Woodside Stories

A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF A MORRIS MINOR

(a blog of my first year in Morris dancing by Charlie Green)

Part 1

Young Charlie Green, barely out of shorts (in Morris Man terms) found himself press ganged into Woodside Morris Men late last Summer, though the Camden born Woody, also now known as Baby, reveals that he was not an entirely willing convert, the demon drink playing a significant part in his conversion to folk hero...

Oh Dear, what have I done!

“The things you get yourself into when you’re drunk,” would make a good book title, in fact it would be an excellent prequel to “the things you regret the morning after the night before”. Well the day I got sozzled in The Swan with Wayne Lang and agreed to become a Morris dancer would make great chapters in either of these books hands down!

Wayne, an enthusiastic Morris evangelist, had been “grooming” me for some time about the beauty and wonders of the ancient English martial art, inviting me to the annual Woodside ale night, discussing it animatedly whenever we got together for our fortnightly pilgrimage to vicarage road to watch our beloved Saracens (someone’s got to do it!) and taking me to watch Woodside perform at various venues across Hertfordshire on balmy summers evenings.

Well, one night, probably after a particularly good win by Sarries, I was two pints the wrong side of going home time and Wayne had detected my nonsense; he proceeded to inform me that the Woodside open evening was the following Wednesday night. Sadly, my big mouth got the better of me and before I could say “half gyp, back to back, rounds” (his grooming was a good one!) I’d agreed to go along and try my hand; well, at least Wayne said I’d agreed to it the following day, but I’m not so sure!

The day was looming, my wife was brooding, and I was trying to think of an excuse not to go, but in the end I thought I’d give it a go and if I didn’t like it then at least the next time I saw some Morris dancers I could say “been there done that!”

So with much trepidation I went to my first Woodside practice session, on arrival it was noted by the look of shock on Dave Pearse’ face that Wayne hadn’t told him I’d be coming, so I can only assume that Wayne probably thought I’d chicken out!! Not only did I turn up but Jon Checkley, another succumbant to the lure of the Morris, had also followed the siren call to find his way to the Colne River Rooms. I could sense the panic in the team members: “oh s**t, what do we do with new members, this hasn’t happened in while!!” But despite some fears I had of finding the members cliquey, everyone turned out to be very welcoming and extremely patient: Me having to go through my double stepping for the 50th time allowed Tim to have a nice sit down; gaining me a friend for life!

Now let’s get this straight, it may look like a bunch of blokes leaping around (it basically is) and it may look easy (it basically isn’t); one two three hop may not sound too hard, but I can honestly say it’s the most frustratingly difficult thing to master, and even after a year I’m still not entirely convinced of my adequacy in that department! Dave Pearce, Woodside’s long standing Foreman (or dance tutor) is famous in the side for saying “urrrmmmmmmm... Shall we go through that again?” and this phrase was to haunt me on many a Wednesday practice session through the cold winter months, my only saving grace was when he would pull someone else to one side to go through the finer points of crushing beetles or pulling a funky furry!

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed,
Something Green.

It was at one of these practice sessions that I was informed I would be expected to dance “out” on Boxing Day, which filled me with excitement and more than a little fear, at having to at last expose myself (not literally of course, we’re not that type of side) as a real life Morris Dancer. This was no small thing, the majority of my family, who live down in Dorset, wouldn’t believe I’d joined Woodside when I told them: I had announced it in a drink fuelled address to a family gathering soon after I had taken the plunge, and was greeted with much praise for my extravagant comic imagination. It was only the rolling of my wife’s eyes at the mere mention of Morris dancing that finally convinced them that the hedonistic, cage dancing, acid house raver they knew and loved for so long, had gotten too old for football and too, er, respectable for raving, and was now embracing a settled family life of Rugby (watching) and Morris (dancing). I blame it on moving to leafy Bushey from my native Camden town!

But before I could dance on Boxing Day I’d need to get my kit together. I’d secretly thought that my wife’s threats of having nothing to do with sewing baldric’s or threading bells on to pads wouldn’t hold true, but how wrong could I be? My darling wife, when I approached her with some long thin strips of green material, left me in no doubt as to her thoughts on the matter, and that left me in the rather tricky position of taking a crash course in the use of a dangerous looking sewing machine.

All’s well that ends well as they say, but the look of horror on her face as I proceeded to chop the legs off a perfectly good pair of trousers ranks with the time when I told her, with great sincerity, that I used to be a woman! She’s good for a wind up my Misses! Anyway the trousers suitably cut up, baldricks made, red belt bought and white socks at the ready, I was nearly there, except the one thing that no Morris man can be without; his bells. These proved a little harder to acquire; the rest of the lads had made their own pads; Wayne and Dave Dunham from old handbags and dog collars of all things, but with the wonders of modern technology I was able to track a guy down, on the wonder web, that sells kits (pads, bells and laces), but disastrously, he couldn’t get them to me in time for my big day due to the Christmas post, for which I duly blamed Wayne, who is otherwise one of Bushey’s posties. Disappointment was averted though, as I was able to borrow a set from Dave Pearse and a hat from Dave Lang as the side’s flower collection couldn’t be tracked down in time.

So with the Christmas excesses still being felt and Jack Frost nipping at my nose (and knees), Me and the family made the short trip to Croxley Green for my coming out parade, with not only real people watching, but other Morris dancers as well!

My cameo appearance in balance the straw came and went without much ado; apart from going the wrong way on the first hey it was relatively trouble free, but a feeling of belonging to something after I’d finished was very strong; there I was, a real life Morris dancer, albeit a bit rough around the edges, but a Morris dancer none the less! Although my true, spiritual Morris outing was still yet to come, more of which later, it was beginning to look like there was no way back!

The spirit of the day was so overwhelming for me and the family, that the side even managed to get my wife up to do Bonny Green; which was an added bonus. I keep telling her that Whitethorn would happily have her, but she won’t listen!!

My next challenge was the annual Woodside ale night which I attended the year before as an outsider, and, to be honest, a bit of a bemused outsider at that! This one though was different, as I was inside of the firm now; one of the boys, and this time with my own bells! Yes, my shiny new baubles were about to get their first taste of action, and action they got; a few too many pints of Tring brewery’s finest, and I was up dancing dances I hadn’t even seen before let alone practised, much to the amusement of the Woodside boys.

Charlie “the baby” Green

Click here for part 2