Morris Dancing

Apparently it was Sir Thomas Beecham who said "Try everything once except incest and Morris Dancing" and I would suggest that you can't go far wrong if you follow his advice. Perhaps it is wrong of me, and terribly British too, to mock one of our country's oldest traditions, but we must not lose sight of the reality here.
Let's start by looking at the traditional dances of other countries and see how we measure up in comparison. Brazil has the Samba, a carnival dance full of rhythm, colour and exuberance. It speaks of nights spent partying, of dancing on the warm sands at Copacabana, of mischief and merriment.
Spain has Flamenco, an old gypsy dance full of pain and passion as it recounts the centuries of oppression experienced by the 'gitanos'. Austria lays claim to the Viennese Waltz (at least I presume it does - if not it needs renaming)  full of elegance, poise and romance, with suavely dressed men and the beautiful swishing skirts of the ladies. And of course, my personal favourite, the Argentine Tango, sultry and seductive danced by stunningly beautiful couples.
So, that's what we're up against England. What have you got to offer? Oh, let's see what we can come up with. How about a bunch of men (mainly men, and anyway most women who morris dance could easily pass as male) who could all do with a good wash, haircut and shave, dressed in white boiler suits? We can throw in a few props too, maybe some bells (for maximum annoyance), sticks and handkerchiefs? They can prance on the spot with no discernible moves involved, making a god-awful noise and throwing around bits of Kleenex.
Now I'm sure someone is going to set me straight, pointing out that the dance dates back to 1483 and depicts the anguish of the lowly peasant in feudal England, with the handkerchiefs symbolising the shrouds used during the time of the plague, and the sticks bring used to ward off evil spirits (I made all that up, please don't quote me as a leading authority on folk dancing if you are writing a dissertation for your Phd). I think we need a new national dance. Perhaps we could have a spin-off of Eurovision but a dancing version instead? My prediction? Le Royaume-Uni, nul points.

The Village Fete

This afternoon I am helping out at the Worstead Festival in the Children's Craft Tent. As I see it there are two major flaws in this arrangement. First of all I have no discernible creative talent whatsoever and second, I don't much like children. If I mess up enough today they hopefully won't ask me again next year, or that's the plan.
It is incredible the level of emotion which a seemingly simple and supposedly enjoyable event can generate. Life-long friendships, akin to those formed whilst in the trenches, can be made or broken over the best technique to win the tug-of-war. I have witnessed grow men weep as they lose their 'how hard can you hit the hammer' title to a rival. Potential prize marrows are closely guarded by their owners in case of sabotage. Poor old Jack Carter was a broken man after his ended up as ratatouille before the judging was done. He was last seen trashing his allotment before retreating to his shed with a bottle of grow-more muttering incoherently.
However, by far the ugliest incident to date was back in 2009 when paramedics were called to the Women's Institute tent where Linda Pilkington-Smythe had been found choking on her own Victoria Sponge, the whole sponge. Thank goodness it was so light and fluffy or the outcome could have been more along 'Midsomer Murders' lines.
...and so off we all go for an afternoon of fun and frolics, small children with temporary (we hope) tattoos, the smell of hot-dogs and my son returning home full of E numbers and with £10 worth of junk. All I can say is thank the Lord there isn't any Morris Dancing.


P.S - lots of my lovely friends are involved in this festival and a lot of hard work goes into it. It is a fantastic event and you need to dismiss all of the above as poetic licence!