Falla June: Winne & Bellow

TROUT

Down in Sussex, old friends are making arrangements for a summer party. The family are direct Bloomsbury descendants, and the annual gathering celebrates all that was, and still is, silliest about Bloomsbury. The year I was there, the focus was on Virginia Woolf, and the silliness was beyond belief.

Few writers are easier to mock than Woolf; from her contemporary Wyndham Lewis onwards, there have been plenty of eager parodists. The received impression is of a woman infinitely gloomy, precious and self-obsessed, agonising over dinner menus, art and the cosmos all in one breath. It's an image that grieves her living relatives. Her nephew Quentin Bell recalled her as a gregarious, fun-loving woman whose family adored her because she made them laugh.

Fun and parody persist each summer at "The Quentin Follies", named in memory of Quentin who died in 1995 and who was himself an endlessly kind and witty man. This festival of the cheerfully ludicrous and more lighthearted arts is held each July at Charleston, Bloomsbury's Sussex retreat, created by Quentin's parents Clive and Vanessa Bell. There, in the pretty gardens, pictures are auctioned to raise money for returning Charleston to something like its former self. The works on sale are of a uniform size, and are donated by a galaxy of contemporary talent. From beside the pond, a balloon race is launched; the prize my year was a genuine Quentin Bell table lamp with, swirling about the base, three concupiscent naiads in lustred pink and grey ceramic.

At dusk, the crowd gathered with hampers and bubbly in a large marquee fitted with a miniature proscenium arch swiped from English National Opera. Here we enjoyed cabaret of a most unusual sort.

The evening was seamlessly compered by Quentin's son-in-law, author William Nicholson. It began with great charm: a clutch of children, who'd been at work with circus teachers all afternoon, showed how they could now juggle and walk the high wire. I played a bit part with two of the littlest Bells helping me to sing "The Tattooed Lady". A star turn was Dennis Healey, who recited a parody of Stanley Holloway entitled "Michael and the Leon", its jibes at Messrs.Hesseltine and Britten a tad dated but deft and witty nonetheless. None of these, however, could quite prepare us for the Neo-Naturist Cabaret.

We had become aware, as we milled about in the proceeding hour, that a small group of women (in, I think, their forties) were sitting behind the marquee stark naked, and were painting themselves and each other with colourful swirls and paisley-patterns of blue and green. Stepping in due course out onto the stage, these ladies announced that they were to give the assembled family and friends of Bloomsbury a representation of "The Suicide of Virginia Woolf".

Which they did. The painted lovelies held up crude placards announcing the acts of the drama, such as: "Virginia goes to the river and drowns herself." At this point, two of them (both playing Mrs Woolf) entered wearing nothing but calf-length woolen cardigans. They filled the ample pockets with pebbles taken from a bucket, and lay down on stage to drown. All the while, one of their colleagues sang "Poor Tom is Dead", tunelessly, over and over.

Then a new placard was held aloft which read, "Virginia's Soul is Reborn as an Irridescent Trout." At this moment, the two drowned Woolfs shed their cardies and stood upright in all their naked paisley splendour. We now saw that each wore a large plastic sweety jar, held securely in place over the mons pubis by generous lengths of sellotape. From these, they proceeded to take fistfuls of boilings, which they lobbed out into the audience.

All the while, the voice continued to intone, "Poor Tom is Dead".

What, you might wonder, was the audience thinking? By now there was a thoughtful hush, except for a few dogs and children playing outside the marquee. Quentin's daughter Cressida, who had been moving among the tables selling Toblerone, stood rooted to the spot. Glancing to my right, I saw her sister Virginia and their mother Olivier watching in dignified, expressionless silence. Remarkably little was said by anyone.

At last the evening continued with songs, conjurers and tableaux. As a finale, the Neo-Naturists returned to the stage and attempted to lead the audience in Community Singing of "On Ilkley Moor bar t'at". Curiously, the only people who joined in were me and Dennis Healey. We gave it laldy, but either no one else knew the song or they were still too gobsmacked to raise more than a whimper.

Should you wish to attend the next Quentin Follies, a quick Google will find you the appropriate website, with images of the artworks for auction. It's great fun. I'm told that, since the Neo-Naturist Cabaret, acts have been clamouring for a slot.