The Punch and Judy May Fayre

Over 30 Punch & Judy shows from across the country gathered in the gardens of St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden to celebrate the birthday of Mr Punch, which, when you think about it, may be one of the few birthdays in Britain marked by a man with a hooked nose, a squeaky voice, and a long history of hitting people with a stick. The day began in gloriously noisy fashion with a colourful street procession led by a brass band, weaving through the narrow streets of Covent Garden with all the subtlety of a medieval invasion. Puppeteers, performers, children, tourists, bewildered café patrons, and several dogs who clearly had not been consulted beforehand all became part of the festivities. For the Punch professors themselves, the annual Fayre is something rather special. Puppet performance is, by nature, a strangely solitary profession; one spends a good deal of time inside a tiny striped booth arguing with crocodiles and policemen in a voice that sounds like an asthmatic duck. So the chance to gather together once a year is rather like a family reunion, only with more slapstick violence and considerably more sausages. The story of Punch himself stretches all the way back to 16th-century Italy and the commedia dell’arte tradition, where he first appeared as Pulcinella a mischievous Neapolitan rogue with a talent for chaos and an apparent inability to behave sensibly for more than a few seconds at a time. When he arrived in England, Pulcinella gradually transformed into Punchinello and finally into Mr Punch, who became less Italian and more unmistakably British: loud, anarchic, cheerfully unruly, and oddly proud of it. Mr Punch made his first recorded appearance in England on 9th May 1662, which is still celebrated as his official birthday. This was during the Restoration, when Charles II had reclaimed the throne after the joyless years of Puritan rule under Oliver Cromwell a man who regarded theatres, dancing, merriment, and almost certainly smiling as deeply suspicious activities. With the monarchy restored, England rediscovered its appetite for entertainment. Samuel Pepys himself recorded seeing an Italian puppet show in Covent Garden featuring an early version of Punch, describing it in his diary as “very pretty,” which in Pepysian terms was roughly equivalent to a five-star review and a standing ovation. One of Punch’s most curious features is, of course, his voice, that extraordinary squawking rasp produced by a tiny device called a swazzle, held inside the performer’s mouth. The effect is somewhere between a kazoo, a goose in distress, and a retired pirate shouting through a drainpipe. So distinctive is the sound that traditionalists insist a Punch show without a swazzle is not really a Punch & Judy show at all, much as tea without biscuits is technically possible but faintly disappointing. Originally performed with marionettes brought from Italy, Punch & Judy eventually evolved into the glove-puppet form we know today, largely because it allowed Punch to wallop people more efficiently without becoming tangled in strings, a practical innovation if ever there was one. By the 18th century, Punch puppet theatre was enormously popular. Crowds flocked to performances in London and Bath, where showman Martin Powell became something of a celebrity impresario. Puppet theatres sprang up across Britain and Ireland, and even serious theatrical figures became involved. Charlotte Charke, actress, writer, rebel, and professional boundary-ignorer, ran her own Punch theatre in Westminster, while playwright Henry Fielding used puppetry to dodge censorship laws, proving once again that throughout British history, if there is a ridiculous loophole to exploit, someone will inevitably find it. And somehow, against all odds, Mr Punch survived the centuries: through plague, fire, industrial revolution, world wars, political upheaval, and modern health-and-safety regulations. He remains gloriously indestructible — still squeaking, squabbling, and whacking unsuspecting victims with a stick while audiences laugh themselves silly. Which, in its own peculiar way, may be one of the most reassuringly British traditions of them all.