Morris is alive and well

Sounds almost like a discarded title for a Smiths album doesn’t it?

The lovely spa town of Bath was awash with the constant ringing of bells. Not church bells ringing out to tell the world of another couple entering into wedded bliss. Not the National Conference of the Change Ringing Society (this link came up first!). Nor a bout of tinnitus.

Morris Dancers, that’s what:

Aborigines and various other races have tribal war dances. Ways of marking out territory, interacting with other tribes and a sign of strength in times of war.  Who’s giong to be scared away or impressed by stripey braces and a hankey?

Don’t get me wrong, Morris Dancing is great. Something to be done at country fetes and outside village pubs, but the centre of the city? It was like a giant dance-off. It was like watching a 1980’s-style breakdancing face-off, only with older participants drinking cider out of pewter tankards.

I had a history teacher who was a Morris Dancer at school. I was friends with his daughter who played the violin and mandolin for Dancing events. I’m sure it’s great, I really do. But I still don’t get it. When I feel the urge to attach little bells to me and jump into the air and spin spontaneously I’ll take the necessary steps with the government offices to legally change my name to ‘Tiddles’ and start eating Go-Cat.