When I'm not out in my sandwich board railing against the urban destruction wrought by the infernal combustion engine I can be found in The Widows Arms with The Blackheath Stick Men. It makes a change, I can work off my anger and get some exercise while I'm about it. Now you may think Morris Dancers are a bunch of self abusers and want their bells tuned but you're wrong, where else can a man dance with a man and a handkerchief and not be laughed at? Yeah, I know, Greece, but I don't want to go there. They dress funny.
The Blackheathens are the bad boys of stick dancing, we dance hard, we drink hard and we molest virgins. Sometimes we have to go far afield. We black up too, like the Moors, except for Delroy who's excused. We give no quarter, no man is safe, neither his knuckles nor his beer, and no side will meet us in fair contest. OK so we're a little bit belligerent and a lot of bit inebriated, but to be old is to live in pain and we tire earlier than we used to. And when our knees are knackered and the dancing's done we're glad to up sticks and hobble to the bus stop. Except Delroy who's blind and has to be carried.
There's a man that's keen to join us, he's sixty five and fit and feisty, but though we're in need of young blood we won't have him. He's jewish you see. I suspect he suspects we're anti-semitic and I suppose we are a little. But it isn't that, not really, the fact is we're tied by lore and ancient custom. We haven't the heart to tell him, you have to be a complete prick to be a Morris dancer.
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