Hey nonny non

You can tell that Spring is here. The daffs are out, the cherry blossom is blooming and in pub car-parks across the land middle-aged bald men with an interest in real ale are dressed in white with bells on their legs and are Morris dancing.

As a nation, we should be grateful, as long as they are outside the pub in the car park, they are not inside the pub talking to me about music in the middle ages. I know all about the middle ages than you very much, I’ve seen the woodcuts. Mostly, life appeared to consist of dirt. Even the plague was black.

There is something comforting about Morris dancing though. Mainly the comforting thing is that I’m not doing it and that other hobbies, say trainspotting or carving WWII combat dioramas out of cheese do not look quite so odd when compared to the activities of ‘The Frome Fiddlers’. Certainly it’s comforting that it’s traditional. Indeed, for centuries stout fellows have stood, pint in hand and thought ‘look at those prats!’.