Everyone's Eliot: Introduction

 On an island shaped like the leg of a faun there exists a clandestine society called Port Eliot. It’s near rich-green coastal waters and kisses a river called Tiddy that laps at the moon in high-tide and exposes dark, dank, writhing streams of muddy abyss during low-tide. Port Eliot meanders through green countryside of shorn grass and stone houses seated next to quiet brown lakes speckled with lily pads and fallen quail feathers. Winding roads past winding trees and windy cliffs lead to Port Eliot, although these vistas are impossible to see over dense hedges like flexed hands against passing cars. Only horses seem capable of skipping natural obstacles to explore without worry in these enchanting lands. Horses and fauns, of course. And giants, and fairies.

While Port Eliot’s society exists always in the hearts of its inhabitants, only once yearly does it reveal itself to the wider island, swathed in leather and silk. The annual Festival is a fiesta of thoughts, words, and movement, a constantly growing and undulating entity that feeds and feeds upon itself in glittery, light blue fluidity. From all corners of the island, and some corners of islands further afield, flock festival-goers. They arrive on feet and engines. They load cars, trains, and planes with resources for days of frivolity and sharing—food, books, cameras, tall rubber boots in case of necessary bog-jumping. Traders cart wares, items for sale or display, hired to provide resources absent in Port Eliot’s natural greenery. Entertainers arrive carting boxes in baffling geometric shapes. Children pounce immediately upon entry, predator and prey to the grass and the sun, forming fast friendships while tumbling across hay bales which, by the end of the festival, meld seamlessly with trampled grass. Together the people of Port Eliot Festival enjoy its myriad of enchantments. They dance and sing, flaunt and flow, buy and sell, intermingling in endless loops across the rich Eliot Estate.

There is a certain ambience during the Port Eliot Festival. A full moon knows this, commanding clouds in the sky to part, pulling the Tiddy into its yellow embrace. The clouds cheekily sneak in, filling the Tiddy and its valleys with smooth silver mist, delighting giggling ghosts. The greater island quietly murmurs; passer-by near the Festival grounds may not hear its music but they can sense a certain electricity, maybe from Jupiter or Middle Earth. There are no signs providing directions on main roads in to the festival. Coordinates are provided by the stars.

And this is how one first realizes that Port Eliot is an expression of a very human propensity to associate among like individuals. Port Eliot is, like so many contemporary societies, governed by a royal family. This royal family kindly invites visitors to partake in its annual festival, thusly forming an extreme microcosm of a socio-economic stratification that already exists on the island. Despite the risk of allowing the proletariat such close proximity to assets contained in the secret cellars of the estate house, the Eliot’s willingly host potentially peering eyes because they, like so many contemporary elite, value arts and culture. And yet the infamous royalty watch from afar, governing via chosen elite. Largely unaware of this underlying discretion, attendees loosely segment themselves as people do: Traders, artists, and visitors. It is a stratification bolstered by the branding of brightly-colored fabric wristbands that slowly tighten throughout the course of the weekend under distracted tugs. On the last day the wristbands threaten to cut off circulation in the very arms so proudly displayed for their adornment only days before.

Among those lucky enough to attend Port Eliot Festival, a question is unsaid: Who belongs here? Port Eliot is ruled by its royalty but during the course of the festival they retreat, hidden from view, preferring to watch curiously and warily the interactions of attendees. The festival cannot belong to its visitors, who are privy to planned provisions. It can’t belong the elite, who depend on visitor’s populace. It cannot belong to the traders, many of whom commute in and lead double-lives while there, never wholly one with the crowd and yet serve as a cornerstone. Port Eliot does not belong to the artists, who haunt the woods and blend with visitors when not displaying their craft to adoring crowds. It does not belong to the staff like the security guards, valiant soldiers watching happenings adorned by walkie-talkie swords. And somehow, within all of this, it does not belong to a handful of outsiders like me, forgotten fairies that hopped the right leaf to land on this rose petal. We inhale Port Eliot until we turn blue in the face, refusing to exhale lest our luck escape us. Port Eliot: Everyone’s Eliot, and yet no one’s Eliot…

Everyone's Eliot: A Comedic Crime

Smiling casually at a group of men in top hat and vests, I step over threads of electrical cables as if I was walking into my own bathtub. The sign on the fence commands “Artists Only.” Stretching my maroon leather jacket sleeve over my green “trader” wristband, I try to look “artisty-y.” Whatever that means.

As with all aspects of Port Eliot Festival, being behind-the-scenes proves as magical and fascinating to me as being a member of the audience. As I scurry past the open main stage door I hear peels of laughter from black T-shirt crew members and see a Technicolor afro hug a tiny white man. Yellow and red circus tent lines punctuate the black stage floor.

From between makeshift tents, commercial vans, and common cars I find a sinewy, grossly tanned man seated on a fold-out chair in the middle of the path. He’s wearing no shirt and sunning his leathery skin like a rattler in Arizona. The troll under the bridge? I muse wearily. Like a billy goat, I bay, “You have a nice spot in this sunshine!” “Yes, best in the house!” spreads a slick smile below jet-black shades. “Um, yah, lucky you! [nervous giggle]. So…do you know where Alex Edelman is?” His smile curls a bit more, the Grinch that stole my comedic Christmas. “What wants to know?” “I’m just an American, and he’s American, so….me.” Silence. The snake waits. Slowly, he lifts his hand toward a tent to his left, barely straightening his finger. “Sure. He’s in there.”

I mumble thank-you, turn on my heel, and burst through squeaky plastic doors, nearly ploughing into a blond girl and the less-tall-than-I-expected comedian, Alex Edelman. They are mid-conversation: She leans toward him, chastising in a low voice. I hear the words, “you should have…” before the conversation cuts due to my rude interference. I stumble, stutter, breathless. I try to introduce myself.

“Hi! Alex. MynameisEmilyIjustsawyouperformIownacompanythathelpsAmericansintheUKand [sucking breath] I’vealwaysthoughtaboutdoingstandupcomedyand [sharpexhale] youwereGREAT!” I reach out to shake his hand. His limp forearm jiggles. The blond, who I presume is the girlfriend Alex joked about lovingly onstage rolls her eyes and disappears (took his virginity when he was 26, lucky bloke). Alex runs his hands through his hair, looking shell-shocked. He stares at me. I smile like a pre-teen circa a 2001 N’Sync concert. What am I doing here?! we both wonder.

[I later learned I wasn't correct in my assumption about this mysterious blond. It was, in fact, Sara Pascoe and she wasn't, in fact, chastising! Check out Alex's comments below]. 

I decided to sneak backstage at Port Eliot after randomly witnessing Alex’s performance, a very American stand-up comedy show. Before moving to the UK I always considered doing stand-up but never had the balls. Practicing in front of friends was always a failure, but maybe it’s because I only practiced in front of friends who were, basically, failures. I wondered if my token Americanism might sound better from UK mics. So when I heard the audience chuckling in Alex’s set, which was completely unaltered to a British audience, using words like “bathroom” and culturally presumptive stories about Texas, I thought I might have a chance. Plus, he was an American in the UK—maybe he was interested in my Plymouth Primer? My reviewers claimed it funny…

And, to be fair, the Carling in my belly created a fire in my soul. I felt daring. Now, my boldness feels foolish.

I prod Alex, desperately searching for some semblance of interest. “I was surprised to hear so many American terms in your set?”

“Yah…” he trails off, lost in thought, eventually coming back to me (I haven’t breathed). “I don’t change anything for international shows. I’m actually practicing a new set right now…” In a shocking burst of energy he steps to a table littered by discarded coffee cups and a kettle. A folded white paper sits next to puddles of spilled water. He stares at the print-out which I determine to be his script notes, forgetting me completely. He thinks I’m a freak! I decide. Must legitimize!

“I wrote this book,” I practically scream, pulling a newly signed copy from my bag like Harry Potter brandishes his wand. “It’s really funny! I mean, that’s what people say.” Alex stares at the book like it’s written in Chinese. “It’s for Americans in the UK,” I whisper.

“I live in New York,” he says.

“Oh…well…it’s still funny.”

He grabs the book from my outstretched hand. “Cool, thanks, I’ll try to take a look at it. Yah, I’ll read it, okay. Thanks a lot.” His back turns, setting the book set on table and diverting his eyes to the script.

My brain explodes. Mayday! Mayday! I did NOT just GIFT my book to HIM! Oh. My. God. That book is worth £15! It’s a signed copy! He doesn’t even LIVE in the UK! He isn’t even talking to me! He won’t even read it! Who is this guy, what am I thinking, I’m practically bleeding money here. What do I do, I can’t just TAKE IT BACK?! This is NOT funny.

So I say, “Great! Okay, so, cool. Yah, here’s my card, you have my details, take a look and get in touch! You were great, thanks again, good luck. I like your T-shirt! Okay, see ya’ later!”

I don’t think Alex looks at me as he mumbles goodbye. I flee like a refugee. My heart pounds, straining my leather jacket. I cannot believe that I just gave my book to Alex Edelman. I won’t even give my book to my grandmother! Here I am, someone who came out of their mother’s womb saying “I want” and “No,” and yet I am incapable of setting a boundary with this hilarious yet relatively undiscovered comedian. Render me dumbfounded. I walk away in a daze, find a concert to disappear into, and tell no one. Until I write this story, of course.

One time, at Port Eliot Festival 2015, I enticed a comedian to unwittingly steal my book. He became a comedic criminal. It was a crime of comedy, a coup de comédie... A really ridiculous incident. Port Eliot 2015, people: The saga continues.