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 I will never forget that first crisp autumn evening in the
Chiddingly Village Hall. The William Webb Ellis Ensemble bestrode the
toy theatre of a village stage, like hirsute giants let loose from a
rugby scrum, clothed with a dignity that suggested lives far removed
from their grease-paint-and-fancy-dress incarnation. In fact, our
village buskers comprised the Director of Leisure and Tourism for
Lewes District Council, a biology teacher, a public health inspector,
an IBM sales manager and a local authority schools inspector.
To a collective gasp of surprise, the proscenium curtains parted to
reveal a small contingent of uniformed and helmeted SS
stormtroopers, saluting and heel-clicking with disturbingly authentic
Prussian fervour. In impeccable German, loosely translated by an
earnest henchman, their “officer” spoke, with passion, of his pleasure
at being on English soil “AT LAST!” and with what delight he and his
colleagues would perform for us ein well-known ballad – “Du Bist Mein
Sonnenblicht” – at which point after a quick reprise of salutes and
heel clicking, they burst into a hearty rendering (in German) of “You
are my Sunshine”.
But there was more!
As they sang , eyes front and to attention, the six foot tall,
sixteen stone IBM sales-manager-turned-stormtrooper emerged from the
main corps for his solo. He pirouetted, he jete-ed, he wafted hither
and thither with ethereal grace; jack-booted toes pointed, muscular
arms arched in ecstasy. Our prima ballerina’s head, helmet intact,
inclined to the right then to the left, fluttering eyelashes lowered
in maidenly humility. And all this to the relentless singing, marching
rhythm of the accompanying SS chorus line. The Producers – eat your
heart out.
Each brief sketch seemed simplicity itself but was, in fact,
like some intricately painted miniature, so precisely executed it is
impossible to see the brushstokes or the painstaking labour required
to produce the art that conceals art. What they did was, in its way,
as fine as the finest of live theatre.
A few festivals later and their piece de resistance was
an interpretation of the sporting sensation of the age – Synchronised
Swimming. It is difficult in these ironic times to recall the wild
enthusiasm for this skilled, but exquisitely daft pursuit which peaked
in 1984 when formation dancers of the swimming bath were accorded
Olympic status. So imagine the unrestrained joy when our famous five
entered stage left as The William Webb Ellis Synchronised Swimming
Team, their discreetly sculpted bodies sheathed in shimmering pastel
lycra, each manly chest pneumatically enhanced to Dolly Parton
proportions.
They moved with chorus line precision to the strains of “I’m
Forever Blowing Bubbles” and promptly disappeared stage right ,
only to reappear stage left behind the waist high, proscenium wide
cardboard wall of their pretend “pool”. Five hands rose as one, each
bearing aloft that essential Synchro-Swim accessory, the nose clip.
Then our aquatic stars were suddenly lost to view below the pool wall;
total immersion, total silence, and agonising suspense broken only
when five little sprays of water spouted aloft followed by five arms
raised excalibur like on high. From then on we followed the elegant
geometry of the back-stroke, the slow measured crawl and the
occasional rainbow arc of bubbles.
All this invoked a kind of inverse ratio of emotion in the
audience; the more serious and dedicated the synchro
impersonation, the more wild and uncontrolled was the audience
response. “I could have died laughing” became a distinct possibility.
Suddenly, five left legs are raised on high, all WOODEN! A long pause
(what next?) and then from pool right, to sinister music, a single
shark fin (screams of horror) and only FOUR legs raised! My folding
village chair can barely contain the weight of laughter.
I cannot remember precisely how it all ended; there was a swish of
velvet curtain and pool, wooden legs, shark’s fin and water babes gone
forever, or so I thought. It was, they had announced, their final
performance.
 But not long ago I heard that The William Webb Ellis Ensemble
were re-uniting in our county town of Lewes to help raise money for
charity and that Synchronised Swimming was on the bill. Of course I
got tickets. A lot of water has flowed through the pool since we last
met, and it was clear that squeezing into the lycra swimsuits is a lot
harder these days. In the twenty-first century, music hall is
semi-retired and the Webb Ellis Ensemble only rarely come out to play.
But the magic was still there; the perfect timing, the dead-pan
delivery and the impeccable attention to detail.
From time to time over the years I have spied one of the gentlemen
buskers on the London to Eastbourne commuter train; soberly suited and
utterly correct behind his protective newspaper. Only I could see what
other commuters could not; a local education authority schools’
inspector in a day-glow pink lycra swimsuit and wearing a very small
nose-clip.
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