A Call to All Young People in the Run-up to the Millennium

It's hard to say it but if I'm to come to terms with my shame I must repeat it as many times as possible. I am a morris dancer and have been for 25 years. During those years I have visited most countries in Europe and even one in South America. Last year we were sunning it at the Gyongyus Festival in Hungary: wallowing in free booze, wine and food whilst being entertained by groups from all over the world and making new friends. In August this year I will be in Portland, Oregon, USA at the West Coast Morris Ale. Let me say quite categorically that I am not making this statement to spread envy amongst the other local dance teams. I know most of them will be experiencing similar hospitality in foreign parts. My remarks are addressed to all those young people who are cogitating what to do during the long wet, cold British summers and who wouldn't be seen dead participating in their cultural heritage. Let me see if I can persuade you to change your minds.

It is my humble observation that the young need to travel. In the 18th Century the working and upper class young of England went off, over the hills and far away, to join the likes of Sharpe's riflemen plundering the fruits of Portugal, France and Spain. In the 19th Century the rich sent their sons off on the Grande Tour to improve their education with a splash of continental culture and hospitality. The poor, unfortunately, were to busy working themselves to death in the factories and mines creating the wealth for the rich. Things got even worse in the early 20th Century when all the young were shipped to France and forced to kill or be killed by our European cousins and things were not much better by my father's time. Even though his regiment was entertained by Indian groups, providing Indian cuisine and performing local traditions - as a relief from Vera Lynn, bully beef, dried biscuits and Naafi tea - there was still the Japanese Imperial army to contend with. Things have only improved since the sacrifices of my dad's generation.

Of cause there's nothing to stop the young of today joining one of the armed services and donning drab silly gear: but there's still the danger of conflict. As a second choice they could spend every other Saturday dressed in silly designer sports gear watching their dreary local professional football team in the hope that they'll finish in the top flight and qualify for Europe: but there's still the danger of conflict. For my mind it makes a lot more sense to join your local dance team, practice through the winter months and land on the beaches of Normandy (thanks to P&O Stena Line) to plunder the fruits of the continent in complete safety. No opposing armies of soldiers and riot police to meet us; just civic receptions, wine lakes and mountains of good food and we leave content in the knowledge that we've done our stuff for Britain. You may say there's always 18 to 30 Holidays. True there's the reception, the cheap booze and food but this type of activity is far more stressful than morris dancing and what's more important morris is for life. How are you going to get to Europe when you reach 31?

Rocking slowly in my chair, whistling Fieldtown tunes, watching the Antiques Road Show, the Time Team and the too numerous to count cooking programmes I can look back over the past 25 years with the pleasure and knowledge that the things I've achieved, thanks to my local morris team, add meaning to my, er..., TV viewing.

I've seen and experienced things beyond the wildest dreams of a working class lad from the Park area of Sheffield. I've sung, danced and scoffed in the Chateaux of France, the castles of Spain, the museums of Portugal and the back streets, squares and bars of Italy, Belgium, Holland and old Yugoslavia. I've even done my stuff half way up the world's highest volcano (Cottapaxi), on the Equator, in the Pacific Ocean and down in the depths of the Amazon guarded by Ecuadorian troops carrying automatic riffles. I didn't think the performance was too good either!

Then there are all the venues I have turned down over the years: Vermont and Arizona (USA), Hong Kong, Jordan, the Ukrain and Whitby Folk Festival which always falls at the wrong time of the year. I now find, I can fully appreciate a Delia Smith recipe, an Oz Clarke description of a poor claret, the finer detail of French furniture, the glazing techniques of Japanese and Inca pottery and, last but not least, the importance of a thorough field survey and well dug trenches on an archaeological site. Toilets in Ecuador and some parts of Europe leave much to be desired.

I can hear all you youngsters out there tut-tutting and saying to yourself: but what price has he had to pay for all this pleasure? Disfigurement, months in a wheel chair, surely financial bankruptcy at least. Of course I'm not what I used to be: I've lost much of my hair, a few front teeth and I don't have a 32 waist anymore and Nat West write to me more than I to them. But no more of a toll than standing on the Spion Cop at Hillsborough for 25 years singing:

"Oh my lads - don't be like united!
Swing the ball from wing to wing and get the crowd excited."