Carshalton Straw Jack 2005.
The 2005 Carshalton Straw Jack passed off without incident. The event was better organised than the previous year with at least three meetings at which numerous scribbled notes were made. The notes from the first meeting were deciphered at the second meeting and carried forward to the third. The straw was safely gathered in and stored at Mr. Walter’s residence, hereinafter referred to as Box-Car - Mr. Walters that is, not his residence, although I have heard it so described. In the past it had been stored at Molyneux’s house. This could have been repeated, but the local hoi-polloi had remembered last year - not through any sense of tradition, but because they were awakened at the unearthly hour of 11:45 in the morning by the sound of drums and a melodeon - and would certainly have set light to the straw and as a bi-product Molyneux’s house. Molyneux, always having an eye for a good insurance job, encouraged the straw storage at his house, but he was eventually convinced that if the straw was destroyed, so was the day.
The plan had two phases. Phase one: to build the frame on Wednesday. Phase two: to add the straw on Friday. This was a break in tradition, but had the advantage of starting the whole thing more than one day before the event. However, there was a dilemma. Adding the straw on Friday would still allow the aforementioned hoi-polloi enough time to form a pincer movement and burn it. Adding the straw on Saturday morning might not allow Box-Car enough time to get the stuff to Molyneux’s house, as his recovery rate from Friday night’s doings had in the past been poor. So, it was agreed that the frame would be made on Wednesday, the cover for the frame would be added on Friday (of which more later) and that Spider would collect the straw on Friday for storage in Molyneux’s modest hall-way. A condition of this arrangement was that Molyneux tape up his letter-box for the duration.
I arrived on Wednesday for the first part of the plan. The frame was already in the road outside Molyneux’s house. From a distance, it looked as if it had been completed and furthermore that it was virtually identical to last year. Spider was working away and seeing me, shouted his usual greeting, which cannot be printed here unless the reader agrees to read it after the nine o’clock watershed. Getting closer, I realised that the frame was exactly the same as last year and that the meeting tonight was in fact an exercise in string replacement. I noticed that the lashings I had made last year were still holding firm. For this I received no credit, for I was considered as much use as a one legged man in an arse kicking competition when it came to artisanship. Never one to sulk, I assisted with the lashing. Spider had taken charge of the scissors and the string and it seemed that three ells was the given length for each lashing. So, when asking for my three ells, I was astounded to find that Spider had no idea what an ell was. This surprised me on two counts. Firstly, it is traditional a measurement. Secondly, he uses the word himself, always preceded with a rude word beginning with "F".
Once the lashings had been completed, the structure still lurched magnificently. A slight breeze and it was over. Spider added a wooden cross to the top circular rib, which bolstered it not at all. We called it a day and adjourned to The Sun for serious contemplation. When we arrived, we talked nonsense and drank, with the able assistance of Dave and Pete the Sheep. At a suitable hour, we departed to reconvene on Saturday at 10:30.
Saturday arrived and I was getting myself ready to leave. I had chosen tweed for the day with baggy cords and a melodeon. The cords were important, because being the Jack bearer it was an advantage to wear ballroom trousers. At 9:45 Molyneux telephoned enquiring as to my whereabouts. I told him that I would be there at 10:30 at which he coughed with astonishment - his cough had many inflexions. Had I not realised that there was a unilateral decision made on Friday evening bringing the time forward? As I was not told, no I was not, but that was my own fault. This harassment did not alter my routine and I covered the distance of some two thousand ells to Molyneux’s house to arrive at 10:30 on the dot. Molyneux had added two new struts to the Jack frame, which to be fair did add some stability. He was in the process of planing them smooth with a tenon-saw when I arrived. Spider looked on, resplendent in his new autumnal tatter coat. Molyneux lifted the Jack to be sure I would fit inside. The introduction of two new struts did have one other advantage - the possibilities of which plane constituted the front was reduced from four to two. Jill had some orange cloth that she was cutting into two lengths, each of fifteen ells. This was to be used to cover the frame before adding the straw. Last year, Molyneux had tried to add a layer of cloth to the frame before adding the straw, but was successfully distracted from his task by a bogus phone call, during which time the cloth was hidden. I believe that Spider and I were both of the opinion that the cloth was a waste of time, but as it was Spider’s wife’s idea, it was difficult to dissuade her without causing offence. So, remembering that hell hath no fury like Mrs. Eunice Bradley, 42 The Glebe, Orpington, we dissuaded ourselves from dissuading her. Molyneux tried to put a brave face on the matter by suggesting that the existence of a layer of cloth between the porter and the straw would prevent respiratory problems common with those working on the land. This speech was delivered with the assurance of a man clearly familiar with the sufferings associated with farmers. The orange cloth was duly added.
Mick the Pole now arrived. He had also chosen tweed, cords and a melodeon for the day, and like myself, was suffering from the heat. His first task was to cut four ells of rope to use as a belt. John and Liz Beeching had also arrived by car from Hastings - they could not catch a train, since their family had been barred in perpetuity from using the railways since the mid 1950s. The addition of bean netting was not going too well, as this well-funded project was relying upon last year’s netting, which was like a plate of spaghetti. At this point Turner arrived in his new car.
"Turner, nip round to Melvyn’s to get some new bean netting!"
"I’ll need someone to come with me - I’m not sure what sort to get. And anyway, the parking’s bad round there, so I need to stay in the car in case a traffic warden comes along". What he really meant was:
"I’m damned if I’m going to splash out on some bean netting". Spider lent a hand and the netting was on site within fifteen minutes.
It was now time to remove the straw from the hallway and add it to the Jack. Opening the front door, it was difficult to see any further into the house, for the straw obscured the line of vision. The straw was then added to the Jack, with little help from myself - I could not seem to be able to add more than two strands in one go, all attempts being greeted with vulgar derision. The Jack now complete, it only remained for Mick the Pole to sweep up the straw residue from the Queen’s highway. Molyneux pushed the remaining seeds and small off-cuts into the gutter.
"The, err, ahem, birds can have that" he said, unconcerned that the birds might suffer respiratory problems and that any of them feasting in the gutter, running the gauntlet of an serious asthma attack, might also be run down by a resident parking his car.
The procession departed Molyneux’s house to the Rose and Crown, a relatively short distance of some three thousand ells. Mick the Pole on the melodeon, Spider and Molyneux on drums various, Jill and Liz dancing attendance and John safeguarding the footfall of the Jack porter (me). The hoi-polloi buzzed the procession menacingly on their bicycles (I make the bold assumption that they had good title to these vehicles) waving their cigarettes in the direction of the Jack. In true military tradition, the procession formed square and carried on regardless. The route was somewhat narrow on the way to the Rose and Crown, but it was successfully accomplished. Molyneux strutting at the front, drum in hands and beard out-thrust. A woman called out from the other side of the road.
"Excuse me, what’s this?"
"It’s a Straw Jack, madam" Molyneux replied, his voice booming authority. The procession continued to the pub and the woman continued home, little better informed.
Refreshment was taken at the Rose and Crown, and seven or eight additional personnel were taken on board. After greetings were exchanged, the Pole and myself entertained the crowd with a few lively tunes. The weather was good, although rain had been forecast, so those that had heard us before went outside to see if there was any prospect of a change. After a couple of minutes they were joined by a steady trickle of people who had not heard us before. This was only a brief stop and the Jack quickly proceeded up Westcroft road to The Fox and Hounds, some ells distant. More of the company were awaiting our arrival at the Fox. Mr. Walters had brought his guitar along and he had clearly been in two minds as to his kit. He had the guitar and boots of Box Car Willie and the battered top hat and reputation of the Artful Dodger. Were it not such a mouthful, I suppose his demeanour would be best described as Willie, the Artful Box-Car Dodger. Whatever his tag, Willie would certainly have been a part of it. Douglas "gamekeeper" Adams, with melodeon; Geva, cleverly disguised in a Peruvian waistcoat (or perhaps Peruvian gut coat). Jack, one of the regulars in The Sun had also made an effort. Although he was wearing his usual apparel, he had taken the trouble to involuntarily dismount his bicycle a few days before, breaking his fall with his face and altogether changing his appearance. Good show.
I didn’t go to the bar immediately, since there was a rush and I didn’t want to stand around and wait. Eventually, the rush cleared and the Pole and myself decided a drink was in order: soda and lime for him and a pint of something not too heavy for me. Ordering a pint of Deuchar’s Something Not Too Heavy, the antipodean barman pulled about three-quarters of a pint and the "barrel went". I said that I would be happy with an Adnams IPA, but that had also "gone". Not wishing to attempt the Abbot on Ability To Stand Up Later grounds, I decided to wait while he changed the barrel. It was unfortunate for me that within ten seconds of his disappearing towards the cellar, his working permit expired and I never saw him again. After a fifteen-minute wait, his colleague, entirely unconcerned about his co-worker’s disappearance, dispatched a pint of Abbot, which Molyneux insisted that I dispatch, as it was time to move on.
From the perspective of the porter, it is important to try to bring the Jack to life. This year, it was much easier, for although the straw was greyer than last year, the whole thing was much lighter. Molyneux’s patent struts also made the thing easier to manoeuvre. The spectacular finale was at the arrival at each house of refreshment, where the Jack jumped and twirled to the accompaniment of the company. This was best achieved with the beat of the drums, as the sound filled the Porter with new life - which after some distance was much required. At the first two pubs, the switch between melodeons and drums was disjointed. Arriving at the Coach and Horses, the transition was perfect. The melodeons faded out, the drums seamlessly faded in and increased in tempo to the crescendo. Life was breathed into the Jack, dancing, jumping and whirling to the ultimate dead stop. This jumping about gave me a thirst and both John and Mick the Pole had a pint ready for when I was released from inside the frame - great for the time being, but not boding well for carrying later on. In terms of ells, this leg of the journey was probably the shortest, coming through the village and finishing in the Square next to the Charter Fair. Having lambasted the Charter Fair in last year’s account, I’m afraid I can do no better this time. Had it been advertised as a Chartered Accountants Fair, one could not have complained at the fare one received. A roadblock prevented vehicular access to the Square and perhaps served as a warning to pedestrians. However, I should not criticise the organisers and stall-holders, who at least made the effort.
By the time we were ready to depart, I was feeling quite relaxed, thanks to: a) the incompetence of the bar staff at the Fox and Hounds, who forced me to buy strong beer. b) Molyneux, for making me drink it quickly. c) Mick and John for buying more beer, strength unknown, at the Coach and Horses. d) Molyneux for making me drink it quickly, with no consideration for the fact that I spent too much time talking and pretending I could playful The Artful Box-Car’s guitar, when I should have been gently supping. However, it was time to continue to The Sun - the drums struck up, more swirling, (both the Jack and the recent contents of my stomach) and away we went to The Sun, across the pond and through The Grove. I believe it was on this leg of the journey that gamekeeper Adams struck up The W*****r song, a lively tune to which the company sang along with the bits that they knew, namely the chorus. Quite properly, the singing was tempered when children were within earshot. The finale at The Sun was also restrained, as the pavement was not wide enough to allow much swirling and jumping - also there was nobody outside to see it, so it would have been a waste of energy. The Sun has always been a down-to-earth pub. That is not to say it is unpleasant; just down-to-earth. The furnishings are comfortable but sparse, with a wooden floor, heavy curtains, Dave Turner and a mature settee at the rear. As the pub fills, so the atmosphere increases, but at a disproportionately higher rate. At such a time, it is ideal for revelry. So once some other goodly person had bought me a beer and The Pole had got a cup of tea, we knocked out a few tunes, with others joining in with percussion. The ladies were inspired by this and performed a few dance movements.
Onward now to The Greyhound, the big Young’s house by the ponds. John (the landlord) had left a nice space in the car park and there was a host of people to watch. This was what it was all about. Again, the music turned to drums seamlessly and spurred on by the drums and the crowds the Jack performed a magnificent finale. (Even though I do say so myself.) Within a few minutes, John had brought out 3 jugs of beer and a jug of cider. Mr. King was the only consumer of the last mentioned beverage, and as such we expected him to take the lead in the Most Incapable Member stakes when we eventually left. He duly obliged. After talking with the locals there was some more music, with the drums coming in, the melodeons fading and the drums giving a marvellous Jackless finale this time.
When recording proceedings such as these, it is important to include both the good and the bad. On departing The Greyhound, some beer was left in the jugs (which John had refilled) and he quite rightly brought this to the attention of the company. The drinks were forced back and the jugs left properly empty.
The water tower is a very unusual early 18th century garden building. As the name suggests, this contained a water-powered pump which supplied water to Carshalton House and the fountains in it’s garden. However, the building was and is much more than this as it contains a splendid early 18th century cold bath lined with Delft tiles. This was the next port of call, which Molyneux had included in the route as the day’s cultural experience. In retrospect, he may have done better to include it earlier. Although there is usually an admission charge, it was free on Straw Jack day. This was particularly galling to Steve Turner, who had had to leave the company at the Greyhound to pick up his mum from the airport. He could not, therefore, avail himself of a full quota of free beer at The Greyhound and now he was forced to miss out on an invisible earning of seventy-five pence. No doubt, he charged it back to his mother.
The philistines in the company chose this moment to fall on the grass lawn below the tower and recover from the Greyhound. The more enlightened, climbed the spiral staircase onto the terrace three or four floors up. The terrace had a passing resemblance to a battlement and leaning over the ramparts, the Enlightened shouted amusing comments to the Philistines below concerning hamsters, fathers who smelt of elderberries and farting in their general direction. The Philistines responded with equal wit, crying "Get knotted", "Bollocks" and "F*** off". Non-combatant witnesses to this exchange spoke to the Good Burghers of the Tower, concluding that if you let people in for free, then this sort of behaviour was to be expected in these modern times, tut-tut. All now back on the lawn, Molyneux appeared through the door, enthusing about the bath and what did everyone think of it. The Enlightened then turned their coats inside out and ran to join the massed ranks of Philistines. "Wot barf?", "I never sor no barf!" "Bollocks to the barf".
Molyneux’s cultural excursion now continued through the grounds of Carshalton House to The Hermitage, an 18th century folly. He personally took the reins of the Jack for this leg and weaved his way through the narrow footpaths to the Folly. Fortunately, the post of hermit was vacant. A man who had dedicated his life to contemplation and meditation would surely have broken his vow of silence as the percussionists turned his tranquil abode into a din-filled echoing chamber. It was a joy to watch grown men adopt the childish philosophy: This is a great place to make a loud noise, so let’s make a loud noise.
And so to the final port of call, The Windsor Castle. The Jack was taken into the pub garden pending incineration and the Company adjourned to the Cottage room where a feast had been arranged. This was an excellent venison stew, more venison than stew, with spuds and things. Plenty for all and a fine effort. The mood was now somewhat quieter, with various groups forming to talk and enjoy the fare. This was the first pub in which sensible conversation could be heard. At about seven thirty, the burning of the Straw Jack took place. The straw was torn from the frame by the company and by sundry onlookers and thrown onto the fire.
Adjourning back to the Cottage room, more food and ale was taken and music and song began. Mick the Pole gave his rendition of The Laughing Policeman, with everyone joining in the laughing chorus. At first the laughter was forced, but as the song developed, the chorus turned into a competition as to who could laugh silliest and loudest and the final two choruses were filled with genuine mirth. Mick McTiernan then gave us The Fish Finger Song - a ballad about fishermen sailing to Greenland, via Leamington Spa and the Isle of Wight in search of fish fingers, only to be beaten to the prize by the Japanese. This song was delivered with full nasal expression, and contained such classic words as "Amerikey" and "sail-iors". He invited the company to join in the chorus, which amounted to a strange nondescript drone lasting approximately 3 seconds. Great entertainment. Spider’s male offspring then performed a short dance that they made up on the spot, to much heckling. The Artful Box Car Dodger gave us a good old country song, and I tried "Bold Sir John". After an hour or so, this died down due to alcohol fatigue and people began to drift away.
Later, Molyneux, Spider and myself gathered round the bare frame and made a solemn vow: John Barleycorn was dead. At this point, the rain from heaven fell in buckets, and it’s pretty certain that Little Sir John will raise his head again next year.