. ‘If you must know,’ he says, ‘I happen to know of a group of ten men who have performance experience. At least, they aren’t afraid of having their say and being noticed. And they are actors, of a sort, if acting means suspending the truth and feeding the public a load of tosh.’

‘Sounds perfect!’ says Kenneth. ‘Can you get hold of them? Will they be available? Will they be interested?’

Juan shrugs. ‘I can but ask,’ he says, fishing his phone from his pocket.

‘Call them!’ says Kenneth. ‘There’s ten you say?’

‘Yes,’ says Juan. ‘And I think you know they are all lords. And they, well…they leap.’

‘Interesting,’ says Kenneth. ‘Ten leaping lords. Bit of a niche occupation, I’d suggest. But they’ll have the energy for a mummers’ play, that’s for sure. And if they are Lords, they’ll add a bit of class, gravitas and intelligence to the performance, too.’

‘I wouldn’t go THAT far,’ says Juan, immediately changing his initial assessment of the ‘very bad idea’ to ‘an idea of hideous proportions that is 99.9% bound to go drastically wrong.’

Of course, it is a well-known fact that the Lords of the land don’t have proper jobs and are available to do what they like when they like thanks to generations of inherited wealth, entitlements and often dubious financial deals and behaviours. It will come as no surprise to you that within a couple of hours of Juan making his calls, a convoy of cars arrives at the woodlands, from which a series of dubious looking characters alight.

During this time, Kenneth the Phantomime has set himself up in a Director’s chair and familiarised himself with the plot of The Owd ‘Oss. He has majicked up from somewhere a pair of dark glasses and a flat cap, and has a megaphone to hand, ready to shout his director’s orders. Enrico returns from his wood gathering expedition with Madama Bovary and Madame Cholet in tow. Bizarrely, he is covered in lipstick and the two French hens look a tad ruffled. Best not to ask.

Juan gathers the ten leaping lords together, which is no mean feat in itself, and introduces them to Kenneth.

‘Kenneth the Phantomime,’ he says, ‘may I introduce the Ten Lords A-Leaping Travelling Players, available for weddings, baptisms, bar Mitzvahs, gender reveal parties, hen do’s, stag do’s – especially stag do’s - all festivals regardless of cultural or religious persuasion, and Royal Variety Performances. They are, in no particular order: Lord Voldemort, Lord Lucan, Lord Vader, Lord Sauron, Lord Farquuad, Lord Byron, Lord Oftheflies, Lord Prescott, Lord Blair and Lord Kinnock.’

There is a certain amount of pushing and shoving, and argy and bargy as the Lords argue that, actually, there is a particular order because some of them feel they are better than others and some of them have been Lords longer than others so claim seniority, and some of them are just used to being pushy and at the front of the spotlight and have enormous egos that need satisfying.

Kenneth leans into Juan and whispers, ‘Are you sure they’ll be disciplined enough to listen to my direction? I can’t fault their energy and ability to project their voices but…’

Juan pats Kenneth on the arm. ‘Dear Phantomime,’ he says, ‘if anyone has the personality and skill to bring this lot into line, then it’s you.’

The Phantomime nods. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he says. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

He turns to face the leaping, rabble of Lords who are now poking each other in the chest and braying like donkeys. He raises his megaphone to his lips.

‘Just SHUT UP!!!’ he shouts. ‘CEASE AND DESIST AT ONCE!!’

And a silence descends upon the woodlands…