Archive: Features
The Bored Housewife
by Audrey Nyman
(To the tune of The Wild Rover)
I’ve been a bored housewife, it’s addled me brains
I poured bleach on me cornflakes and milk down the drains.
I hoovered the dog, and I fed the settee
I think it is time I did something for me.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
I’ve been down the Nail Bar; I’ve henna’d me hair
I’ve spent the housekeeping on getting new gear.
I’ve lain on the sunbed, been covered in mud.
And now I am ready to get me a stud.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
I said to my husband ‘you’re running to fat
Your shirt’s in the dustbin, your tea’s in the cat’.
I yelled to the kids ‘Mum is going away’
And they muttered back ‘yes mum…, whatever…, OK’.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
I went to a winebar I’d been once before,
Drank Breezers too quickly, threw up on the floor.
I danced at a disco with bright flashing lights.
Where I broke me stilettos and laddered me tights.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
I walked home in the rain ‘cos there wasn’t a cab,
And I stopped on the way for a doner kebab.[which was a bad idea]
When I got home it was just getting light,
Didn’t anyone notice I’d been out all night.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
I crawled into bed feeling dizzy and sore
And I swore that I’d never do this any more.
When next I awoke, about quarter past ten,
I thought ‘that was great, I must do it again’.
And it’s no more washing, no more wrestling with pegs
And the only thing waxed now will be both my legs.
A Cry Havoc Stick
by Ed Pritchard
(with apologies to Terry Pratchett)
The WI had shelled out the money
To have Botley Hall refurbed and varnished,
And having so done, they thought it not funny
To have their new flooring all marked and tarnished
By morris sticks a-beating and banging,
A-wasting the money they’d thought fit to spend;
And so for that reason
Through our winter season
A Cry Havoc stick has a sock on the end.
To some it may seem a little perverted
The way we morris types get our kicks,
But to the many dangers we’ve now been alerted
We may not have unprotected sticks;
For us no more the gay abandon,
So if you want to morris with a friend
Down in North Hinksey
It’s a little bit kinky
For a Cry Havoc stick has a sock on the end.
Now we treat our dances with total respect,
But it can be hard to keep a straight face
When your sticks get stuck each time they connect
And socks are flying all over the place.
The old phrase tells us ‘Sock it to ’em!’
But that’s not quite what we intend,
And as you can see
We can’t guarantee
That a Cry Havoc stick has a sock on the end.
But now the Buzzard’s feathers are ruffled,
Some dancers start to moan and cuss:
‘Our roars are mute, our clashes muffled,
We cannot raise the spirits thus.
If butts and tips can’t strike the floor
Then we shall start a new stick trend:
Our weapons bare
We strike the air,
For we Havocs will not have a sock on our end!’
But as a team we must have no division;
We would not wish other sides to scoff,
Our side an object of derision
With one sock on and one sock off;
For now our diet is sock on a stick;
We don’t say ‘Darn!’, but ‘Make do, and mend’:
We caper and hey
And look for the day
When a Cry Havoc stick has no sock on the end.
Nasty Knees
by Ed Pritchard
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Is knocking at your door;
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will knock you to the floor.
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will soak you when you scrub;
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will fuddle you in the pub.
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will strike behind your skirts;
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will kick you where it hurts.
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will lame you when you leap;
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Will land you in a heap.
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Has got us in the knobblies;
The dread disease
Of nasty knees
Has turned us into wobblies.
The Owl and the Churchwarden
by Barbara Payne
Behold: a bloke; the wife he loves;
And in the yard, his cote of doves.
And for some years they bill and coo
Until their idyll (as they do)
Goes pear-shaped. Sparks begin to fly,
The bloke to rage, the wife to cry;
He packs his bags and off he goes.
She sees him go. She blows her nose -
(I guess, here, ignorant of the facts) -
She fells his dovecote with an axe.
The doves are homeless. They look round
To find another nesting-ground.
And Cumnor tower seems the best,
Its louvres made for doves to nest.
It gives the PCC a fright;
The ringers are knee deep in … guano.
They fix some mesh, and spikes severe,
To stop the doves from nesting here …
So off they go to Appleton
And find a tower to nest upon
With louvres and a lantern top
Where homeless doves may safely stop.
The PCC is thrown, a bit.
The ringers are knee deep in … droppings;
And mesh and spikes are not enough,
This time, the doves are sleeping rough,
They’re not inclined for moving on,
They’re staying here, in Appleton.
The PCC consults, and scowls,
Till someone mentions plastic owls.
She’s heard that doves may be deterred
By such a fearsome looking bird.
Behold: a bloke (this time, Pete Day)
Ascends the tower (the usual way);
Beneath his arm in safety stored
A fake owl, made in Hereford.
His wife waves cheerily from below.
He sets it on the tower: so.
The doves aren’t scared. Their beaks they thumb.
The Rector’s gone to buy a gun.
How Cry Havoc Changed My Life
by Jackie Pritchard
One day by chance it came to pass
I saw Cry Havoc dancing.
I had been drinking quite a lot;
I thought it most entrancing.
Male and female, short and tall,
Of skills and styles motley;
I thought, ‘Perhaps I’ll have a go,’
And hurried down to Botley.
My parents sent me (5 years old)
To learn the art of ballet.
My lack of talent was immense;
They saw – eventually.
At school, instead of dance, we had
To practise self-expression.
I learned to do ‘Embarrassment’,
‘Annoyance’ and ‘Depression’.
With rock and blues I flirted next;
I couldn’t jive or pogo.
I fell over my two left feet –
My dancing was just no go.
And then upon that fateful day
I set my heart on morris.
I mastered heys, I learned to tell
A figure from a chorus.
I’ve no time now for waltz or swing;
I scorn the hokey-cokey.
My life’s fulfilled, I’ll live and die
A most devout old folkie.
When a mishap of this nature befalls a member of the side it inevitably becomes the subject of limericks.
'Twas at the Eight Bells pub in Eaton
Where morris dance folk were a-meetin';
The landlord's old curtain
It went for a burton
And they'll never again let our Pete in.
(E)
*****
When you sing, if you lean on a curtain
of its fixity pray first be certain
for a pole on the head
can damage your cred
(and it's not just your pride will be hurtin').
(E)
*****
Pete took up a pose and drew breath;
on a song about shipwreck and death
he was going to town
when the curtain came down
like it does at the end of Macbeth.
From the depths of the curtain there came
a muffled but rousing refrain:
'If things fall on your head,
don't lie down and play dead -
like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again!'
(B)
Proud to Wear the Bells
by Barbara Payne
Once-to-yourself, the fiddle sets the pace,
The Squire calls ‘This time!’ and off we go
Now we’re shaving the donkey in the market place,
As we tread the steps of dancers long ago;
For dancing weaves the liveliest of spells;
In Cotswold streets I’m proud to wear the bells.
Down from the hilltop after dawn we come
With flowered garlands and a branch of May,
To dance to the fiddle, melodeon and drum
And celebrate the first new summer’s day,
For dancing weaves the oldest kind of spells;
On the First of May I’m proud to wear the bells.
Steeply the street drops through the stony town
And people line the route to left and right
To fete the memory of men shot down
For speaking out for what they knew was right;
For dancing weaves the strongest kind of spells;
And on Levellers’ Day I’m proud to wear the bells.
In country pubs all round we raise a glass of beer
To dancers and musicians gone before,
And sing the songs that mark the turning year
And play the friendly fiddle tunes once more,
For dancing weaves the kindliest of spells;
All summer long we’re proud to wear the bells.
Now the lights are shining from the village hall
As we welcome you to share with us today;
Here’s a table spread, and Mr Chubb’s for all,
So sing with us and dance the cold away!
For dancing weaves the friendliest of spells
When the Ale comes round we’re proud to wear the bells.
The Bagman's Ditty
by Caroline Gibbs
Oh please be nice to your Bagman
She’s doing the best that she can
She wants so much to please everyone
But it can’t always go to plan
At times she’ll really surprise you
And she really knows what she’s at
But fifty’s a truly difficult age
You cannot argue with that
Her knowledge of folk is appalling
In fact, she knows nothing at all
But she truly loves Morris dancing
Its her way of having a ball.
The summer list is her difficult task
She sits and she scratches her head
Its not very easy, it takes so much time
She’d rather play music instead.
Now its not her fault if your favourite Side
Doesn’t want to come out to play
Please don’t blame her for long distances
Or choosing a difficult day
The lack of fetes and paid bookings
Is something she cannot put right
You’ve all had a say in the things that we do
Signed the diary on Thursday nights
The moral, I tell you, is compromise
A little of give and take
Try to be happy with what I’ve done
And smile for your Bagman’s sake
So please be nice to your Bagman
She’s doing her very best
She wants so much to please everyone
But these tasks are the hardest test.
Bringing in the May
by Caroline Gibbs
Night slowly leaves the darkened woods, as the dawn draws ever near
A blackbird up in a hawthorn tree sings so bright and clear
chorus
A brand new day, the month of May, we welcome her today
On summer’s dawn
May day morn,
We’re bringing in the May
And May approaches by a light, the first soft glow of dawn
And breathes new life into all the earth, a golden day is born
(chorus)
Out of the trees she slowly walks, she’s dressed in her green gown
With a garland in her flowing hair, flowers all around
(chorus)
Morris and Me
by Barbara Payne
Your day at the office is over, thank God,
the clients were dreadful, the boss was a sod,
you come off the motorway late for your tea
and on the horizon there’s Morris and me.
Morris and me, Morris and me
holding you up on the A43
wherever you’re going we’re likely to be
we’re not in a hurry, my Morris and me.
You think we’re old fashioned but we think we’re fine
built in the 50s to classic design
stout and reliable, you must agree
they don’t make ’em these days like Morris and me.
Morris and me, Morris and me
a trip to the races, a day at the sea
wherever you’re going we’re likely to be
it’s life in the slow lane for Morris and me.
You’re landing the shuttle, you’re back from the stars,
the traffic was terrible orbiting Mars;
and on the State Highway from Terminal 3
you find you are following Morris and me.
Morris and me, Morris and me
gently maturing with each MOT
wherever you’re going we’re likely to be
we’re still in the running, my Morris and me.
My Jen
by Geoff Woods
(written in memory of Jenny Saffrette)
Jenny passed away on a blue sky day
with puffy little clouds and a plane
flying far away
as if it was taking her away from me
in body but not in mind
she may be gone away up high
but her spirit will always be of the loving kind
I’ll love her till I can breathe no more
and think of her every day;
for one sweet kiss of her precious lips
I’d give my soul away.
Porridging
by Barbara Payne
(To the tune of ‘Admiral Benbow’)
They call me Goldilocks, ain’t that sweet, ain’t that sweet,
they call me Goldilocks, ain’t that sweet?
They call me Goldilocks, and there’s sod all on the box,
so I’m off to pick some locks down our street, down our street.
The bears from No 2, they weren’t in, they weren’t in,
the bears from No 2, they weren’t in.
The bears from No 2, they were out at B&Q,
so quickly (like you do), I breaks in, I breaks in.
I sits in all the chairs, silly me, silly me,
I sits in all the chairs, silly me;
I sits in all the chairs, but the chairs were made for bears,
and I’m covered in their hairs, as you see, as you see.
I tries the porridge pot, pretty good, pretty good,
I tries the porridge pot, pretty good;
I tries the porridge pot, it were filling, it were hot,
I ate all the blooming lot, well you would, well you would.
I lays down on the bed for a zizz, for a zizz,
I lays down on the bed for a zizz;
I lays down on the bed, and I’m sleeping like the dead,
when a copper’s voice it said, wot’s all this, wot’s all this?
The bill says now then love, come with me, come with me,
the bill says now then love, come with me,
the bill says now then love; and when push comes to shove,
it is a fair cop guv, I agree, I agree.
I should have watched TV and stayed in, and stayed in,
I should have watched TV and stayed in;
I should have watched TV, ‘cos it’s porridge now for me,
and a bed in Cell Block 3, for my sins, for my sins.
Nothing Ever Happens... in folk songs.
Or does it?
by Jackie Pritchard
Oh who is this sailor who stands at my door?
With lavender, parsley and sage, o
Fair maiden, I’ve come from a far foreign shore
With a branch of the bonny green broom
Your true love won’t come back to make you his bride
With radishes, lettuce and chives, o
For he married six wives in Hawaii, then died
With the rose and the violet in bloom
Alas, said Fair Nancy, how terribly sad
With camomile, lemon and mint, o
I’ll have to go on keeping house for my dad.
With a sackful of call-me-to-you
Fear not, said the sailor, I told you a lie
With turmeric, cumin and bay, o
Here’s the token we broke at our parting – ’Tis I!
with a bunch of green willow and rue
Oh William, I thought you were not coming back
With cinnamon, saffron and cloves, o
So I had a baby by my brother Jack
With a jug of laburnum and sloe.
I cut off its head, which I thought was no crime
With dittany, comfrey and dill, o
And buried it under a bush of sweet thyme
With a handful of oregan-o
When Jack was a-walking along the clifftop
With fenugreek, lovage and mace, o
I gave him a shove and below he did drop
With a bundle of nightshade and yew
Each night at my bed-foot they’d gather to wail
With marigold, basil and beans, o
So I put on men’s clothes and to sea I did sail
With some Nicotiana to chew.
Through the storms we did plough, through the rain and the gales
With bergamot, hyssop and balm, o
And most of my comrades was eaten by whales
With some Allium cepa from Kew.
Then pirates cried heave ho! Belay there below!
With chicory, chervil and cheese, o
So I married their captain in Valparaiso
With a bunch of delphiniums (blue).
But soon he was hangéd and all of his men
With horseradish, hemlock, and hops, o
So I put on my skirts and I came home again
With a sackful of barley to brew.
Oh Nancy,dear Nancy, you have not yet told
With liquorice, mustard and quince, o
Whatever became of those buccaneers’ gold
With a henbane and hellebore stew.
The gold and the booty awaiteth your pleasure
With witch-hazel, wormwood and woad, o
Come upstairs with me and you’ll see all my treasure
With a bath in the cold foggy dew.
This couple was married as it hath befell
With asphodel, spinach and leek, o
In a large country mansion contented did dwell.
With blossoms as white as the snow.
So young men and maidens, this rule take from me
With feverfew, fennel and fern, o
Just live by the folksongs and happy you’ll be
With a sprig of the old mistletoe.
Ding dong
by Ed Pritchard
Ding dong merrily on high
The morris bells are ringing
Ding dong verily the sky
Is riven with hankies swinging
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
And now we’ll shave the donkey
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
(The lines are looking wonky)
May you beautifully form
Your gyps both half and whole now
It don’t do nobody no harm
Though we all feel quite old now
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
Next up is Constant Billy
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
(Is it me or is this silly?)
Walk ye around and around,
Sing ‘Where’s my Highland lassie?’
Hearken to the sound –
Pray sing ye not so off-key!
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
With William and with Nancy
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
(That butch bloke takes my fancy)
At Christmas it’s too bloody cold
So I shall dance no longer
Bring me the flowing wassail bowl
And I will feel much stronger
Gloooo.........ooor
-ishears
That heckler needs a kickin’
Gloooo........ooor
-ishears
It’s a buzzard, not a chicken!
Olympia Fair
by Jackie Pritchard
With apologies to ‘Brigg Fair’
It was on the 5th of August
The weather hot and fine [1]
To Kensington I did repair
For beer I was inclined.
I got up with the lark in the morning [2]
And then I went back to bed.
And at four o’clock in the afternoon
T’Olympia I sped.
I looked over my left shoulder [3]
To see what I could see:
The Chiswick High Street traffic jams
Were bearing down on me.
I took hold of my glass
And merrily sang my heart.
Until the shouts of ‘Time’ [4] are heard
We never more will part.
For drinking is a pleasure
And stopping is a grief;
But the 2-pint carry-out system
Affordeth some relief.
Oh, the hop-bines they may wither
And the barrels all run dry
Before I take my cycle up
And wobbling homeward hie.
[1] Sultry, oven-like, and polluted, in fact, but they don’t scan.
[2] To throw something at the lark to shut it up.
[3] Poetic licence. If this was the Munich Oktoberfest it might be left shoulder, but not in London unless you have a poor grasp of the traffic system.
[4] Or possibly, as this is a Folk Song, ‘Thyme’.
Ode to a small plastic frog that landed in Barbara’s cleavage
by Ed Pritchard
Hail to thee, pale blue plastic frog!
Hail to thee that alone didst gain the summer of thy hopes.
Ambitious Amphibian
Thou didst leap,
Propelled by spoon,
Soaring over table top bedecked for yuletide feast;
Scorning to alight on glass or plate
Thou flewedst nearest the sun of thy lady’s grace
Then came to rest
And kissed that milk-white breast.
O Fortunate Frog,
To dwell in that sweet bosom!
What gentler rest could frog desire?
In such a palace, a frog becomes a prince.
But alas! Alas!
That snowy breast should prove so cold!
Rejected projectile
Spurned, thou wast turned upon returning flight
To fall and sink in sea of grief and best bitter.
Oh Cruel-Hearted Mistress! Elegant Barbarian!
A Frog’s Curse be upon thee:
Eye of toad and toe of frog
May Bud henceforth ne’er be your grog
And never more be friend of frog!
For never more will froggy go a-wooing.
Question??
by Jane Merrow-Smith
Why is it always cold or wet when Cry Havoc are out dancing?
I ask myself am I grimacing or smiling?
The processions are getting longer each year
Or am I becoming a dodgy old dear?
Why is it that the seasons go so quick?
And I ask myself, ‘Do I caper or kick?’
I never quite know where my feet will lead me;
What I really would like is a nice cup of tea.
Where am I dancing this time next week?
I ask myself as my knees go weak.
What month is this? Is it April or May?
There’s a shout in my ear – ‘Half Hey, Half Hey!’
‘What?’ I said, ‘That’s the wrong dance!’,
And once again we start to prance,
Up the hill and down again
No wonder my legs are filled with pain.
Will this dance ever end?
I ask myself as we manoeuvre a bend.
‘Is this Levellers’ Day or the Lamb Ale?’
Now I know why I’m going pale.
What I really would like is a nice long drink.
My face is now a fine shade of pink.
And once again we come to a bend –
Thank goodness for that, we’ve come to an end.
My hands are dangling down by my side
As we all stand together side by side.
Once again I ask myself, ‘Why am I here?’
Then somebody shouts, ‘Come on, who’s buying the beer?’
As we all chase right up to the pub
I tell myself I could do with some grub:
A packet of crisps and a nice pint of beer
Will bring us all a whole lot of good cheer.
Dancing on St Stephen’s Day
by Ed Pritchard
Some said the weather was too cold for dancing
And they’d never before gone Christmas boxing
But men laid off work, money so hard to find
Just when they needed it most, at Christmas time.
The turn of the century had caught them all
Unprepared for a heavy snowfall
So the morris men danced, to raise a bob or two
At Christmas time, what else could they do?
Dancing on St Stephen’s day
With its cracking of sticks and its rattling bells
The dance caught a London man in its spell
Following the patterns of figure and melody
Such a sight to see, at Christmas time.
His fingers near freezing on his concertina
The Headington leader was William Kimber
And in the winter sun, where the snow and ice glistened
He played ‘Constant Billy’
And Mr Sharp listened.
Dancing on St Stephen’s day
That day saw the start of a lifelong friendship
And tunes that might have been lost, recorded
To William Kimber and Mr Sharp
We’ll raise a toast, and sing from the heart –
Dancing on St Stephen’s day.
To William Kimber and Mr Sharp
We’ll raise a toast –
Dancing on St Stephen’s day
Upon a balmy summer’s day
by Jackie Pritchard
Upon a balmy summer’s day
Eight bold adventurers did say,
‘Let us prepare to roam.’
Our heroes ardently pursued
A quest for sunshine, wine, and food –
The subject of this pome.
Two sturdy craft the octet fill
And glide across the shining rill;
One pilot to each ship.
Now heavenward the punt-pole flies,
And streams of glist’ning water rise
And from the elbow drip.
By verdant lawns they voyage on,
Past ducks and solitary swan,
Where drowsy anglers doze,
And willows, graceful as a dream,
Stoop low across the murm’ring stream
To smack them on the nose.
A sunlit bank them now invites;
The landing stage’s aweful heights
The scale with agile jump.
(But when their path they did retrace –
Alas for elegance and grace! –
One fell upon his rump.)
Upon the grass the feast is laid,
The salads, fruit, and bread displayed,
The dainty sausage roll.
The bottles pass from hand to hand;
Can our adventurers still stand,
Much less command a pole?
How shall I paint the punter’s art?
With manly vigour did he start,
With style, élan, and dash.
But yet, despite his anxious care,
Cruel mud and weeds his pole ensnare:
It ended in a splash.
Sweet Thames, desist to flow a bit,
And let us fish him out of it
And take him home to dry.
Perhaps next time (the third) we might
Persuade him how to do it right;
At least we can but try.
Haste to the Wedding
by Jane Merrow-Smith
The 25th of May saw the wedding of Paul (son of Mick and Susie) and Kath. Evening celebrations included a performance by Cry Havoc, and ceilidh dancing to an up and coming band called the Larkrise Ranters (available for bookings – see the links page!). In honour of this event we have Jane’s poem.
Young Collins has invited us all
To his Country Gardens at Botley Hall;
There’s Jenny Lind and Dearest Dickie
Sweet Jenny Jones and her Constant Billy,
Highland Mary and Banbury Bill –
Maybe possibly Jack and Jill;
William and Nancy will also be there,
Both together they look a nice pair.
Hunting the Squirrel is the order of the day,
Maybe a cuddle in the Hay;
Jack and Jill like Bobbing Around,
A Skirmish or two for the boys I’ll be bound.
Jenny Jones will be giving us a pose
Then the boys will be dancing The Rose.
Little Mary shows us her Bonnie Green Garter,
Then we share a Black Joke and drink a Lager.
Jenny Lind takes a Step Back and begins to say
That The Nutting Girl is getting married today;
It’s a Haste to the Wedding up on the hill
Almost leaving behind Jack and Jill.
Young Collins has promised a Jig, Princess Royal or Ladies Pleasure;
Then we dance Banks of the Dee and sit at leisure,
Watching Banbury Bill trying to Shave the Donkey:
He’s drunk too much beer, shouts Constant Billy.
And with that we all cheer
Once again we drink more beer;
And so it ends, a perfect day
We’re all off home. Hooray, hooray.
When it’s spring again
by Ed Pritchard
When it’s spring again
I’ll string again
My stripey violin,
For last year’s strings
Won’t make it sing
Over a morris din.
Black purple and white
It catches the light
My stripey violin
And though strangely pied
No zebras died
To make its singular skin.
Chris Leslie (no monkey)
Described it as ‘funky’
And of anyone, he should know;
It’s got a stripey back
Top sides and neck
(But no matching stripey bow).
It’s done in acrylic
I think it idyllic
Though some may think it a sin;
In Cry Havoc motley,
The pride of Botley,
Is my stripey violin.
In my youth’s spring
We called such a thing
‘Psychedelic’ and ‘groovy’;
Though that’s all passé
I can honestly say
‘Wild thing, I think you move me!’
Learn Yerself Morris
by Ed Pritchard
Everything you thought you never needed to know about morris dancing.
all in: how ‘Haste to the Wedding’ ends, and how the dancers feel when it does.
back to back: a contraceptive method approved by the Catholic church.
beetlecrusher: irritating a VW driver by dancing in the road. Also effective on Range Rovers.
bottoms up: see *tops down.
caper: a practical joke, e.g. tying a dancer’s bells together (see also *hookleg).
crossover: Dorris Morris.
double foot up: an optimistic technique for flying.
foot down: what the Squire puts when it is time to stop drinking and start dancing.
galley: stand on one leg; bring the other leg up and out while keeping the knee bent, and rotate the foot. A ‘galley slave’ is someone addicted to doing this (you get some real weirdos in morris dancing).
half gyp: see *whole gyp.
hay: used to keep the animal occupied in the dance ‘Shave the Donkey’. Not to be confused with *hey.
heading up: the pub is situated at the top of a hill.
hey: a ritual scattering. Thought to be derived from the cries of outraged pub landlords: ‘Hey! You can’t do that norris dancing here! Now buggeroff, the lot of you!’
hookleg: an elegant technique for tripping up adjacent members of the set.
jig: short for jiggery-pokery; see *caper.
morris dance: a spectacularly unsuccessful forerunner of the morris minor.
rounds: see *RTB.
RTB: ‘retire to bar’.
sidestep: a way of avoiding a *hookleg.
slip back: [to the bar] – a way of avoiding dancing. Perfected by ‘Tinkly’ John Keen.
split jump: an extravagantly balletic figure only to be attempted when wearing clean underwear.
tops down: one of the reasons why morris dancing is traditionally for men only; the other is ‘bottoms up’.
whole gyp: what your knees suffer from after two hours’ morris dancing; ‘half gyp’ affects one leg only.
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