Woodside Stories

A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF A MORRIS MINOR

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

Part 2

In the second part of his first year blog, baby Charlie describes his contempt for early May morning practises, yet falls at the first hurdle when it comes to avoiding them. Also covered is his first tour abroad (outside of Hertfordshire that is), when he journeys with the Woodies to the Southbank for the annual tour...

A Summer season in bells

It was a few months later, with the mornings getting lighter, though a chill still hung in the air, that May Day came around, with the horrors of having to be in Cassiobury park at 5am to greet the dawn. Over the preceding years, I’d secretly watched Wayne from my window (we live opposite each other) on previous May Day Mornings, as I found it difficult to believe someone could be so daft as to get up and go Morris dancing at 5am on a cold and sometimes wet morning. I would silently chuckled to myself as I got back under the covers, whilst Wayne sleepily got into the car in full kit, comfortable in the knowledge that I would never find myself in such a ludicrous situation.

Anyway, there I was in the park at 5am, and not only were Woodside there, but an audience as well! Unbelievable!

Spurred on by this, a situation the boys said was not entirely uncommon, we went on to greet the dawn in a selection of dances, tunes, and sloe gin, passed round by a mysterious stranger called Nic. Our objective achieved, we went round to Roger’s for a feed and then on to my kid’s primary school for a bit more dancing and me feeling slightly the worse for wear after the early start. But an enjoyable day was had none the less.

With the summer season fast approaching, and the weather very warm - bordering on roasting - the Woodside boys, plus WAGs, took a trip into London to raise some much needed funds for the side, and to have a bloody good time in the process. We all arrived in London in front of HMS Belfast for the start of the grand Woodside Southbank tour (look out tourists here we come!).

This was a big day for me as it was the first time my Mum would see me dance, and she came out with one of the all time great lines in the annals of my family; referring to myself, and my sister, who works at the London dungeon dressed as some sort of ghoul, she said, “My son’s a Morris dancer and my daughters the living dead, am I the only sane one left in this family!” You only have to know my Mum to know that me and my sister are a chip off the old block.

So having danced up and down the Southbank, entertaining hen partys, being filmed for ITV reality shows, drinking copious amounts of grog and generally having a ball, I sat on the train home and thought well, well, well, what a summer I’m in for with this nutty lot!

The summer of Wednesday night’s out have shot by in a blur of sticks and hankies with the highlight for me being the visit to my local pub, The Swan, in Bushey, where I was thrown in at the deep end with some of the dances as our bagman Tim decided to break his foot at the previous pub (that reminds me I must check my health insurance covers Morris dancing). So, with great encouragement from the Swan regulars, I proceeded to dance a few dances I’d never danced before along with the ones I do know.

It was quite a special night, with the regulars closing off the road so we could dance unmolested between the lines of parked cars, and neighbours of the pub coming out to watch sitting on their deck chairs; that old VE day spirit reborn through the magic of Morris.  This was the night, my spiritual coming out, that confirmed to me that this Morris dancing thing was a bit of alright, and that I might just stick with it yet. No pun intended! The after show party was just as good with our musicians playing a few numbers, supported by talented Mr Whitaker, singing some old English folk songs, and one of the Swan regulars, known as Spoons for some reason, joining in on the spoons for our enjoyment. All this, and great beer too, what a pub!!

Baby Bath Time

With the official dancing season drawing to an end, it was time for my first taste of the annual Woodside camping and dancing trip, which this year was in the beautiful city of Bath, even my wife was excited about the prospect of visiting Bath for the first time (she smells quite nice considering!). The trip down was fairly uneventful, in terms of incident, apart from my two Herbert’s sleeping the whole way and then waking up as we approached Bath saying “it’s such a long way, are we there yet?”  The camp site chosen by Pete Bradshaw was very large and crowded when we arrived, however, we found the rest of the gang and set up next to the Bang’s and Rabjohn’s. We were the talk of the side in no time when my wife and I promptly set up our dining table and settled in for a couple of bottles of wine and a BBQ. We were still at it when everyone arrived back from the restaurant rather the worse for wear after a few too many shandy’s. 

The next morning, bathed in glorious sunshine; showered, shaved and shackled in kit, to the bemusement of the rest of our fellow campers, we set off into town to strut our stuff for the merry folk of Bath and of course the odd Japanese tourist. Our dancing attracted good crowds and was well received by Nippon cameras (I felt like a film star there were so many flashes!). The only sure way of dispersing a crowd though is the sight of the Woodside collecting pots, these little green tins can disperse a crowd quicker than a dozen water cannons any day, I think we should start selling them to the riot squad. 

The last dance spot of the afternoon produced a more than memorable moment when a delightful Old chap asked me how I got involved with Morris dancing, saying, quite understandably, that I looked far too young to be doing such a thing. I told him Wayne was to blame and then, to Wayne’s horror, he asked him if he was my Dad!! Wayne nearly jumped down the poor man’s throat “well does he look young or do I look old?!”... I’ll leave that up to you to decide!

Back at camp a lovely picnic was prepared by the WWAG’s (Woodside wives and girlfriends) ably assisted by my good self on BBQ and Tim on waldorf salad mixing. After much merriment we had the task of entertaining the campers at the camp bar, or should I say the campsite bar (just because we have flowers in our hats... ). Surprisingly, despite dancing on the dreaded gravel, no one was injured and a full day of dancing was finally done, and done well.

The Woodside Morris men’s well earned sleep was rudely interrupted on Sunday morning by the camper’s worst nightmare: rain, and lot’s of it! One good thing though was that I didn’t bring the canvas tepee, which, once wet, takes about three days (pitched in the garden of course) to dry, otherwise it goes mouldy; quite possibly the most ridiculous use I have made of a grand ever!! Well, despite having to pack up in the rain and drive back to Bushey in a thunder storm, me and the family can’t wait for the next trip; although by the look on Wayne’s Wife Gaby’s face on the Sunday morning, I get the impression that we might not be seeing her in a tent again anytime soon. I hope I’m wrong though!

So with the season now done and some bloody good fun had over the summer (if you can call it a summer) I must say my original reservations of being a Morris dancer have subsided and been replaced with a sense of belonging to something kind of cool. I famously told a young lady on the Southbank that Morris dancing is the new acid house (and I feel should know, having done both!), and with this as my motto I can’t wait for next season.

Charlie "the baby" Green

Click here for part 1