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Here comes Terry's Holmfirth post...
First my bit... Now this is a typical Yorkshire valley village - the streets are steep and the houses piled up along the valley slopes, and a river running down the middle, with pubs built right next to them so you can have a pint virtually on a bridge next to the entrance. This is Last of the Summer Wine country, so many of you should know how the place looks, I'm certain the cafe used in the television series got a lot of visitors. I had people loan me a sleeping bag and my lilo was still in Mark's car from Upton the previous week. I got picked up by Ang, Mick and Freyja. There was a last minute decision to bring the magpie standard (see Cuckoo day post) and as Mick has a large van I sat on the sofa bed in the back holding the magpie the whole 25 minute trip there.
It was a grand day, so much to see and do and the sun shone beautifully. The place was crowded, my friend Steve Jones was there too - he's a regular to folk festivals and loves morris dancers. We did a massive parade today too, and the magpies managed to slow down the entire procession because of their dancing on the spot. It was a great finale to the day up at Victoria Park - where the people sat on the grass, was an amphitheatre and the dance floor had a back view of Holmfirth behind it - this park must have been built for festival. I got a gradual headache all day and was hungry by the time it was dinner, so we stopped off at the co-op to buy up on food before we walked to the campsite which was at the cricket grounds. Great to get cool and walk barefoot on the grass. Eating and drugs made headache go and desire to go to see Mr Fox dance again (as i did in Whitby) and then after that, we wandered to the cricket club and sang songs - again. This is what we do - everynight we go out. And they are always the same songs. I went to bed before the others and then jess joined me - a new member - and not long after we were in bed, Mark and Dawn arrived. Us girls bunked up together. Awesome sleep.
Next day just as sunny, partially cloudy. Packed up tent and all stuff before heading off to village. Met the Sheffield Giants. My housemate Vic arrived and she even danced in my kit (tatters and hat) as I was not dancing. Just before we all went home, we did one last dance by the church and the 'Summer Wine' cafe, and I spoke to a guy from a Cotswold team who had a hobby horse with him and I also found out was Australian, and that we also had a mutual friend back in South Australia. Small world is England.
At the end of the day, Vic got to drive me home and ended up giving Ang and Freyja a lift too. Wonderful weekend! Got myself a LOT of leather badges of other teams.
Holmfirth Folk Festival 2012
Saturday morning saw us meeting at Hollowgate for the first dance out with Wakefield and Alford and then with two other border sides Powder Kegs and Foxes. Our side comprised Ange, Terry, Helen, Joe, Thomas, Lynda, Paul, Mark, Linda, Keith, Smiley Chris and Beardie Chris, Dawn, Harry, Penny, Tania, Jonathan, SJ, Zara, Jeanette and Brittany. First festival dance out for Brittany, resplendent in new top hat. Joe and Thomas, suitably painted, danced too. And great to have Sean doing his inimitable announcements where he lies about Marsden. We danced for a double stint and then they said “How about a mass border dance ?”. “Good idea!”, we said “What can you do?”, they said. “Cuckoo’s Nest”, we said. “Great!” they said. When, however, they came to dance the “Mass border morris dance”, it was less massive than it should have been, because they had decided to dance something we didn’t know! Cheers guys! Ange showed solidarity by leaving us to go and dance with them. Cheers Ange! She’d dance with the Devil if he was looking for a partner (Should he exist – a Christian concept….). We also met our facebook friend, the lovely Witchazel Green
Anyway, down to The Nook with its tiny courtyard of 12 cobbles and a manhole cover, where we squashed in several dances with 400 Roses, a Ladies Tummy Wobbling side. This is where Chris came into his own. I should explain that Chris, although always well turned out costume – wise, tends not to dance unless shamed into it. He prefers to sit it out and talk to adjacent dogs (see photos). When asked if he wants to dance he will shrug and say “Not that bothered” while partaking of his pre-prepared “medicine”. However, WITHOUT BEING ASKED! he leapt to his feet and proffered his belly in a most unseemly and undignified way. Several of the audience (Mr. and Mrs. Gnomestrangler and their hamster, Kevin, had to be escorted away to receive counselling). He then proceeded to flop it about with the shocked 400 Roses with complete abandon. We noted though, that he always kept in line, a skill which he shuns when dancing with us. He can always be relied upon to be two feet in front of everyone else, and when everyone else is two feet in front, three feet behind. We can only conclude, therefore that he just dances with us to take the piss. Any way, after the end of the dance, the smelling salts passed round the more genteel of the audience, we did a Tinner’s Rabbit with the lovely ladies (see photos). A fine set of female pulchritude, with the added bonus in a couple of cases of being able to stop a good tackle, a quality always to be revered in Northern womanhood. Tania sold a record number of badges, presumably by threatening people. (Tania can stop a good tackle,too). The dancing finished, I was about to order my dead cow burger when everyone buggered off to the Bridge.
A word about sticks. We use hazel, and it splits regularly, especially when doing twiglet. It did today. SJ had kindly brought us some sea-hardened driftwood to try. There was no problem at all with splitting any more. No! It just snaps off straight across the middle even when clashing with the side members who stick like fairies (Angie). A failure I’m afraid. But never fear SJ, I won’t tell Chris.
We did a good Lady’s White Arse, until Pip, our Most Improved Dancer, turned the wrong way in the Hey and completely effed up the whole line. Yellow card. It was during this session that Dawn received the side’s injuries and bled for us. Again.
Do you remember the days when we were all short arses? At five foot seven and a half I was the tallest in the side, down to Geordie Chris. Four foot eleven but don’t mess with her. She bites. We have now big people, who are ok, but take longer to get round. We have to add another four bars if Mark is dancing to allow for orbiting him.
To the park for the procession. After milling about for a bit we got in line. During this time a couple of the side had maypoled – Penny, and Keith, a man of many parts, most of them private. Any way – out on to the road with the Magpie standard, marching proudly on, until I realised that I was on me own, the rest of them doing a processional dance WHICH DID NOT INVOLVE MOVING FORWARD. The result was I was miles in front getting bollocked from all and sundry for there being a big gap – it was getting difficult to see them without binoculars, they were so far away, and I was unable to do anything about it. So I continued to wend my lonely way casually dive bombing the odd child with the Magpie standard. For future reference, guys, a procession is supposed to process, the clue’s in the name. What you were doing was a static. Arriving at the park, we ducked under the arches of the other dancers and watched each side doing their show dance. We finished with White Lady’s Arse, which went down well. Slubbing Billy then performed their fine Luddite play, including an appearance of a young Ned Ludd. Good stuff.
Now being totally knackered, we hobbled to the Co-op, some for food, some for grass, and back to the camp site for tea. Jo and Helen bowled up in a cute little camper van. Then back to Holmfirth to see the unique Mr.Fox, with their wonderful display of music, fire, and dancing. We got there early and while sharing the medicine Chris was , I thought, unjustly accused of farting. Coming to his aid, I said, “It could have been anybody!”, to which he replied, “Oh – it was probably you then!”. You try to help a chap out…………….A great performance from Mr.Fox, as usual. Pity Penny and Keith missed it. (A man of many parts…….)
Then to the cricket club. We eventually ended up in the canteen bit, where we exchanged songs with a pleasant crew who were there already. It was then it occurred.
Let’s face it, I am no oil painting. Except perhaps by Heironymus Bosch. And I am, shall we say, old enough to be a granddad. All right – I am a granddad. But, and here is the nub, I do have a very deep singing voice. Not brilliant. But deep. I have been told it vibrates furniture. Now, bearing this in mind, I direct you towards the humble spin drier. And the practice (I understand) of women sitting on it. Apparently, not to put too fine a point on it, the vibrations go up, to give it its medical name, the twinkle, thus causing sexual gratification. Now transfer that thought to voice-vibrated furniture. I trust I do not have to draw pictures.
So, I’m sitting there singing something or other when I am conscious of this young woman, 25 or so, in my younger days we would have described her as “worth one”, obviously pissed, looking intently at me. I finish the song. She says it was wonderful. I look behind me to see who she’s talking to. It’s me. I think “the Twinkle Factor’s kicked in”. It’s not often I get such adulation, so I launch into Barratt’s Privateers. And then, just before the last verse, she grabs my face with both hands and gives me a kiss. It wasn’t a peck. It was arms and legs flailing gasping for air. I haven’t finished me song yet, says I, smooth as ever. I finish me song. She then announces she’s a cured heroin addict to all and sundry. There’s no answer to that. A rough looking bugger enters, and converses with her, asks if she’s coming. She says no. He says please yourself. I was now starting to get worried. If she did a repeat performance I could well end up on the floor picking up me teeth. I am to fighting what Dale Winton is to arc welding. I should here mention the support I was getting from my fellows, who sat around pissing themselves laughing. Luckily he buggered off, and I was wishing she’d do the same. Eventually she got up and said “Are you coming with me?”. Pointing at my wedding ring and thinking of loose teeth, I declined . She left. When I told my wife Helen she laughed. I am now practising singing an octave higher.
The evening continued, with singing, playing and medicine. Chris in fine form. I notice, when I’m talking to him, he appears to be focussing on something 3 feet behind me. Then, like Captain Oates, but without the words, he lurches towards the door, having to be set upright again by people he’s bouncing off. And he disappeared off into the night. We found him later leaning over a wall staring intently at nothing.
Angie and Seamus and eventually Mark and Keith roll up. Bloody typical. There’s never a big bugger around when you want one. So with Seamus weaving magical tunes and Angie dancing with………anybody really, I got tired and left, casting an eye hither and thither just in case.
Sunday – lovely sunny day! On getting up I found that only one foot was functioning, the other just hanging on the end of me leg. Eventually the use returned. Down to Hervey’s, where Pip, sporting his kilt, arrived and also the Chrisses. Chris never has a hangover, no matter how pissed he gets. I have come to the conclusion that it’s because HE’ PISSED ALL THE TIME!. He just gets more pissed. Then less pissed. Shared the spot with the Sheffield giants (not a rugby team), a team of appalachian dancers, and a side of belly dancers well endowed in the busty substance area. However, there’s only so much you can take before you start feeling sea-sick.
To the Elephant and Castle, a venue so placed as not to bother anyone, not even the Gnomestranglers and Kevin. Watched the gravity-defying Jig Crew, hanky bandits par excellence, Sisters in Arms, the talented young girlie rappers, danced a bit, let George run under our legs. (Don’t look up when you get to Pip, George. You could be scarred for life). Made a note to train Pip to actually put the sticks in the bag, and not to piss off with it empty leaving a pile of loose sticks.
To the Bridge again. Danced the usual, That mad bat, Zara had her first dance out. Luckily I sat that one out. I could see from uncontrolled energy she was putting into it somebody was going to die. Cute little magpielet George escaped and almost made it to the river before being brought down by Daddy from behind.
A nice lady said the only people she could remember from last year were the giants and us! Of course, she could have remembered us because we were so crap, I suppose.
Then the Methodist church opposite Ivy’s café of summer wine fame. Did a quick White Arse, and then watched the Luddite play again. It seemed Ned Ludd had had a heavy session last night. He looked at least 60 years older. Sang the Cropper Lads with them. Had a group hug (Here’s ….to the Magpies………who will dance……….IN your face………). Home.
Cuckoo's Nest dance
Dawny eats grey icing - looks ewww.
Watching Fox's Morris - or is it Powderkeg's.. (I think its the latter)
Sexy 'Raving Maes'
Here is Fox's Morris
A Powderkeg and Fox's Mass dance
That's my friend Witchhazel in Powderkeg's
Jack and 'Jog' the hedgehog
400 roses outside the Nook pub
Hobby Horse
Slow magpies in the parade
Victoria Park amphitheatre
Kids do Cuckoos nest
The amphitheatre of Victoria Park overlooks Holmfirth
Jillian wears my hat as it is acquiring many badges...
Dinner in tent
Our tent by the river
Ang and Mick dine in style
Mr Fox fire dance at the Methodist church
one of my best pics of this
creepy but ace and inspirational
Pip in the new Magpie craze - black kilts
6 hat pile up on a drum
The Sheffield Giants
make-up application
Vic there with my tatters and hat (on left with back to camera)
First my bit... Now this is a typical Yorkshire valley village - the streets are steep and the houses piled up along the valley slopes, and a river running down the middle, with pubs built right next to them so you can have a pint virtually on a bridge next to the entrance. This is Last of the Summer Wine country, so many of you should know how the place looks, I'm certain the cafe used in the television series got a lot of visitors. I had people loan me a sleeping bag and my lilo was still in Mark's car from Upton the previous week. I got picked up by Ang, Mick and Freyja. There was a last minute decision to bring the magpie standard (see Cuckoo day post) and as Mick has a large van I sat on the sofa bed in the back holding the magpie the whole 25 minute trip there.
It was a grand day, so much to see and do and the sun shone beautifully. The place was crowded, my friend Steve Jones was there too - he's a regular to folk festivals and loves morris dancers. We did a massive parade today too, and the magpies managed to slow down the entire procession because of their dancing on the spot. It was a great finale to the day up at Victoria Park - where the people sat on the grass, was an amphitheatre and the dance floor had a back view of Holmfirth behind it - this park must have been built for festival. I got a gradual headache all day and was hungry by the time it was dinner, so we stopped off at the co-op to buy up on food before we walked to the campsite which was at the cricket grounds. Great to get cool and walk barefoot on the grass. Eating and drugs made headache go and desire to go to see Mr Fox dance again (as i did in Whitby) and then after that, we wandered to the cricket club and sang songs - again. This is what we do - everynight we go out. And they are always the same songs. I went to bed before the others and then jess joined me - a new member - and not long after we were in bed, Mark and Dawn arrived. Us girls bunked up together. Awesome sleep.
Next day just as sunny, partially cloudy. Packed up tent and all stuff before heading off to village. Met the Sheffield Giants. My housemate Vic arrived and she even danced in my kit (tatters and hat) as I was not dancing. Just before we all went home, we did one last dance by the church and the 'Summer Wine' cafe, and I spoke to a guy from a Cotswold team who had a hobby horse with him and I also found out was Australian, and that we also had a mutual friend back in South Australia. Small world is England.
At the end of the day, Vic got to drive me home and ended up giving Ang and Freyja a lift too. Wonderful weekend! Got myself a LOT of leather badges of other teams.
Holmfirth Folk Festival 2012
Saturday morning saw us meeting at Hollowgate for the first dance out with Wakefield and Alford and then with two other border sides Powder Kegs and Foxes. Our side comprised Ange, Terry, Helen, Joe, Thomas, Lynda, Paul, Mark, Linda, Keith, Smiley Chris and Beardie Chris, Dawn, Harry, Penny, Tania, Jonathan, SJ, Zara, Jeanette and Brittany. First festival dance out for Brittany, resplendent in new top hat. Joe and Thomas, suitably painted, danced too. And great to have Sean doing his inimitable announcements where he lies about Marsden. We danced for a double stint and then they said “How about a mass border dance ?”. “Good idea!”, we said “What can you do?”, they said. “Cuckoo’s Nest”, we said. “Great!” they said. When, however, they came to dance the “Mass border morris dance”, it was less massive than it should have been, because they had decided to dance something we didn’t know! Cheers guys! Ange showed solidarity by leaving us to go and dance with them. Cheers Ange! She’d dance with the Devil if he was looking for a partner (Should he exist – a Christian concept….). We also met our facebook friend, the lovely Witchazel Green
Anyway, down to The Nook with its tiny courtyard of 12 cobbles and a manhole cover, where we squashed in several dances with 400 Roses, a Ladies Tummy Wobbling side. This is where Chris came into his own. I should explain that Chris, although always well turned out costume – wise, tends not to dance unless shamed into it. He prefers to sit it out and talk to adjacent dogs (see photos). When asked if he wants to dance he will shrug and say “Not that bothered” while partaking of his pre-prepared “medicine”. However, WITHOUT BEING ASKED! he leapt to his feet and proffered his belly in a most unseemly and undignified way. Several of the audience (Mr. and Mrs. Gnomestrangler and their hamster, Kevin, had to be escorted away to receive counselling). He then proceeded to flop it about with the shocked 400 Roses with complete abandon. We noted though, that he always kept in line, a skill which he shuns when dancing with us. He can always be relied upon to be two feet in front of everyone else, and when everyone else is two feet in front, three feet behind. We can only conclude, therefore that he just dances with us to take the piss. Any way, after the end of the dance, the smelling salts passed round the more genteel of the audience, we did a Tinner’s Rabbit with the lovely ladies (see photos). A fine set of female pulchritude, with the added bonus in a couple of cases of being able to stop a good tackle, a quality always to be revered in Northern womanhood. Tania sold a record number of badges, presumably by threatening people. (Tania can stop a good tackle,too). The dancing finished, I was about to order my dead cow burger when everyone buggered off to the Bridge.
A word about sticks. We use hazel, and it splits regularly, especially when doing twiglet. It did today. SJ had kindly brought us some sea-hardened driftwood to try. There was no problem at all with splitting any more. No! It just snaps off straight across the middle even when clashing with the side members who stick like fairies (Angie). A failure I’m afraid. But never fear SJ, I won’t tell Chris.
We did a good Lady’s White Arse, until Pip, our Most Improved Dancer, turned the wrong way in the Hey and completely effed up the whole line. Yellow card. It was during this session that Dawn received the side’s injuries and bled for us. Again.
Do you remember the days when we were all short arses? At five foot seven and a half I was the tallest in the side, down to Geordie Chris. Four foot eleven but don’t mess with her. She bites. We have now big people, who are ok, but take longer to get round. We have to add another four bars if Mark is dancing to allow for orbiting him.
To the park for the procession. After milling about for a bit we got in line. During this time a couple of the side had maypoled – Penny, and Keith, a man of many parts, most of them private. Any way – out on to the road with the Magpie standard, marching proudly on, until I realised that I was on me own, the rest of them doing a processional dance WHICH DID NOT INVOLVE MOVING FORWARD. The result was I was miles in front getting bollocked from all and sundry for there being a big gap – it was getting difficult to see them without binoculars, they were so far away, and I was unable to do anything about it. So I continued to wend my lonely way casually dive bombing the odd child with the Magpie standard. For future reference, guys, a procession is supposed to process, the clue’s in the name. What you were doing was a static. Arriving at the park, we ducked under the arches of the other dancers and watched each side doing their show dance. We finished with White Lady’s Arse, which went down well. Slubbing Billy then performed their fine Luddite play, including an appearance of a young Ned Ludd. Good stuff.
Now being totally knackered, we hobbled to the Co-op, some for food, some for grass, and back to the camp site for tea. Jo and Helen bowled up in a cute little camper van. Then back to Holmfirth to see the unique Mr.Fox, with their wonderful display of music, fire, and dancing. We got there early and while sharing the medicine Chris was , I thought, unjustly accused of farting. Coming to his aid, I said, “It could have been anybody!”, to which he replied, “Oh – it was probably you then!”. You try to help a chap out…………….A great performance from Mr.Fox, as usual. Pity Penny and Keith missed it. (A man of many parts…….)
Then to the cricket club. We eventually ended up in the canteen bit, where we exchanged songs with a pleasant crew who were there already. It was then it occurred.
Let’s face it, I am no oil painting. Except perhaps by Heironymus Bosch. And I am, shall we say, old enough to be a granddad. All right – I am a granddad. But, and here is the nub, I do have a very deep singing voice. Not brilliant. But deep. I have been told it vibrates furniture. Now, bearing this in mind, I direct you towards the humble spin drier. And the practice (I understand) of women sitting on it. Apparently, not to put too fine a point on it, the vibrations go up, to give it its medical name, the twinkle, thus causing sexual gratification. Now transfer that thought to voice-vibrated furniture. I trust I do not have to draw pictures.
So, I’m sitting there singing something or other when I am conscious of this young woman, 25 or so, in my younger days we would have described her as “worth one”, obviously pissed, looking intently at me. I finish the song. She says it was wonderful. I look behind me to see who she’s talking to. It’s me. I think “the Twinkle Factor’s kicked in”. It’s not often I get such adulation, so I launch into Barratt’s Privateers. And then, just before the last verse, she grabs my face with both hands and gives me a kiss. It wasn’t a peck. It was arms and legs flailing gasping for air. I haven’t finished me song yet, says I, smooth as ever. I finish me song. She then announces she’s a cured heroin addict to all and sundry. There’s no answer to that. A rough looking bugger enters, and converses with her, asks if she’s coming. She says no. He says please yourself. I was now starting to get worried. If she did a repeat performance I could well end up on the floor picking up me teeth. I am to fighting what Dale Winton is to arc welding. I should here mention the support I was getting from my fellows, who sat around pissing themselves laughing. Luckily he buggered off, and I was wishing she’d do the same. Eventually she got up and said “Are you coming with me?”. Pointing at my wedding ring and thinking of loose teeth, I declined . She left. When I told my wife Helen she laughed. I am now practising singing an octave higher.
The evening continued, with singing, playing and medicine. Chris in fine form. I notice, when I’m talking to him, he appears to be focussing on something 3 feet behind me. Then, like Captain Oates, but without the words, he lurches towards the door, having to be set upright again by people he’s bouncing off. And he disappeared off into the night. We found him later leaning over a wall staring intently at nothing.
Angie and Seamus and eventually Mark and Keith roll up. Bloody typical. There’s never a big bugger around when you want one. So with Seamus weaving magical tunes and Angie dancing with………anybody really, I got tired and left, casting an eye hither and thither just in case.
Sunday – lovely sunny day! On getting up I found that only one foot was functioning, the other just hanging on the end of me leg. Eventually the use returned. Down to Hervey’s, where Pip, sporting his kilt, arrived and also the Chrisses. Chris never has a hangover, no matter how pissed he gets. I have come to the conclusion that it’s because HE’ PISSED ALL THE TIME!. He just gets more pissed. Then less pissed. Shared the spot with the Sheffield giants (not a rugby team), a team of appalachian dancers, and a side of belly dancers well endowed in the busty substance area. However, there’s only so much you can take before you start feeling sea-sick.
To the Elephant and Castle, a venue so placed as not to bother anyone, not even the Gnomestranglers and Kevin. Watched the gravity-defying Jig Crew, hanky bandits par excellence, Sisters in Arms, the talented young girlie rappers, danced a bit, let George run under our legs. (Don’t look up when you get to Pip, George. You could be scarred for life). Made a note to train Pip to actually put the sticks in the bag, and not to piss off with it empty leaving a pile of loose sticks.
To the Bridge again. Danced the usual, That mad bat, Zara had her first dance out. Luckily I sat that one out. I could see from uncontrolled energy she was putting into it somebody was going to die. Cute little magpielet George escaped and almost made it to the river before being brought down by Daddy from behind.
A nice lady said the only people she could remember from last year were the giants and us! Of course, she could have remembered us because we were so crap, I suppose.
Then the Methodist church opposite Ivy’s café of summer wine fame. Did a quick White Arse, and then watched the Luddite play again. It seemed Ned Ludd had had a heavy session last night. He looked at least 60 years older. Sang the Cropper Lads with them. Had a group hug (Here’s ….to the Magpies………who will dance……….IN your face………). Home.
Cuckoo's Nest dance
Dawny eats grey icing - looks ewww.
Watching Fox's Morris - or is it Powderkeg's.. (I think its the latter)
Sexy 'Raving Maes'
Here is Fox's Morris
A Powderkeg and Fox's Mass dance
That's my friend Witchhazel in Powderkeg's
Jack and 'Jog' the hedgehog
400 roses outside the Nook pub
Hobby Horse
Slow magpies in the parade
Victoria Park amphitheatre
Kids do Cuckoos nest
The amphitheatre of Victoria Park overlooks Holmfirth
Jillian wears my hat as it is acquiring many badges...
Dinner in tent
Our tent by the river
Ang and Mick dine in style
Mr Fox fire dance at the Methodist church
one of my best pics of this
creepy but ace and inspirational
Pip in the new Magpie craze - black kilts
6 hat pile up on a drum
The Sheffield Giants
make-up application
Vic there with my tatters and hat (on left with back to camera)
- Mood:
stressed - Music:Lisa Gerrard
I suppose I have to face it. I'm not healed yet. I'm starting to wonder if my knee will ever be the same again. I'm also wondering what kind of work I can do in the future. I have a sneaking suspicion that my life will never involve a lot of action. Sometimes i think that when my knee started to hurt itself when I was 13 and 14, was when I lost a lot of confidence with myself.
:(
- Mood:
angry
I wrote an article about the Edinburgh Fire Festival for the Pagan Times magazine and emailed it back to Australia, I think Alannah was the editor of PT at the time, and the article was published. Then I wrote an article about the Pride Parade and sent it to my friend Caroline who was editor of the Victorian zine the 'Screaming Mandrake' but she never published it and i never kept a copy of the article on the laptop I wrote it on.
I saw Caroline about 3 or 4 times between now and then, and when i saw her at Beltane 2011, asked her if she could send the article - finally. And she found it and emailed it to me in Dec 2011 - 5.5 years later I finally saw what I call the 'lost article'. I seriously thought i'd never see it again, and I remember really being proud of it too, when I'd written it.
So here it is, the 'lost article' found again...
(This article was written in June 2006 and emailed to Caroline Morton who, at the time, published ‘The Screaming Mandrake’ zine in Australia – but she never published it and I never saw it until now – Dec, 2011)
The Pagan Pride Parade & the Beltane Bash
London, May 2006: Two Days of Merriment
by Tania Poole
The Pagan Pride Parade
On the morning of Tuesday 23rd May, I immediately jumped onto the computer to check when the Pagan Pride Parade was on in London. Thanks to some back-issues of Pagan Dawn, I noticed it always seemed to be held on the final weekend of May, and sure enough it was. So it seemed perfect timing that I was travelling down to London from Leeds that day. Not only that, but the Pride March was being held on 28th May - my Birthday!
I emailed a fellow pagan, Gemma, whom I was planning to meet in London, and we organised to meet on Sunday morning. It had been her birthday the previous day, so I gave her a toy wombat. We made our way to Red Lion Square and Conway Hall, and saw two large Giants standing by the Park garden with men in Green with drums. Excitement set in! In the hall were some fantastic stalls, and the stage was covered in more Giants.
After I purchased a Wicker Man badge, we gathered outside for the parade. The sun was out and glaring, and we could suddenly hear drums. Around the square came drummers followed by the two Giants we had seem earlier, Herne and Selene. They danced to the drums while the other Giants were carried out of the Hall. People all around us held banners, representing their towns or pagan groups. There were people covered in foliage, painted green faces, Green Man masks and antlers crowning them, people all smiling in their array of pagan greenery. Drummers wore top hats or bowler hats with ribbons and badges all over them, and they wore tattered tunics.
Out came the main banner – a black one titled 'A Merry May Pagan Pride Parade' with a green man face on it. And behind the banner came Jack-in-the-Green. Years earlier I had seen a picture of this very Green Man and wanted to make my own! He was covered head to toe in laurel and ivy leaves, and crowned with antlers.
The Giants were the Morrigan, dressed in green with a white veil and crowned in a wreath of flowers. She was accompanied by two tall raven giants. Herne was horned and wearing a brown tunic and hood. Selene was blue skinned and in a blue dress. She had a green shoulder cape, a white veil and flowery wreath, also crowned with a silver cresent. Both Herne and Selene came from the Eastbourne Pagan Group.
Old Man Thunder had red hair and beard. He wore a red cape and a flowery wreath with gold stars. To me, he looked like a Yule King. Old Dame Holda had grey plaited hair and a leafy wreath on. She wore a black dress, Viking necklaces and a blue cape. Bran was bearded and wearing a green tunic and dark green hood. He wore a huge golden sun amulet. All the Giants were accompanied by drummers.
We began the march – we let the Jack-in-the-Green walk first with his followers – the Green Lady, a woman who had a fantail of peacock feathers behind her head. There were also the Bogie drummers covered in green tatters, and the Naughty Fairies. We let a few of the Giants pass before we joined the march ourselves.
I was ecstatic and having so much fun! Gemma was likewise, both of us were so glad we found out about this weekend. I wore my orange felt witch’s hat, and realised I was the only one with a witch’s hat on. The Parade proceeded to head into the Bloomsbury area. The police were out and blocking the roads for us – I was not sure how long the march was – perhaps under 1km long. People in the traffic stared. I recall waving to people on red double decker buses, and even saw some of our Green men twirling and dancing with shop owners who had come out to see what was happening.
We soon reached our destination – Russell Square Gardens. The procession was still led by the Jack and he headed straight for the centre of the Park to the fountain – and walked right over it! Soon all the Green men and Bogie drummers were walking through the water. I joined a spiral dance, and with the drummer playing, we circled the fountain, sometimes running through it. Youths were volunteering to get pushed into the fountain by Green men. People were drenched everywhere. I saw someone in the crowd twirling poi, so I pulled mine out of my bag and joined in.
At about midday, we turned back to leave the park and walked around via the British Museum. Crowds of people still gathered on the side of the road and stared, looking a little perplexed at what they were viewing, the drummers still playing, and the Giants walking as if they owned the streets. Arriving back at Conway Hall, we let the Giants walk in before we all piled in. Thus ended the Pagan Pride Parade of 2006.
The Beltane Bash
The rest of the weekend was the Beltane Bash. The hall had five rooms for traders, stalls and lectures. The foyer was named the Earth Hall, and had stalls selling cloaks and aura photographs. The Water Hall had tarot and rune readers, and the Air Hall was a small room for lectures. The Spirit Hall was upstairs where lectures were held, and Gemma and I attended a Rune workshop, mainly to avoid a terrible band that was playing in the largest hall – the Fire Hall, where the entertainment and main stalls were.
Wendy Rule was arriving to perform at 5pm, and I found her in the foyer setting up her CDs. She was surprised to see me there, asking me what I was doing on this side of the world. She, her son, and her boyfriend had just flown in from the US, so had missed the Parade. Gemma and I found seats on the upstairs level of the Fire hall and watched her sing, feeling our weary bodies relax.
On the way home on the Underground, we met a grey bearded pagan named Ian who, after calling out to us from the other end of the carriage and pushing his way through, asked us how our day had been. He must have recognised us in our pentacles, green jackets and badges. He was carrying two Irish drums, wore a huge pentacle, and a large black hat. (A week later, we met him again at the Ealing Pub moot.)
On the Monday, the event did not begin until midday, so we took our time getting there, window shopping in Covent Garden, and meeting a friend near Holborn station. On the way to the Hall, we saw Ian walking along with friends, waving and calling out to us. We were back for Day Two. In the Fire Hall, there were a fantastic drumming group called 'Barking Bateria.' I recognised Ronald Hutton sitting two rows ahead of me, watching the performance. After a little while, Gemma and I, grinning like Cheshire cats, approached Ron and asked him to sign his books for us. I had bought his book, 'Stations of the Sun' the previous day, so was very happy to have my favourite Hutton book signed. We then waited to hear him talk about 'Love, Sex and Death', which was an all-round enjoyable talk.
The popular place for guests and lecturers to end up was 'The Dolphin' pub, down the side lane. Later, we went for a drink, and perhaps to chat to Ron. I didn't stay long, as I had something I wanted to do before he left. I went back to the Hall and bought one more of his books, then went back to get him to sign a book for my friend David. When I told him Dave's name, he said instantly that he knew him and wrote the loveliest message in the book for him. It made my day - I couldn't stop grinning. We spent the next few minutes discussing mutual friends.
The Ritual
At 6pm the ritual was about to start. The theme this year was the jovial play/ritual of 'The Land of Oz' and the 4 quarters were elemental Munchkins. Dorothy and a person in a dog suit – Toto - came into the circle and travelled to each quarter to meet the Scarecrow, Tinman and the Lion. Even the Wicked Witch appeared with a 4 year old kid dressed as a winged monkey. Jack-in-the-Green had a small role in the ritual, there was a brief appearance of the Wizard himself, and even a woman dressed exactly like the Good Witch, directing Dorothy's path. At the end of the rite, Jack was stripped of his foliage to die for the following year, and we all got to take home a branch of laurel.
On my way home, the Central Line was closed for maintenance, and while waiting for a bus to North Acton station, a rail worker who was directing passengers asked me what the laurel was for. I simply announced that it was “a part of the Green Man”, ready for his perplexed reply. It was then that he told me he was a Morris Dancer! It’s amazing who you meet in the City of London.
All proceeds of the Beltane Bash go towards the conservation of Ravens Wood, a 25 acres area of woodland situated in the hills of the Chilterns. The forest is made up of Oak, Ash, Beech and Hazel, and foxgloves and bluebells carpet the forest floor in spring. The organisers of the annual Beltane Bash and Halloween Festival purchased the forest by putting their house up as collateral, and every year, money from these events goes towards the upkeep of the woods.
The highlights of my weekend were the Pride Parade, meeting new pagan friends, surprising Wendy Rule, meeting Ronald Hutton, and making a new friend in Gemma, who moved in with for the summer. This was a wonderful birthday!
- Mood:
creative - Music:Icehouse
Terry has again, written up a blog piece about Upton with hilarious results. Of course, this makes it seem easy for me, coz then i don't have to write up my own blog piece. But here I will write my own blog piece first, it just does not have to be as long.
Mark, Dawn, Jo and I left a bit after 10am on Friday morning. After visiting the Outdoor store, where I got myself a cheap air mattress, we hit the M1 and got to Worchestershire at about 2pm. Linda and Jonathon arrived at the same time. The ground was very undulated and huge puddles formed within the ditches. After erecting the tents, Jo and I went into the village on the bus and ate chips and burgers at the chippy. Then we went to the Swan (which is named 'The Folky One' in Terry's post). Then onto the old Anchor - and when I say old, I mean olde- its called Ye Olde Anchor and it was built in the early 17th century. From the window we could see the other Magpies had arrived, so we went out and caught up with them back at the Swan.
I got tired and got the shuttle bus back to the camp site by myself - I had the crutches and my knee was in its 'bad mood' - its been hurting lately when i sit funny, as if something is moving about and pressing itself on my nerves (I've since been for an x-ray and there no bones loose - but it will be something else). I was also tired and went to bed, but the raggle of magpies arrived back and entered the tent I was sleeping in (the largest tent we had in our site) and kept me awake - that was alright though).
After a night of cold wind and snoring from neighbours, we awoke to find that we had been robbed in the night. Our discovery started after 6 am when I was awake and could hear Jo rolling a cig. I told her from our big tent to her small one that I could hear her and she said 'I'm not rolling a cig, coz I can't find my papers. My bag is missing.'
I got up and watched her look around for it, meanwhile watching a woman approach our group of tents. I'd seen her earlier chatting to someone on my way to the port-a-loos, and now she came over and told us that there had been a thief in the night. When she told us someone had stolen over £100 from her tent, the Magpies began to stir - clearly awake and listening to us chat. Christopher could be heard fumbling about in their tent, and suddenly loudly exclaimed that his trousers were gone! Phone, wallet and all! Mark was up and checking his belongings and found £50 -£60 had gone. All our tent zips were slightly open.
As people across our section of the campsite woke to find they had been robbed (I am not sure how many in the end) it was reported to the guards who did nothing about it - but what could they do? The police prefer each individual to report theft, so thats what people did. In truth, the guards can only do so much, when people wandering around a campsite at 2am could be campers - how are you to know? In the end, its our own responsibility to look after our own belongings. I was glad I had moved my bag into the 'bedroom' compartment of our tent at the eleventh hour.
What shocked me more (being an Australian and not experiencing large festivals as much) was the frequency of this occurance at festivals. It happens at dozens of other festivals too. Guards and other people told me which other festivals have had it happen - always on the first night and the thief always 'acts drunk' when they are seen going into other peoples tent, getting caught and making excuses that 'its hard to see in the dark which tent is yours' - Cheeky fucking bastards. In the end, I think people driving into the campsite should be warned to protect their stuff and sleep with their valuables. Its up to us to keep it safe.
In the end, Mark, Chris and Jo had money taken. Jo was more upset at losing a handmade felt purse in her bag, but she got it back - they found it under a neighbouring tent, sans money. Chris's trousers were found - his wallet too, but the cash gone and his phone. He got his credit cards back which was good.
I had had a bad night with cold, lack of sleep and a sore knee that would not get better. In my half sleep, I considered getting up, going to Gloucester hospital and going to A & E to see to the knee - I was thinking of calling my cousins Tony and Liz for their help at emergency (they live in Gloucester) but after all the 'thieving' drama, I forgot my own problems.
Irony - Thieving Magpies got robbed. What a newspaper headline. Luckily the £20 I had on (all the money I had in the world) was not taken.
The rest of the weekend was good. I used my crutches all the time, even though the knee was often quite good. The 2 full days we spent at Upton were sunny, Sunday more than Saturday. On Sat, I felt a migraine coming on (did not drink enough water) and my evening after our feast at the tent, did I really feel it coming on - at the Swan, we sat virtually outside in the cold, coz inside was too crowded - I went back to camp again by myself due to bad migraine. The night was extremely mild when I got up to go to the toilet - the campsite lit up - the super moon lit up the sky, but we had clouds - which kept us warm, but it was still bright out there. Warmer night than the night before. Slept better.
My knee on Sunday was good all day and we walked in a procession down the long street in Upton then walked through an arch of Morris team who had walked before us. It went for about 100 metres, people using their sticks for the arch. Amazing feeling!
On Sunday night, we dined outside the tent in the setting sun and the all went into the village again. We went for a drink at the King's Head, then went and sat up the back in the Anchor and learned from Chris, physical details of Bon Jovi's crotch and how small it was. This was all witnessed before he was famous in the 80's. Her friend has slept with him after a gig where they were the support band. She came back reporting such details. It was after this that the band of Bon Jovi found fame.
Monday morning it was raining, so we packed up and went home - no one could be bothered dancing in the village, we had all had enough and drove home.....
This weekend, we sang, danced, and pulled out our portable maypole. There were almost 50 other odd dancing groups - from Border Morris, Cotswold Morris, North West Clogs and others - no sword or rapper dancers though! It was an amazing weekend and we were all glad it was sunny for the event. Besides, it dried those pesky puddles at the campsite...
Now for Terry's addition... where I get accused of not being a true Aussie because I don't say 'bonza' and stuff. I never did! That kind of 'Strine' has never appealed to me...
Upton Folk Festival
This year we decided to head south to Upton. We tried north to Upton last year, but it didn't really work. Arriving early evening, we noticed that some of Upton was In Severn. The usual camp site was waterlogged so an alternative was procured consisting of a series of troughs and ridges, the troughs still holding water. Mark had reserved us a huge tract of ground about the size...... of two desktops to fit four tents on, but somehow we squeezed three of them on, with The Purple Faction's (see later) tent a little way away in preparation for their arrival on the morrow. Onto the shuttle bus. The naughty boy seats upstairs at the back. Then down to the chip shop for some food. It is gratifying to know that a few places down south are getting the hang of mushy peas at last. Unfortunately they aren't getting the hang of beer prices, which are all prefixed with £3-. Anyway, down to the pub. Having had a lot of brain cells decaying of late (where do decayed brain cells go? Are they the bogeys you find in the morning nostril?) I can't remember the pub names, so I will be calling them "The Folky One", "The Other Good One", and "The Moon" (absolutely no atmosphere).
So - down The Folky One, which was pretty full, but we found a back room with a big table which no - one had claimed. There was a fiddle on it, which may have been a feeble attempt to claim it, but when the woman came back for her fiddle, she obviously didn't like the look of us and buggered off. I'm with her there, actually. We are a motley crew and have frightened horses (see previous blog). I don't like the look of us either. A night of singing and drinking then ensued, until we ran out of songs and it was time for the last shuttle. Back to Mark's Big Top for more drinks and singing. I should explain that Mark had a tent at Whitby when the gales struck and destroyed both the east and west wings. the damage was so bad it had to be put down. So learning from the experience that big tents blow down in gales, Mark, this time, bought another big tent, and prayed there wouldn't be a gale. Seemed to work. So off to bed.
On waking up, it appeared that Mr. and Mrs. Bastard's son, Robin, had decided he would relieve us of the worry of looking after our money by taking it away to a safe place. Unfortunately he didn't tell us where it was. Chris's trouser's having been retrieved (Thank the gods for that - Chris dancing with no trousers would not be a pretty sight), there was relief, nay, gratitude, that the bastard hadn't taken the credit cards as well. There was then a discussion of how to trap him, and which appendages would be cut off. I favour putting him in a shed with his bollocks in a vice, giving him a razor blade, and then setting fire to it.
A word about camp toilets. At the side of the pan, there is a lever with the word “whale” on it. No matter how many times I pulled the lever, however, the sea water washed in, but the mighty Leviathon never once showed himself. Disappointing. I can only assume he objected to being shat on.
Good news - there is an on site cafe where three lovely ladies provided us with breakfast and coffee. Then on the bus blacked up and tattered for the day's dancing. I think we danced pretty well. Don't remember any major cock-ups. I do remember a splendid roast pork sandwich. During the day, Lynda turned up, as did The Purple Faction. The Purple Faction are SJ, Jeannette and Zara. Our rules, which are carved in stone on a boulder above Eastergate are:
You will wear black and are allowed 5% white, green or purple. Or is it 10%. Or if you are Angie, your 5% is black too. Or is it 10%. And if you are Angie you are not a magpie. (I have spent many hours mulling over this last, and I can't fathom it. You start a side called Magpie, but you are not one. Shouldn't you decide what you are, then start a side, then call it what you are? Women - you can't live with 'em............). Anyway, the other rules are that you should have a beard. Or not. And a feathery hat. Or not. And a tattoo. If you like. We don't have squires or bagmen and such. Every decision is totally democratic right up to the point where Angie says no.
I hope that clarifies it. Anyway, I had to yellow card The Purple Faction for over-use of that colour. Once you start looking pleasing to the eye people will think you are Boggart's Breakfast and start expecting entertainment. I would have red carded them, but the clash of red and purple would have been positively dangerous. As it is, they are now ineligible for the semi-final.
Perhaps this is a good time for roll call. Angie, Terry, Lynda, Jo, Smiley Chris, Beardy Chris, Mark, Dawn, Tania, Linda, Jonathon, Paul, SJ, Jeanette, Zara. Good turn out!
And so - late afternoon - showcase spot! We were on last, so the crowd was a little thin (Mr. and Mrs. Nosepoultice and their budgie, Cobber). We danced Witchman's, Wychwood, and Stomp. This was followed by a Ceilidh, which nobody wanted to do. Except The Purple Faction. So leaping about like the Witches in Tam o' Shanter, they forced some poor bastards to partner them. And this is where I was conned. As you know, I am 98 next year, and the ankles are not what they used to be, but when approached by SJ, and being a sucker for a pretty face, I succumbed and joined the dance. At least it's not that mad bat, Zara, I thought, having watched her spinning her partner at 75 mph, and the centrifugal force catapulting him into the river. But having got me out there, she abandoned me and went looking for other mugs! And who did I end up with? Yes! I am not saying she is not a lovely girl, but she is effing dangerous to dance with. It's like being on a ride at Alton Towers.
So - having survived the ordeal, a few of us decided to go to the showers at the rugby club. There were 6 showers of which Mark took up 5. He is really that big. I suspect he is responsible for a fair proportion of world famine.
Back to the site for a shared tea of vegan stuff and back to The Folky Pub barn where we spent another evening of laughter and song and cold. Shuttle bus - naughty boy seats - got the whole top deck singing "Ilkley Moor Baht 'At"! Back to Mark's mansion where food and drink was passed around ("May you never thirst", which as the night wore on became "May-thing") Chris started on the medicinal gin & tonic, which I helped him with. You can't eff about with medicine. And then a horrible sight which spoiled the evening. Mark lured certain gullible female members to lie on him, promising "everything was soft". If you have seen Jabba the Hutt on Star Wars you will get an idea of the situation. And so to bed.
Sunday- blue skies - sun!
Parade day! Having said "we don't do processional dances" we did one anyway while Mark and Terry leapt about. Ended with the archway and all dancers passing through where we forced Phil and the Bunnies from Hell, our favourite hanky bandits, to jump over our sticks. Then dancing round the town, where they had the cheek to do Twiglet without me! The bastards! Chris dropped her stick. She thinks it was an accident, but I stood on the wall and shouted "Expelliamus!". How dare they!
The Chrisses had got 3 complimentary tickets from Theo Simon of Seize the Day, so while Mark and Dawn and the rest were at the Boathouse for the song competition, The Chrisses and Terry went to the Seize the Day concert. We were treated like heroes! Theo put our banner on the stage and told the audience we had the same attitude as the Luddites! Seize the Day were brilliant! Bade farewell then to the song competition to catch Mark and Dawn. We thought Dawn should have won.
Back to the site where various vegetables were being made palatable by frying them. I was treated to howls of derision for wanting to fry the cucumber. Why not? You fry courgettes. They're only tubes of water anyway. And peppers. Let's face it, peppers are ornaments. They're only there for the colour. I heard Mark say "I'm hanging on for the cous-cous!". That's like opening a box of chocolates and looking forward to the plastic tray. Thank the gods for the chicken.
I should mention here Jonathan. No matter how up to the knees in mud we were, Jonathan always turned up immaculately presented – creases in jeans, clean jumper, trimmed beard with no sign of face paint. This is unusual. Speaking as one who has forgotten to take his paint off, and gone to bed in it with resulting pillow discolouration, I can only say that he is an extremely fastidious person. Or in league with Satan (should he exist – a Christian concept).
Also Tania. Having heroically struggled round all weekend on crutches I can only admire her grit and Ozzie determination. But then – no one has ever heard her speak the language. She has never said “Feeling a bit crook today, sport” or “That was a bonza barbie” or “Yeah- that’s fair dinkum, cobber”. And she doesn’t know any traditional bush songs. Could she be an imposter? Worse still – a spy from the Morris Ring? Could there be a bomb in the magpie? We should be on our guard.
Anyway, back to town looking for a place to sing. The Folky Place backroom was still taken up with some wanker calling himself a medium extracting folding money from the gullible. I saw him and he was definitely only a small.. “Is there anybody there?” . Yes, we are you twat, you’ve taken our room.
We briefly listened to a trio of a decent banjo player, a competent mandolinist, and an average pillock on guitar purporting to be a Blue Grass trio, but not playing much of it. The guitarist had a novel way of introducing numbers with anecdotes that had absolutely no connection with what they were going to play: “Who’s heard of Horace Batchelor?” .Well. I had. Being a village elder, I can remember him on Radio Luxemburg in the 50’s. “I have!” I said. Making no acknowledgement whatsoever, they then played “It takes a worried man!”. So how you do it is, say, “Who can remember Prince Monolulu?”, wait for a reply, then play The Lark in the Morning.
All this time I noticed SJ jigging about. She even press ganged some poor girl who was only passing through for a wee and forced her to dance with her until she nearly wet herself. Dances to anything, that girl. If somebody jangles their keys she’ll be halfway through a Paso Doble before you can say Jack Robinson. Off to The Moon where there was space but no atmosphere. Appropriate innit? Having got fed up with that, we went to The Other Good One, where the landlady said we could sing round the back. This proved to be a big room where we could all get round the table. And it is here we heard:
The Bon Jovi Incident. As related by Smiley Chris. – this happened “to her friend”. (You know when a bloke goes to the doctor and says “My friend’s got a Pringle’s tube stuck up his arse”, he doesn’t mean his friend, does he?). Anyway, apparently Chris’s “friend” (nod nod wink wink say no more) had congress with Bon Jovi before he was famous. No I’m not talking about US politics. I’m talking about congress of a leg across nature. And apparently Bon Jovi’s tackle is in inverse proportion to the size of his success. Anyway, the conversation passed on, as is its tendency, to appendages in general and I’m going to stop there.
Lots of singing – Here’s to…………Jon Bon Jovi………..and his tiny…………plonk…….etc. till eventually we caught the last shuttle for the campsite. A repeat of last night in Mark’s marquee unfortunately including the Jabba the Hutt impression, which was so intense Mark went to sleep. We probably got more pissed, and Chris went to bed and later admonished her betrothed for making too much noise. So we changed our laughter to Muttley impressions to quieten it down, but this unfortunately made us laugh more and eventually we staggered off to bed.
A mention of injuries. In this game injuries are often inflicted and suffered stoically by dancers and, Upton was no exception. Fortunately, however, Dawn had volunteered to receive all injuries on our behalf and carry out all team bleeding. So a big thanks to Dawn and we hope you get out of hospital soon.
Monday Morning – rain. We decided not to dance, (yes, even Angie) so after breakfast got packed up and headed North. Stopping for a coffee at the Motorway Services, we were suddenly over-run by soldiers in camouflage. It was rubbish, you could see them quite easily. It was then we realised that Chris, in his woolly hat, poncho and combat trousers, looked like a terrorist. We decided to leave before the military came back tooled up.
After a brief attempt to go to N Wales we wended our way back to Marsden. A thoroughly enjoyable weekend. (I especially liked Lynda’s intro – “I was talking to a normal person earlier today……”)
And what did Ange say when we got back? “Who’s up for dancing tonight?...............
Our big tent and Jo's little one
Magpies outside the Swan
Upton high street
Clog dancers
The Merry Jackdaw is a Thieving Magpie
Mark, Dawn, Jo and I left a bit after 10am on Friday morning. After visiting the Outdoor store, where I got myself a cheap air mattress, we hit the M1 and got to Worchestershire at about 2pm. Linda and Jonathon arrived at the same time. The ground was very undulated and huge puddles formed within the ditches. After erecting the tents, Jo and I went into the village on the bus and ate chips and burgers at the chippy. Then we went to the Swan (which is named 'The Folky One' in Terry's post). Then onto the old Anchor - and when I say old, I mean olde- its called Ye Olde Anchor and it was built in the early 17th century. From the window we could see the other Magpies had arrived, so we went out and caught up with them back at the Swan.
I got tired and got the shuttle bus back to the camp site by myself - I had the crutches and my knee was in its 'bad mood' - its been hurting lately when i sit funny, as if something is moving about and pressing itself on my nerves (I've since been for an x-ray and there no bones loose - but it will be something else). I was also tired and went to bed, but the raggle of magpies arrived back and entered the tent I was sleeping in (the largest tent we had in our site) and kept me awake - that was alright though).
After a night of cold wind and snoring from neighbours, we awoke to find that we had been robbed in the night. Our discovery started after 6 am when I was awake and could hear Jo rolling a cig. I told her from our big tent to her small one that I could hear her and she said 'I'm not rolling a cig, coz I can't find my papers. My bag is missing.'
I got up and watched her look around for it, meanwhile watching a woman approach our group of tents. I'd seen her earlier chatting to someone on my way to the port-a-loos, and now she came over and told us that there had been a thief in the night. When she told us someone had stolen over £100 from her tent, the Magpies began to stir - clearly awake and listening to us chat. Christopher could be heard fumbling about in their tent, and suddenly loudly exclaimed that his trousers were gone! Phone, wallet and all! Mark was up and checking his belongings and found £50 -£60 had gone. All our tent zips were slightly open.
As people across our section of the campsite woke to find they had been robbed (I am not sure how many in the end) it was reported to the guards who did nothing about it - but what could they do? The police prefer each individual to report theft, so thats what people did. In truth, the guards can only do so much, when people wandering around a campsite at 2am could be campers - how are you to know? In the end, its our own responsibility to look after our own belongings. I was glad I had moved my bag into the 'bedroom' compartment of our tent at the eleventh hour.
What shocked me more (being an Australian and not experiencing large festivals as much) was the frequency of this occurance at festivals. It happens at dozens of other festivals too. Guards and other people told me which other festivals have had it happen - always on the first night and the thief always 'acts drunk' when they are seen going into other peoples tent, getting caught and making excuses that 'its hard to see in the dark which tent is yours' - Cheeky fucking bastards. In the end, I think people driving into the campsite should be warned to protect their stuff and sleep with their valuables. Its up to us to keep it safe.
In the end, Mark, Chris and Jo had money taken. Jo was more upset at losing a handmade felt purse in her bag, but she got it back - they found it under a neighbouring tent, sans money. Chris's trousers were found - his wallet too, but the cash gone and his phone. He got his credit cards back which was good.
I had had a bad night with cold, lack of sleep and a sore knee that would not get better. In my half sleep, I considered getting up, going to Gloucester hospital and going to A & E to see to the knee - I was thinking of calling my cousins Tony and Liz for their help at emergency (they live in Gloucester) but after all the 'thieving' drama, I forgot my own problems.
Irony - Thieving Magpies got robbed. What a newspaper headline. Luckily the £20 I had on (all the money I had in the world) was not taken.
The rest of the weekend was good. I used my crutches all the time, even though the knee was often quite good. The 2 full days we spent at Upton were sunny, Sunday more than Saturday. On Sat, I felt a migraine coming on (did not drink enough water) and my evening after our feast at the tent, did I really feel it coming on - at the Swan, we sat virtually outside in the cold, coz inside was too crowded - I went back to camp again by myself due to bad migraine. The night was extremely mild when I got up to go to the toilet - the campsite lit up - the super moon lit up the sky, but we had clouds - which kept us warm, but it was still bright out there. Warmer night than the night before. Slept better.
My knee on Sunday was good all day and we walked in a procession down the long street in Upton then walked through an arch of Morris team who had walked before us. It went for about 100 metres, people using their sticks for the arch. Amazing feeling!
On Sunday night, we dined outside the tent in the setting sun and the all went into the village again. We went for a drink at the King's Head, then went and sat up the back in the Anchor and learned from Chris, physical details of Bon Jovi's crotch and how small it was. This was all witnessed before he was famous in the 80's. Her friend has slept with him after a gig where they were the support band. She came back reporting such details. It was after this that the band of Bon Jovi found fame.
Monday morning it was raining, so we packed up and went home - no one could be bothered dancing in the village, we had all had enough and drove home.....
This weekend, we sang, danced, and pulled out our portable maypole. There were almost 50 other odd dancing groups - from Border Morris, Cotswold Morris, North West Clogs and others - no sword or rapper dancers though! It was an amazing weekend and we were all glad it was sunny for the event. Besides, it dried those pesky puddles at the campsite...
Now for Terry's addition... where I get accused of not being a true Aussie because I don't say 'bonza' and stuff. I never did! That kind of 'Strine' has never appealed to me...
Upton Folk Festival
This year we decided to head south to Upton. We tried north to Upton last year, but it didn't really work. Arriving early evening, we noticed that some of Upton was In Severn. The usual camp site was waterlogged so an alternative was procured consisting of a series of troughs and ridges, the troughs still holding water. Mark had reserved us a huge tract of ground about the size...... of two desktops to fit four tents on, but somehow we squeezed three of them on, with The Purple Faction's (see later) tent a little way away in preparation for their arrival on the morrow. Onto the shuttle bus. The naughty boy seats upstairs at the back. Then down to the chip shop for some food. It is gratifying to know that a few places down south are getting the hang of mushy peas at last. Unfortunately they aren't getting the hang of beer prices, which are all prefixed with £3-. Anyway, down to the pub. Having had a lot of brain cells decaying of late (where do decayed brain cells go? Are they the bogeys you find in the morning nostril?) I can't remember the pub names, so I will be calling them "The Folky One", "The Other Good One", and "The Moon" (absolutely no atmosphere).
So - down The Folky One, which was pretty full, but we found a back room with a big table which no - one had claimed. There was a fiddle on it, which may have been a feeble attempt to claim it, but when the woman came back for her fiddle, she obviously didn't like the look of us and buggered off. I'm with her there, actually. We are a motley crew and have frightened horses (see previous blog). I don't like the look of us either. A night of singing and drinking then ensued, until we ran out of songs and it was time for the last shuttle. Back to Mark's Big Top for more drinks and singing. I should explain that Mark had a tent at Whitby when the gales struck and destroyed both the east and west wings. the damage was so bad it had to be put down. So learning from the experience that big tents blow down in gales, Mark, this time, bought another big tent, and prayed there wouldn't be a gale. Seemed to work. So off to bed.
On waking up, it appeared that Mr. and Mrs. Bastard's son, Robin, had decided he would relieve us of the worry of looking after our money by taking it away to a safe place. Unfortunately he didn't tell us where it was. Chris's trouser's having been retrieved (Thank the gods for that - Chris dancing with no trousers would not be a pretty sight), there was relief, nay, gratitude, that the bastard hadn't taken the credit cards as well. There was then a discussion of how to trap him, and which appendages would be cut off. I favour putting him in a shed with his bollocks in a vice, giving him a razor blade, and then setting fire to it.
A word about camp toilets. At the side of the pan, there is a lever with the word “whale” on it. No matter how many times I pulled the lever, however, the sea water washed in, but the mighty Leviathon never once showed himself. Disappointing. I can only assume he objected to being shat on.
Good news - there is an on site cafe where three lovely ladies provided us with breakfast and coffee. Then on the bus blacked up and tattered for the day's dancing. I think we danced pretty well. Don't remember any major cock-ups. I do remember a splendid roast pork sandwich. During the day, Lynda turned up, as did The Purple Faction. The Purple Faction are SJ, Jeannette and Zara. Our rules, which are carved in stone on a boulder above Eastergate are:
You will wear black and are allowed 5% white, green or purple. Or is it 10%. Or if you are Angie, your 5% is black too. Or is it 10%. And if you are Angie you are not a magpie. (I have spent many hours mulling over this last, and I can't fathom it. You start a side called Magpie, but you are not one. Shouldn't you decide what you are, then start a side, then call it what you are? Women - you can't live with 'em............). Anyway, the other rules are that you should have a beard. Or not. And a feathery hat. Or not. And a tattoo. If you like. We don't have squires or bagmen and such. Every decision is totally democratic right up to the point where Angie says no.
I hope that clarifies it. Anyway, I had to yellow card The Purple Faction for over-use of that colour. Once you start looking pleasing to the eye people will think you are Boggart's Breakfast and start expecting entertainment. I would have red carded them, but the clash of red and purple would have been positively dangerous. As it is, they are now ineligible for the semi-final.
Perhaps this is a good time for roll call. Angie, Terry, Lynda, Jo, Smiley Chris, Beardy Chris, Mark, Dawn, Tania, Linda, Jonathon, Paul, SJ, Jeanette, Zara. Good turn out!
And so - late afternoon - showcase spot! We were on last, so the crowd was a little thin (Mr. and Mrs. Nosepoultice and their budgie, Cobber). We danced Witchman's, Wychwood, and Stomp. This was followed by a Ceilidh, which nobody wanted to do. Except The Purple Faction. So leaping about like the Witches in Tam o' Shanter, they forced some poor bastards to partner them. And this is where I was conned. As you know, I am 98 next year, and the ankles are not what they used to be, but when approached by SJ, and being a sucker for a pretty face, I succumbed and joined the dance. At least it's not that mad bat, Zara, I thought, having watched her spinning her partner at 75 mph, and the centrifugal force catapulting him into the river. But having got me out there, she abandoned me and went looking for other mugs! And who did I end up with? Yes! I am not saying she is not a lovely girl, but she is effing dangerous to dance with. It's like being on a ride at Alton Towers.
So - having survived the ordeal, a few of us decided to go to the showers at the rugby club. There were 6 showers of which Mark took up 5. He is really that big. I suspect he is responsible for a fair proportion of world famine.
Back to the site for a shared tea of vegan stuff and back to The Folky Pub barn where we spent another evening of laughter and song and cold. Shuttle bus - naughty boy seats - got the whole top deck singing "Ilkley Moor Baht 'At"! Back to Mark's mansion where food and drink was passed around ("May you never thirst", which as the night wore on became "May-thing") Chris started on the medicinal gin & tonic, which I helped him with. You can't eff about with medicine. And then a horrible sight which spoiled the evening. Mark lured certain gullible female members to lie on him, promising "everything was soft". If you have seen Jabba the Hutt on Star Wars you will get an idea of the situation. And so to bed.
Sunday- blue skies - sun!
Parade day! Having said "we don't do processional dances" we did one anyway while Mark and Terry leapt about. Ended with the archway and all dancers passing through where we forced Phil and the Bunnies from Hell, our favourite hanky bandits, to jump over our sticks. Then dancing round the town, where they had the cheek to do Twiglet without me! The bastards! Chris dropped her stick. She thinks it was an accident, but I stood on the wall and shouted "Expelliamus!". How dare they!
The Chrisses had got 3 complimentary tickets from Theo Simon of Seize the Day, so while Mark and Dawn and the rest were at the Boathouse for the song competition, The Chrisses and Terry went to the Seize the Day concert. We were treated like heroes! Theo put our banner on the stage and told the audience we had the same attitude as the Luddites! Seize the Day were brilliant! Bade farewell then to the song competition to catch Mark and Dawn. We thought Dawn should have won.
Back to the site where various vegetables were being made palatable by frying them. I was treated to howls of derision for wanting to fry the cucumber. Why not? You fry courgettes. They're only tubes of water anyway. And peppers. Let's face it, peppers are ornaments. They're only there for the colour. I heard Mark say "I'm hanging on for the cous-cous!". That's like opening a box of chocolates and looking forward to the plastic tray. Thank the gods for the chicken.
I should mention here Jonathan. No matter how up to the knees in mud we were, Jonathan always turned up immaculately presented – creases in jeans, clean jumper, trimmed beard with no sign of face paint. This is unusual. Speaking as one who has forgotten to take his paint off, and gone to bed in it with resulting pillow discolouration, I can only say that he is an extremely fastidious person. Or in league with Satan (should he exist – a Christian concept).
Also Tania. Having heroically struggled round all weekend on crutches I can only admire her grit and Ozzie determination. But then – no one has ever heard her speak the language. She has never said “Feeling a bit crook today, sport” or “That was a bonza barbie” or “Yeah- that’s fair dinkum, cobber”. And she doesn’t know any traditional bush songs. Could she be an imposter? Worse still – a spy from the Morris Ring? Could there be a bomb in the magpie? We should be on our guard.
Anyway, back to town looking for a place to sing. The Folky Place backroom was still taken up with some wanker calling himself a medium extracting folding money from the gullible. I saw him and he was definitely only a small.. “Is there anybody there?” . Yes, we are you twat, you’ve taken our room.
We briefly listened to a trio of a decent banjo player, a competent mandolinist, and an average pillock on guitar purporting to be a Blue Grass trio, but not playing much of it. The guitarist had a novel way of introducing numbers with anecdotes that had absolutely no connection with what they were going to play: “Who’s heard of Horace Batchelor?” .Well. I had. Being a village elder, I can remember him on Radio Luxemburg in the 50’s. “I have!” I said. Making no acknowledgement whatsoever, they then played “It takes a worried man!”. So how you do it is, say, “Who can remember Prince Monolulu?”, wait for a reply, then play The Lark in the Morning.
All this time I noticed SJ jigging about. She even press ganged some poor girl who was only passing through for a wee and forced her to dance with her until she nearly wet herself. Dances to anything, that girl. If somebody jangles their keys she’ll be halfway through a Paso Doble before you can say Jack Robinson. Off to The Moon where there was space but no atmosphere. Appropriate innit? Having got fed up with that, we went to The Other Good One, where the landlady said we could sing round the back. This proved to be a big room where we could all get round the table. And it is here we heard:
The Bon Jovi Incident. As related by Smiley Chris. – this happened “to her friend”. (You know when a bloke goes to the doctor and says “My friend’s got a Pringle’s tube stuck up his arse”, he doesn’t mean his friend, does he?). Anyway, apparently Chris’s “friend” (nod nod wink wink say no more) had congress with Bon Jovi before he was famous. No I’m not talking about US politics. I’m talking about congress of a leg across nature. And apparently Bon Jovi’s tackle is in inverse proportion to the size of his success. Anyway, the conversation passed on, as is its tendency, to appendages in general and I’m going to stop there.
Lots of singing – Here’s to…………Jon Bon Jovi………..and his tiny…………plonk…….etc. till eventually we caught the last shuttle for the campsite. A repeat of last night in Mark’s marquee unfortunately including the Jabba the Hutt impression, which was so intense Mark went to sleep. We probably got more pissed, and Chris went to bed and later admonished her betrothed for making too much noise. So we changed our laughter to Muttley impressions to quieten it down, but this unfortunately made us laugh more and eventually we staggered off to bed.
A mention of injuries. In this game injuries are often inflicted and suffered stoically by dancers and, Upton was no exception. Fortunately, however, Dawn had volunteered to receive all injuries on our behalf and carry out all team bleeding. So a big thanks to Dawn and we hope you get out of hospital soon.
Monday Morning – rain. We decided not to dance, (yes, even Angie) so after breakfast got packed up and headed North. Stopping for a coffee at the Motorway Services, we were suddenly over-run by soldiers in camouflage. It was rubbish, you could see them quite easily. It was then we realised that Chris, in his woolly hat, poncho and combat trousers, looked like a terrorist. We decided to leave before the military came back tooled up.
After a brief attempt to go to N Wales we wended our way back to Marsden. A thoroughly enjoyable weekend. (I especially liked Lynda’s intro – “I was talking to a normal person earlier today……”)
And what did Ange say when we got back? “Who’s up for dancing tonight?...............
Our big tent and Jo's little one
Magpies outside the Swan
Upton high street
Clog dancers
The Merry Jackdaw is a Thieving Magpie
We got out our portable maypole
Clerical Error Morris
The mass dance at the end of Saturday
Dinner
SUNDAY
The Dancing Imp tree near our campsite
Sunny morn!
Top of double decker at the back...
Colours of Folk dancers of Britain - getting ready to process down the main street of Upton
Each team does a dance, then proceeds to dance down the street.
Thieving Magpies in parade
All the teams that went ahead of us formed a huge arch that we all walked through - it went for 100 metres!
Magpies perched on a wall
Sunday night meal - the night before we left.
- Mood:
happy - Music:clannad
I was going to write up a piece about our all-night vigil in the woods near Standedge, but then Terry, again, beat me too it with a more hilarious one. So I decided to post this one up instead. Besides, I am tired and need more sleep!
However, i will express myself here and indicate what Beltane here meant to me. I certainly felt like I had celebrated and acknowledged Beltane here - without large festival such as the Edinburgh Fire Festival which I had seen exactly 6 years earlier. At the Spring Equinox this year, i felt I had not acknowledged the sabbat, but that was because I did not do what I usually do. Beltane made up for this -
- I went to dance rehearsal - nothing unusual about that, but afterwards, instead of just visiting the pub, we danced outside of it too.
- We went down the canal towards Tunnel End to go into the woods and camp out for the night - Sleep was not really intended.
- Before dawn, we drove up Castle Hill (like Midwinter) and danced the Dawn in, with another Morris Team.
- Had cuppas at my house before we decided to subject Marsden to our pagan idols, by bringing out the Green Man Giant driven by Ang. The walking of the Green Man topped off my Beltane perfectly this year - it brought a difference to the damp morning for Marsdeners, something to recall - It was the 1st of May...
Marsden people and children are used to the celebratory craziness of us pagan locals and accept that they are stuck with it. I can tell they find it weird but harmless...
Beltane!
Usual Monday night practice in preparation for Upton next weekend. Welcome to newcomer Brittany! Her first practice, and she proved to be a natural stepper. We had the usual sit round discussion where momentous decisions failed to be made, and the way forward did not become any clearer. We'll stick to our usual course of not knowing who the eff is doing what untiil the night before the e...vent. Or later.
Anyway - tatters on and away to The Riverhead where we performed for the waiting crowds (Mr. & Mrs Grebe-Streebling and their cat, Norbert). Brittany was so good we let her DANCE OUT ON HER FIRST NIGHT! A truly momentous achievement! (It took most of us several weeks sorting out which was the sinistrous and which the dextrous foot, to say nothing of the mysteries of "turning up the set, down the set, and FOLLOWING THE STICK". I don't know about you, but my stick doesn't go anywhere on its own. It is quite static. It is therefore not really possible to follow it. I find the only time it moves is when I am holding it. I am not, therefore, so much following it, as pushing the bloody thing in front of me. I have not noticed, ever, that if I decided not to follow it, it buggered off in a different direction, and left me. Can we therefore put to bed, as it were, the concept of sticks with minds of their own leading us merrily the right way. Then we come to "up the set" and "down the set". Most dancers are lucky to get out of the pub and arrive "on the set" in time, never mind know which is "up" or "down". )
I digress.
Anyway, into the pub for a pint, and then...........THE SECRET BELTANE RITUAL. The Chrisses, having heroically spent the day gathering wood and preparing THE SECRET PLACE, Ange, Terry, Geordie Chris, Beardie Chris, Jo, Mark, Dawn, Ozzy Tania, and Jonathan set off thence with quantites of tentage, food and Al K.Hol. The Chrisses, being the only ones who knew where THE SECRET PLACE was set off with the forward party leaving Ange and Terry behind, getting their kit together, having sportingly first made sure a)they didn't know the way and b) had no torch. So Ange and Terry, following on, had to resort to the old Navajo indian ploy of facing North, cupping the left hand around the mouth, and shouting "Where the f*** are you?". No answer being heard, we finally traced them from the sound of beer bottles being opened. Coming upon THE SECRET PLACE over the hill, we were amazed to find a prepared fireplace and a life-size replica of an Egyptian pyramid in firewood. So, fire lit and cooking pots out, Chris prepared fine Sossmix, tomato, and mushroom butties, and Mark heated up a tasty leek and potato soup he had prepared earlier. It was then I realised nobody had run over the suckling pig. I should explain that nearly all the side are vegan or vegetarian. Except me. I tried it for 3 months, but it didn't work, so I have become a vegetarian one step removed. I only eat things that eat vegetation. I agreed in a previous discussion that I would only eat roadkill or culled meat. That's OK if you fancy a bit of badger, but if you want beef you could be driving about for days waiting for a cow to stray onto the road, and even then, you have to hit them a lot of times. If you're not careful, you could end up as the roadkill yourself. Big buggers, cows. Anyway, having established nobody had been arsed to run over a pig for me, I made do. It was very good. We even had some clever potatoes, I think Ange called them. So passing around the wine goblet, (May you never thirst) and not passing round the gin and tonic goblet (We'll just keep this for us two), we spent a pleasant night of song and banter, embellished by Mark's sqeeze box, and his promise not to play it. Although Angie asked me to give her one, I had to decline out of respect for Seamus. (It was interesting to note the Australian practice of bringing your bed with you and singing to adjacent trees. I suppose there's not much to do in the Outback). So dozing on our groundsheets, listening to Jonathan's bouzouki accompanied by Angie on snoring hooter, we lay until dawn approached. (The onset of day, that is. Dawn was already there). Leaping to our feet we packed up the stuff and prepared to put the fire out in the time honoured way, but as we had all already been, we used water.
Into the cars, and off to Castle Hill, where the wind was coming straight off the Urals. White Rose Morris, our favourite hanky bandits, were there too, and we both danced up the sun as it passed through the two inch gap between horizon and cloud. A fine sight though. After calming Chris down (he was upset because White Rose had danced right through the rising bit. He was shouting "Come on you buggers - I'll take you all on!". "No Chris - they're not worth it" we all said, and the situation was defused. (I may have remembered this slightly inaccurately). So, we stepped around the hilltop in true tradition proving that, even after the passage of 67 years, you are extremely lucky you didn't have a heart attack. And so to phase 3
The Green Man - would he manifest himself?
Having established that Marsden Coop doesn't open at 6.30, we arrived back at Vic's and tramped our muddy boots up her flooring. (She said it was OK, or would have if she hadn't been on holiday in Cuba). Tania having offered a huge boxful of things you can chuck boiling water on and drink it, calling it "tea", some of us chose the traditional drink. I don't know about you, but I am of the opinion that sticking some dead flowers in pretty packaging, with the instruction to pour boiling water on them and then drink it, is not why we fought Hitler in the war. Then came the dreaded question from Ange; "Who's up for taking the Green Man out?" This was met with cries of "yes let's! I would do, but my feet hurt", "I've got to go home and feed the budgie", and similar. Dawn was doing a dual impression of the Mad Hatter and Dormouse in one, so was oblivious. I would explain that Ange has a rare disease which means she has to stick her head up a giant at regular intervals. She even has her own giant, who, incidentally, looks like Patrick Kielty, but is more entertaining. Anyway after discussions about Mediaeval Babes and another cup of tea, we dragged ourselves down to Ange's and extricated the Green Man from his lodging. Having got Ange suitably strapped in, we trolled around Marsden to the amusement and astonishment of the local populace (Mr. & Mrs.Grebe-Streebling. Norbert had gone for his breakfast see above). To the park, where we paid homage to the Other Green Man and Dawn sang her lovely song, which we harmonised and ruined. Back to Angie's, pausing only to frighten small children through the school windows. A brilliant day! So home to bed......
The pub dance after rehearsal
Bonfire gathering
Rowan hung out with us
5am on Castle Hll - 30 mins before sunrise
Jo ready to dance
A bit windy and feels colder than midwinter
Dancing the dawn
Sun up on Beltane!
After the dance
Cuppas at home - deciding on whether to take out the Green Man
Dormouse Dawn after tea
Getting Ang into the Green Man
Walking the streets with the Giant
In Marsden Park singing to the May
Group photo at the River
However, i will express myself here and indicate what Beltane here meant to me. I certainly felt like I had celebrated and acknowledged Beltane here - without large festival such as the Edinburgh Fire Festival which I had seen exactly 6 years earlier. At the Spring Equinox this year, i felt I had not acknowledged the sabbat, but that was because I did not do what I usually do. Beltane made up for this -
- I went to dance rehearsal - nothing unusual about that, but afterwards, instead of just visiting the pub, we danced outside of it too.
- We went down the canal towards Tunnel End to go into the woods and camp out for the night - Sleep was not really intended.
- Before dawn, we drove up Castle Hill (like Midwinter) and danced the Dawn in, with another Morris Team.
- Had cuppas at my house before we decided to subject Marsden to our pagan idols, by bringing out the Green Man Giant driven by Ang. The walking of the Green Man topped off my Beltane perfectly this year - it brought a difference to the damp morning for Marsdeners, something to recall - It was the 1st of May...
Marsden people and children are used to the celebratory craziness of us pagan locals and accept that they are stuck with it. I can tell they find it weird but harmless...
Beltane!
Usual Monday night practice in preparation for Upton next weekend. Welcome to newcomer Brittany! Her first practice, and she proved to be a natural stepper. We had the usual sit round discussion where momentous decisions failed to be made, and the way forward did not become any clearer. We'll stick to our usual course of not knowing who the eff is doing what untiil the night before the e...vent. Or later.
Anyway - tatters on and away to The Riverhead where we performed for the waiting crowds (Mr. & Mrs Grebe-Streebling and their cat, Norbert). Brittany was so good we let her DANCE OUT ON HER FIRST NIGHT! A truly momentous achievement! (It took most of us several weeks sorting out which was the sinistrous and which the dextrous foot, to say nothing of the mysteries of "turning up the set, down the set, and FOLLOWING THE STICK". I don't know about you, but my stick doesn't go anywhere on its own. It is quite static. It is therefore not really possible to follow it. I find the only time it moves is when I am holding it. I am not, therefore, so much following it, as pushing the bloody thing in front of me. I have not noticed, ever, that if I decided not to follow it, it buggered off in a different direction, and left me. Can we therefore put to bed, as it were, the concept of sticks with minds of their own leading us merrily the right way. Then we come to "up the set" and "down the set". Most dancers are lucky to get out of the pub and arrive "on the set" in time, never mind know which is "up" or "down". )
I digress.
Anyway, into the pub for a pint, and then...........THE SECRET BELTANE RITUAL. The Chrisses, having heroically spent the day gathering wood and preparing THE SECRET PLACE, Ange, Terry, Geordie Chris, Beardie Chris, Jo, Mark, Dawn, Ozzy Tania, and Jonathan set off thence with quantites of tentage, food and Al K.Hol. The Chrisses, being the only ones who knew where THE SECRET PLACE was set off with the forward party leaving Ange and Terry behind, getting their kit together, having sportingly first made sure a)they didn't know the way and b) had no torch. So Ange and Terry, following on, had to resort to the old Navajo indian ploy of facing North, cupping the left hand around the mouth, and shouting "Where the f*** are you?". No answer being heard, we finally traced them from the sound of beer bottles being opened. Coming upon THE SECRET PLACE over the hill, we were amazed to find a prepared fireplace and a life-size replica of an Egyptian pyramid in firewood. So, fire lit and cooking pots out, Chris prepared fine Sossmix, tomato, and mushroom butties, and Mark heated up a tasty leek and potato soup he had prepared earlier. It was then I realised nobody had run over the suckling pig. I should explain that nearly all the side are vegan or vegetarian. Except me. I tried it for 3 months, but it didn't work, so I have become a vegetarian one step removed. I only eat things that eat vegetation. I agreed in a previous discussion that I would only eat roadkill or culled meat. That's OK if you fancy a bit of badger, but if you want beef you could be driving about for days waiting for a cow to stray onto the road, and even then, you have to hit them a lot of times. If you're not careful, you could end up as the roadkill yourself. Big buggers, cows. Anyway, having established nobody had been arsed to run over a pig for me, I made do. It was very good. We even had some clever potatoes, I think Ange called them. So passing around the wine goblet, (May you never thirst) and not passing round the gin and tonic goblet (We'll just keep this for us two), we spent a pleasant night of song and banter, embellished by Mark's sqeeze box, and his promise not to play it. Although Angie asked me to give her one, I had to decline out of respect for Seamus. (It was interesting to note the Australian practice of bringing your bed with you and singing to adjacent trees. I suppose there's not much to do in the Outback). So dozing on our groundsheets, listening to Jonathan's bouzouki accompanied by Angie on snoring hooter, we lay until dawn approached. (The onset of day, that is. Dawn was already there). Leaping to our feet we packed up the stuff and prepared to put the fire out in the time honoured way, but as we had all already been, we used water.
Into the cars, and off to Castle Hill, where the wind was coming straight off the Urals. White Rose Morris, our favourite hanky bandits, were there too, and we both danced up the sun as it passed through the two inch gap between horizon and cloud. A fine sight though. After calming Chris down (he was upset because White Rose had danced right through the rising bit. He was shouting "Come on you buggers - I'll take you all on!". "No Chris - they're not worth it" we all said, and the situation was defused. (I may have remembered this slightly inaccurately). So, we stepped around the hilltop in true tradition proving that, even after the passage of 67 years, you are extremely lucky you didn't have a heart attack. And so to phase 3
The Green Man - would he manifest himself?
Having established that Marsden Coop doesn't open at 6.30, we arrived back at Vic's and tramped our muddy boots up her flooring. (She said it was OK, or would have if she hadn't been on holiday in Cuba). Tania having offered a huge boxful of things you can chuck boiling water on and drink it, calling it "tea", some of us chose the traditional drink. I don't know about you, but I am of the opinion that sticking some dead flowers in pretty packaging, with the instruction to pour boiling water on them and then drink it, is not why we fought Hitler in the war. Then came the dreaded question from Ange; "Who's up for taking the Green Man out?" This was met with cries of "yes let's! I would do, but my feet hurt", "I've got to go home and feed the budgie", and similar. Dawn was doing a dual impression of the Mad Hatter and Dormouse in one, so was oblivious. I would explain that Ange has a rare disease which means she has to stick her head up a giant at regular intervals. She even has her own giant, who, incidentally, looks like Patrick Kielty, but is more entertaining. Anyway after discussions about Mediaeval Babes and another cup of tea, we dragged ourselves down to Ange's and extricated the Green Man from his lodging. Having got Ange suitably strapped in, we trolled around Marsden to the amusement and astonishment of the local populace (Mr. & Mrs.Grebe-Streebling. Norbert had gone for his breakfast see above). To the park, where we paid homage to the Other Green Man and Dawn sang her lovely song, which we harmonised and ruined. Back to Angie's, pausing only to frighten small children through the school windows. A brilliant day! So home to bed......
The pub dance after rehearsal
Bonfire gathering
Rowan hung out with us
5am on Castle Hll - 30 mins before sunrise
Jo ready to dance
A bit windy and feels colder than midwinter
Dancing the dawn
Sun up on Beltane!
After the dance
Cuppas at home - deciding on whether to take out the Green Man
Dormouse Dawn after tea
Getting Ang into the Green Man
Walking the streets with the Giant
In Marsden Park singing to the May
Group photo at the River
- Mood:
tired
I had a good weekend with friends from Marsden who are staying in Whitby for the week - It was the Goth Festival there and there were SO MANY awesome outfits but i did not get pictures of any! I was not there long and it rained for the other half of my time there. I did get myself an awesome necklace that I am not sure what i will do with (give it to a friend as a present or keep it??)
Today is Beltane eve. We are gathering up our bits and pieces and going into the woods (the morris team people). We will take our maypole and fire toys, and I want to do a ritual, but am not sure who else wants to. I think we are going to stay up all night! I am up for that. I thought I would be working this week, but even if I did, I still have to look after this knee and not overdo it.
Beltane! And its a glorious day! I want to make a floral wreath and have a bath to ease my muscle aches. My knee is in a good mood today. I think we will be going up to Castle Hill for dawn again, like we did for Midwinter.
I do not think i can dance this weekend at Upton in Gloucestershire, but i certainly am going. I might need to buy a sleeping bag. Not sure yet. I wish i could go to Gloucester to see my cousins - I want to meet all of them, as I haven't yet. I have a present for the newest member of the family.
Going to make tonight awesome!
- Mood:
bouncy - Music:Edda: Sequentia
Anyway, I am feeling amazingly indecisive today - like I am facing the largest issue of my life - I have had an issue that I have never properly addressed and am so tired of not dealing with it. I am wondering whether I should just go home and face my issue and let all this go. I know what I love to do, I know what makes me ecstatic about life and I am not pursuing that at all. I really need to look at my life and my confidence. I am tired of people telling me I am confident, because there is something about me they don't know - just coz I am extroverted does not mean I am successful in all cases of self-esteem.
I cannot afford to rest and take time off here. All that time has past. I have to do something about my life and unfortunately my health is declining yet I cannot afford to stop. I think i need to re-assess my situation.
- Mood:
crappy - Music:Sequentia
The Facebook page of 'Thieving Magpie' released this piece regarding the Marsden Annual Cuckoo Day on 21st April 2012....
Cuckoo Day Again!
After a drizzly start we shared our first spot opposite The Railway with Saddleworth Ladies at an angle of 45 degrees, which meant after the "break and run" at the end of Cuckoo's Nest half of us were unable to brake and constituted a danger to traffic. Nice to see Nic again, who was one of our founder members, but has now elected to do dancing with skill in it. So fighting our ...way through the crowds (Mr. and Mrs. Plinge from Saddleworth. and their parrot, Earnshaw and, strangely, a tractor) we set off for Marsden Park. A tribute to the programmers who skillfully arranged that the next spot is diametrically opposite the present one, and the greatest distance away.
On arrival at the park we noted the presence of a pony, taking children for rides. Our record with horses is not good. We frighten horses (not intentionally). So, just to make sure little Herbert didn't get a much longer and more exciting ride than his parents had paid for, ending with them collecting him from Barnsley, Ange checked that it would be OK. That done, we tied up the magpie and got on with it.
I forgot to mention THE MAGPIE. Now I'm not saying it is not effing brilliant, crafted by Tania using Australian Aboriginal techniques employing wood and spit, but it's bloody big. And delicate. And some poor sod has to carry it. Resplendant atop its 10 foot pole it sits like a Roman standard. Unfortunately it attacks passing trees and lamp posts and invariably comes off second best. This puts a heavy burden on the carrier, knowing that if he or she damages it, the wrath of Tania will be invoked, and this is inadvisable. Tania is, how shall I put it, - Australian, and you may well end up in a billabong with a didgeridoo up you. So, after your stint, you will find you need to get rid of it. The best method is to say to some other poor sod - "Er, would you just hold this while i tie my lace" and having passed it on, bugger off quickly. I digress.
After doing Cuckoo's Nest, Ladies White Arse, and Sir John (I think) and noting a certain amount of freestyling, the superb White Rose did their stuff, and we were honoured by the presence of the fabulous Sisters in Arms, just back from their world tour where they picked up trophies for Best of Breed. (Please check this - Ed.). They are without doubt the finest rapper side I have seen for many a year, and not only can make their swords into a Star, but are working on Kangeroo Looking Pensive and Eskimo Clubbing a Seal)
Then off to Wessen Court where we watched small people dancing round the maypole and big people ditto. Well done to Penny, Jo and Keith (and of course Paul) who are our people AND big people.
To the Riverhead, where we were saved from disaster by Paul beaming down in the nick of time. We danced something or other and it was OK.
Now. Procession. The waiting crowds were treated to the sight of a huge pissed cuckoo 8 feet long trying to keep its balance on what appeared to a Corgi model of a trailer. If you can imagine the Hindenberg on a wheelbarrow you will get an idea of the spectacle. This is an example of Arty People and Engineery people. While Arty People will make effing huge constructions and then think "Oh, let's tie it to a tichy cart with ribbon", Engineery People will think "We've only got a tichy cart, we'd better make sure we've got secure fixings, and perhaps limit the size to suit the situation". No Engineery People were involved in this case. While various members of the side tried to stop it falling off, the rest were deafened by the band following behind. The band had been specially instructed not to play anything remotely approaching something you could dance to, which they did very well. Anyway,the procession processed, the crowds cheered and all went well.
So to Wessen Court where each side did a showcase dance. We did Stomp, and I was accused of being a "Crazy Goose" by some punter who had seen me at some gig I wasn't at.
The dancing ended, but not the story. At the end of the road, a huge malevolent cuckoo, lurching to one side on its tichy cart, leered down at us. It needed to be transported to the garage of SJ and Chris, having won the prize for storing the bloody thing (for a week or two - haha - I speak as one who had a headless giant in his garage rafters with his arm dangling down for 2 years. The kids wouldn't go in there). By this time the inimitable Seamus of Black Pig fame had bowled up in his van. Having decided it would probably fit in, we took the van around, to find on arrival that the others had decided it probably wouldn't fit in, and had buggered off with it. We caught the up toiling up the hill in the middle of the road, so treated them to a fine display of motor horn. Chris then treated us to a disturbing display of bare arse. It wasn't white and it wasn't ladies. Seamus stopped honking in case he did it again. Nobody should have to experience that before eating. I'll never be able to touch banana split again. After half an hour untangling the bloody ribbon (see above) we finally persuaded the cuckoo into the garage and locked the bastard in.
A superb spread had been prepared by SJ, Chris, family, and friends. The food was brilliant. Tania introduced what looked like an emu's egg, sent from Oz, which turned out to be a meringue kit. They set to preparing it, with what sounded like from the next room, an angle grinder and welding kit.
And so to the cabaret. Extricating small child from locked toilet by punching a hole through the wall. Well done Chris!
And so to the open mike night........
I'm guessing TerryArmitage wrote it, and as he is the Morris side's true comical hero, one can only weep with laughter at his posts. Absolute GOLD. Tears of laughter every time... I must make him a jester outfit for the side...
Here are images of the things he spoke about...
The pissed 8 ft cuckoo
The emu egg meringue kit
Cuckoo Day Again!
After a drizzly start we shared our first spot opposite The Railway with Saddleworth Ladies at an angle of 45 degrees, which meant after the "break and run" at the end of Cuckoo's Nest half of us were unable to brake and constituted a danger to traffic. Nice to see Nic again, who was one of our founder members, but has now elected to do dancing with skill in it. So fighting our ...way through the crowds (Mr. and Mrs. Plinge from Saddleworth. and their parrot, Earnshaw and, strangely, a tractor) we set off for Marsden Park. A tribute to the programmers who skillfully arranged that the next spot is diametrically opposite the present one, and the greatest distance away.
On arrival at the park we noted the presence of a pony, taking children for rides. Our record with horses is not good. We frighten horses (not intentionally). So, just to make sure little Herbert didn't get a much longer and more exciting ride than his parents had paid for, ending with them collecting him from Barnsley, Ange checked that it would be OK. That done, we tied up the magpie and got on with it.
I forgot to mention THE MAGPIE. Now I'm not saying it is not effing brilliant, crafted by Tania using Australian Aboriginal techniques employing wood and spit, but it's bloody big. And delicate. And some poor sod has to carry it. Resplendant atop its 10 foot pole it sits like a Roman standard. Unfortunately it attacks passing trees and lamp posts and invariably comes off second best. This puts a heavy burden on the carrier, knowing that if he or she damages it, the wrath of Tania will be invoked, and this is inadvisable. Tania is, how shall I put it, - Australian, and you may well end up in a billabong with a didgeridoo up you. So, after your stint, you will find you need to get rid of it. The best method is to say to some other poor sod - "Er, would you just hold this while i tie my lace" and having passed it on, bugger off quickly. I digress.
After doing Cuckoo's Nest, Ladies White Arse, and Sir John (I think) and noting a certain amount of freestyling, the superb White Rose did their stuff, and we were honoured by the presence of the fabulous Sisters in Arms, just back from their world tour where they picked up trophies for Best of Breed. (Please check this - Ed.). They are without doubt the finest rapper side I have seen for many a year, and not only can make their swords into a Star, but are working on Kangeroo Looking Pensive and Eskimo Clubbing a Seal)
Then off to Wessen Court where we watched small people dancing round the maypole and big people ditto. Well done to Penny, Jo and Keith (and of course Paul) who are our people AND big people.
To the Riverhead, where we were saved from disaster by Paul beaming down in the nick of time. We danced something or other and it was OK.
Now. Procession. The waiting crowds were treated to the sight of a huge pissed cuckoo 8 feet long trying to keep its balance on what appeared to a Corgi model of a trailer. If you can imagine the Hindenberg on a wheelbarrow you will get an idea of the spectacle. This is an example of Arty People and Engineery people. While Arty People will make effing huge constructions and then think "Oh, let's tie it to a tichy cart with ribbon", Engineery People will think "We've only got a tichy cart, we'd better make sure we've got secure fixings, and perhaps limit the size to suit the situation". No Engineery People were involved in this case. While various members of the side tried to stop it falling off, the rest were deafened by the band following behind. The band had been specially instructed not to play anything remotely approaching something you could dance to, which they did very well. Anyway,the procession processed, the crowds cheered and all went well.
So to Wessen Court where each side did a showcase dance. We did Stomp, and I was accused of being a "Crazy Goose" by some punter who had seen me at some gig I wasn't at.
The dancing ended, but not the story. At the end of the road, a huge malevolent cuckoo, lurching to one side on its tichy cart, leered down at us. It needed to be transported to the garage of SJ and Chris, having won the prize for storing the bloody thing (for a week or two - haha - I speak as one who had a headless giant in his garage rafters with his arm dangling down for 2 years. The kids wouldn't go in there). By this time the inimitable Seamus of Black Pig fame had bowled up in his van. Having decided it would probably fit in, we took the van around, to find on arrival that the others had decided it probably wouldn't fit in, and had buggered off with it. We caught the up toiling up the hill in the middle of the road, so treated them to a fine display of motor horn. Chris then treated us to a disturbing display of bare arse. It wasn't white and it wasn't ladies. Seamus stopped honking in case he did it again. Nobody should have to experience that before eating. I'll never be able to touch banana split again. After half an hour untangling the bloody ribbon (see above) we finally persuaded the cuckoo into the garage and locked the bastard in.
A superb spread had been prepared by SJ, Chris, family, and friends. The food was brilliant. Tania introduced what looked like an emu's egg, sent from Oz, which turned out to be a meringue kit. They set to preparing it, with what sounded like from the next room, an angle grinder and welding kit.
And so to the cabaret. Extricating small child from locked toilet by punching a hole through the wall. Well done Chris!
And so to the open mike night........
I'm guessing TerryArmitage wrote it, and as he is the Morris side's true comical hero, one can only weep with laughter at his posts. Absolute GOLD. Tears of laughter every time... I must make him a jester outfit for the side...
Here are images of the things he spoke about...
The pissed 8 ft cuckoo
The emu egg meringue kit
- Mood:
giddy - Music:Best of Icehouse
Today we (Thieving Magpies) are going to Holmfirth area to Sean's house for a dance - its rehearsal tonight, but we will do this instead. I will have to get up and get ready soon, I am not sure how I am even getting there - I usually travel with Ang who lives 150m away from me and is car-less too, but I heard she and the Chris's are getting a cab. Maybe I could ring SJ. It starts at 4.30pm.
I've been sick for a week. It started as a blocked nose and a sensation that I was going to get ill - then it was exhaustion - I could not sleep much, indeed, have not much this week. Even last night it felt like I did not sleep much, then I heard the birds sing in dawn and after 9am fell asleep again - my sleeping pattern is whacked! And these past few days I've had a cough which gives me asthma. I have still been capable of going out and stuff, just find it hard to sleep.
On Friday night, (Good Friday) our friend Jo had a wake for her late dog GeorgieRoberts at the Sair Inn in Linthwaite/Cowlersley area a few villages away towards Huddersfield. At 10.30 I was watching 'Juno' on TV, thinking that Ang was not coming for me, when she knocked on the door and told me to get my shoes on. We (Paul, Ang, Mick and I) went to the Sair and could not find Jo, even though she was around somewhere, her friends said 'she was here a minute ago'. She then turned up saying she had been having a cuppa at a friends place round the corner. We were about to leave her a note and head off, but instead we went back inside, had some curry someone brought in a saucepan, and Paul, Ang and Mick played accordions and melodions. We were there for not even 2 hours before the pub shut. A good night, and a good wake for Georgie.
On Saturday night, Ang rang me to tell me she was going to light a bonfire in her garden behind the house - so I told my housemate Vic and her girlfriend Lex and we went along. Vic later said she wished she had a camera when she turned up at the garden - They saw Mick playing the accordion, Ang bending over the fire adding wood, and I stood there with a witches hat on. They had laughed when they saw us.
A nice spontaneous night, I did some firetwirling and Lex really enjoyed herself, because she had not seen it before.
Last week, a member of the Magpies, Sam, had a surprise 30th Birthday party at the Marsden Mechanics Hall, and we had been invited along to dance there. Got a few nice photos that day. After the party we went down to the local, the Riverhead and danced on the cobbled street outside - many punters were outside drinking, a hen's night and a couple of buck's nights. I had brought the papier mache magpie I had made, and people asked us more about the magpie than anything else. We danced on the cobbles, which was actually very hard, the more crooked the cobbles, the harder it is too dance because you go slower because its harder to step - you are always making sure you don't twist your ankle. Either that or the music was a little faster coz Mick was there and he is a faster player than our Paul.
I'll add some pics of these events...
Paul, Mick and Ang at the Sair Inn for Georgie's wake.
Dawn, Jo, Kate and Colleen at the Riverhead before the surprise 30th.
Mick and Ang at the Riverhead getting ready...
Setting up for the party.
Dawn and I.
Musicians!
Viv, Terry and Mark.
So after the Riverhead dance and gradually people went home, all that was left was Ang, Mick, the two Chris's and I, so Ang suggested we go to the Rose and Crown, between Marsden and Slaithwaite on the northern part of the valley - here is a pic of it with the valley in the background. We had a drink, then we had a dance outside for those who were watching inside. It was pretty chilly today - not enough sun out for us to enjoy.
- Location:Marsden
- Mood: crappy
- Music:Mediaeval Baebes, Enya, Clannad
I’m reading Kissing the Hag by Emma Restall Orr. So far it’s a compiled piece about how we hide our lives from the uncomfortable dirty dark side of our nature- really, it’s taking note of how ‘grown up’ we’ve become as women, about how we convince ourselves that the dark ‘hag’ of our selves is despised and shunned within our Western lives. Our fears that we hold near us are there because we cannot step out of our authentic selves. I think about how trapped I am with my fears – and whether I can rid my life of those fears. They cripple my life everyday, and I am yet to find out how to diminish them from my life – so far, they creep back all the time, and I never truly purge them from my existence. I wonder what I could do to free myself of any kind of bonds. What if I wanted to hitchhike to a part of Scotland I’ve been wanting to see for years, and only ever dreamed about. What if I started tomorrow? My logical self, full of fears would say ‘you don’t have time or money’ – is that a part of fear? Or fact?A lot of things work out for me – sooner or later, everything comes to me that I want – except for the things I greatly desire that I have never reached, done or seen. That is what requires money and time. Anybody else deciding to hitchhike to Scotland might succeed if they did not consider those I just mentioned – the obstacles of the mind that stop us from stepping outside. Some of the best stories you ever read were someone taking that risk – the hitchhikers – and it’s those people who discover how amazing the world is and how enlightened they have become since they took that step into the unfamiliar – the world of risk taking.
It took a long time for me to understand the concept of ‘you have nothing to lose’ as a child growing up. Sometimes I still almost don’t believe it to be possible – that’s the only pessimist part of me. I hope. Part of me does lose something. Confidence.Self certainty. Things I should not give up on. Why? Coz I’m still alive and have a whole world to experience.
I was up late last night – I’d been at SJ and Chris’s watching ‘Super 8’ with them on my laptop hooked up to the TV, and then when I got home at midnight, continued to stay up, watching another film, while I painted Magpie. I kept working till I had finished it, made a cuppa and then looked at the time. Nearly 4am.
Got tired and stressed later today. So tonight I will not watch anything on TV or my laptop – its reading time – and writing too. And bed when I get drowsy. I really need to read a bit every night - it puts me to sleep.
- Mood:
okay
