Ring out the bells

I have a confession to make: I love Morris dancing. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can focus on Morris: a Life with Bells On, a wonderful mockumentary that affectionately examines the ‘seemingly innocent pub pastime for bearded men with hankies.’ It is filmed through a series of interviews set up in such crisp conditions they appear like portraits done by old masters, where every item in the picture is significant.

This film had a very low budget (the American scenes are clearly not overseas, and the flight there is obviously a model aeroplane) but the production values are still very high and the cinematography is excellent. The changes in depth of focus and sharp close-ups are a welcome relief from the shaky blurred vision that plagues most documentaries. And green and pleasant lands and the Compasses Inn in Wiltshire, where most of the filming was done, make a fine backdrop to the action.

The story follows Derecq Maximillian Twist and his troupe of Morris men, the Millsham Morris. At 32, Derecq is at the peak of his dancing life. He may seem like a mild-mannered tractor mechanic from West Dorset but he is consumed by his passion for ‘the Morris’. Apparently, the term ‘Morris’ covers a multitude of sins and there are a variety of styles, including Borders, Rapper and Clog Dancing, but the Cotswold style is “the distillation of masculinity – it epitomises and embodies the essence and magic that is the essence of Morris.” So says Professor Compton Chamberlayne (Harriet Walter), Emeritus Professor of International Folk Dance at Cambridge. She exudes academic authenticity and is so convincing that you are left doubting what is real and what is absolutely made up?

Derecq introduces his team to the documentary maker, Jeremy (Aidan Mcardle) in a line-up like a proud sergeant showing off his troops to the Queen. They number Will Frosser (Jasper Britton), the foreman; Muff Barcock (Clive Mantel), Point Man 1, who has been “dancing for 40 years and still dances like a gazelle”; Plush Gurney (Richard Lumsden), Point Man 2, who came from ballroom dancing and struggles with his fitness; Boothby Pagnell (Adam Ewan), Point Man 3, who “came from ballet dancing but we won’t hold that against him – everyone has to dabble in the dark side” – besides, he has the top-five hanky work in the country; and Lydiard Spurling (Andy Black), Point Man 4, who is on a cultural transfer from Newcastle and no one understands a word he says.

You have to be asked to join, by showing sufficient calibre and letting your interest be known. Jean Baptiste (Dominique Pinon), substitute Point Man, “dances like a demon, especially after a couple of pints of cider” (i.e. Onan’s Revenge or Wookie’s Hole). A fabulous reconstruction reveals the tempest in which he was caught when he was a fisherman – he washed up on Dorset shore and decided to stay, and married the landlady of The Travellers’ Inn. With its well-drained, level ground, this is the perfect place to dance.

Between them Derecq Twist and Professor Chamberlayne explain that “Morris asks many questions of a man – mentally and physically.” It is apparently a dangerous, contact sport, not just about keeping fit; you need to have “nerves of steel and reactions like lightning’ and a dubious taste in jumpers. The Millsham Morris troupe has a nutritionist and is aware of potential injuries, such as splinters, chipped teeth and cracked knuckles. It is essential to warm up properly and get the blood flowing – they share a hilarious joint training session with the local basketball team – and they take it very seriously indeed; “It takes the three ‘p’s – ‘Passion, practice and a desire to be the best’.”

The dances themselves have evocative names such as Leeks on Fire; If You Please; Tubs of Lard for My Old Lady; A Farthing for the Frenchman to Pass By and Peaches on the Parson’s Nose. They are all demanding and it is recommended that you consult your physician before beginning a dance programme. But the most challenging of them all is the Threeple Hammer Damson in which there are 427 separate moves from all the Morris Dancing disciplines combined. It is too daunting for most – “It is not, nor should it be, easy to achieve” – but to dance it is Derecq’s greatest ambition.

Derecq is also interested in the world of dance outside Morris and attempts to combine other elements (such as Brazilian Maurizio). “Much is within; much without – it will take from anywhere.” He finds inspiration for his free form ‘New Morris’ from other cultures, people and cider, which is very important to interpretation. “The use of any drug is dangerous; organic cider particularly so.” There is a hint of Gareth from The Office as he introduces innovative styles and balletic jumps into his new code. “Someone will end up in hospital – guaranteed.”

With his pursuance of originality, however, he has “ruffled a few highly-placed feathers in the Morris world” and finds himself monitored for deviation. Quentin Neely (a delightfully pompous Derek Jacobi), in his city office overlooking the gherkin on the Thames, maintains that Derecq is bringing Morris into disrepute. Neely denies that Morris should be allowed to change and develop like any other dance; change is only a good thing if it is managed properly. His main objection is that the foreign influence is unwelcome. “Morris is, to its core, English, English, English!”

And so Derecq is rusticated – removed from Her Majesty’s Morris Circle – and forbidden to dance. The laws are reluctantly enforced by Endeavour Hungerfjord Welsh (Ian Hart) the squire of The Moss Side Morris. In DMs and braces they look as though they have stepped out of A Clockwork Orange but they show great sensitivity as they withdraw the staves and confiscate the hankies and ruggles. Seeing Derecq so dispirited is too much for Jeremy who breaks the cardinal rule of documentary making – “I intervened”.

Jeremy arranges for Derecq to fly to California and work with the outrageously camp Orange County Morris (OCM). Of course, he never actually leaves the studio and the backdrop is studiously fake as Derecq deadpans, “Beverly Hills is a bit like Torquay with traffic and palm trees – but a bit sunnier.” He finds the climate a bit of a shock – “I’m used to dancing in all weathers in Dorset, except sunshine.” Unfettered by tradition and with a rich benefactor, Miloslav Villandry (Greg Wise in a remarkable velour pants-suit), the OCM flout convention with their screamingly funny outfits and light-weight carbon-fibre staves.

With the help of their publicist, Sonja (Naomie Harris) with whom Derecq begins a relationship, they decide to incorporate Derecq’s skills into their act and perform to wild acclaim at the Sonomoa County Folk Festival. The practice scenes are like Dirty Dancing meets The Full Monty and the dancers explain that the UK and USA are ‘Two cultures divided by language but united through dance.’ Their routine is full of blinding lights, pelvic thrusts and gyrating rhythms calling upon Boyzone and Michael Flatley. Commercialised with trainers rather than clogs, the union flag intertwines with the stars and stripes, and the punters have never seen anything like it.

Spurred onto greater successes, the OCM turn professional, but Sonja accepts a job as a political press secretary and moves to Iowa. Derecq follows her there and the film drags in this section – at least one scene in a bowling alley could have been cut. There is no appetite for Morris in the mid-West and though he may teach it at weekends, he has sacrificed it to love. Jeremy wonders if his interference was a bad thing as it is terrible to see a formerly mighty Morris man reduced to the devil’s dance – line-dancing in Iowa. Derecq is just a West Country boy at heart – “I love to do a dance with the boys, and have a pint of cider and a game of cribbage afterwards.”

So does Dorset hold more sway over him than his new love? For some inexplicable reason, I actually found that I really cared! It’s not just the romanticised music (original score by Richard Lumsden), reminding me of Brassed Off, which is superb, right down to the rap version of a Morris tune over the final credits. It’s not just the sheer quality of the acting, the sublime scenery or the intelligent direction, although all of the above are outstanding.

Above all, the film weaves an excellent story around a much-maligned art-form. Celebrating the earth, the harvest and general fertility, Morris dancers who performed outside pubs in England were guaranteed a free beer – and who can argue with that? It is heartening to see many closet Morris fans shaking their bells in celebration, and it leads me to question why the public ridicule the Morris and revere the haka? Despite the popular perception, I’d rather take a fun fertility ritual than a threatening war dance any day.

Wellington Sevens Dress-Ups

What to wear to the Wellington Sevens? Believe me, it’s a big issue. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I like more than seeing a few people dressed up in ridiculous costumes at a sporting event. Scooby Doo often turns up to the cricket and it’s very amusing to see him talking to Marilyn Monroe or Gene Simmons in the pub later on. Shrek, stromtroopers, legomen and traffic cones all stand out for various reasons.

But for some reason, everyone (well, about 90%) in Wellington who goes to the Sevens feels the need to dress up. A friend reckons New Zealanders are so repressed that they can only be ‘whacky’ when dressed as someone else. Him Outdoors reckons it’s a personality substitute (which he says is why Kiwis hold more dress-up theme parties than anyone else) but let’s save that nugget for another day…

I was going with a group of girls, and trying to get them to formulate a plan on which they can all agree and then put it into action is like herding kittens. You see, in general, women also want to look good. And they will invariably have different body shapes and comfort zones, so what looks good on one will not suit another.

You could all go as variations on a theme, but a simple costume repeated on a large number of people has dramatic impact, as evinced by the monks and the Flash Gordons.

There are actually rules as to what you can and can’t wear. Let’s start with the revealing. Certain costumes – such as the Borat-thong – have been banned for showing too much flesh. This smacks of double standards as women are allowed to (and frequently do) wear the shortest skirts and lowest tops. This is deemed acceptable as most of the photographers and cameramen are male, and most of the females want to get in the papers or on television. Apparently the way to do this is to thrust your cleavage at a lens and you’ll get all the attention you can handle.

60+ years of feminism fighting for equal rights and to be taken seriously, so that teenage girls can flaunt their sluttishness in public – their parents must be so proud. Perhaps they are; their offspring are ‘famous’ for five seconds, until the next piece of meat comes along. There are skanky cheerleaders; sluttish schoolgirls; tarty nurses; lewd airhostesses; indecent policewomen; vulgar prison officers – do you see the pattern emerging? Incidentally, the most stylish group of women I saw were the Spitfire Girls dressed stunningly in 1940s glamour.

Another taboo is the too-large-for-the-seat category. Sumo suits and people dressed as sofas are out (although these are amusing). The wheelchair-bound bloke dressed as Thomas the Tank engine, however, was a star! Some people were dressed as Barbie dolls in boxes (their aspirations couldn’t be clearer) or cardboard i-pods. These people are actually very annoying to sit behind if you are – heaven forbid – actually trying to watch any rugby, or to stand behind if (as is more likely) you are in the beer queue.

For hours. Buying warm Speights with a 15% sur-charge. Come on Westpac Stadium, as if you weren’t creaming it anyway – I’m certain you could afford to pay your staff without ripping off your patrons. If, as reports showed, people stayed in town for longer drinking at bars with big screens, decent beer and no sur-charge (not a bar that I went into on Friday had one) it serves you right for your shameless exploitation of the people you claim to cater for.

And then there are the weapons. Anything that looks like it could cause bodily harm is unacceptable – and rightly so. It is somewhat disturbing to see the SWAT team casually swigging beer while holding semi-automatic guns, but they were denuded of these (the guns, not the beer) and then must have felt vulnerable – not to mention hot.

There were heaps of Spartans and gladiators – all with bendy swords. Friends of ours went as droogs from A Clockwork Orange, and had their canes examined. They were permitted, after they promised not to indulge in any ultraviolence.

There are no rules about bad taste – as one man’s offence is another one’s humour. Hence people blackened their skin to appear as belly dancers, snake charmers and Arabs. A line of black-hooded, orange-jumpsuited Guantanamo Bay inmates (not folk from Guatemala, as my dad referred to them) may be considered tasteless, but what about the black-and-white-striped chain gang?

Adam and Eve wearing not much more than their fig-leaves were allowed in, but a bloke wearing a full-length fully-flesh-concealing penis costume was not.

By the end of the weekend (or even half-way through the first day) several costumes – and bodies – were severely worse for wear. Some had neglected to slip, slop, slap and there were acres of flesh, usually hidden but for some reason exposed, that was now bright red. The Mexicans with their giant sombreros had the right idea – there was no excuse for them to get sunburned.

We saw a bee with crushed wings and antenna, separated from her swarm and bringing a new interpretation to bumbling at 1pm on the first day. We saw brides vomiting rather than blushing in the seats behind us – although the ‘soldier’ she had picked up didn’t even seem to care, or even to notice. A match made in heaven. I’m sure everyone had a good time. Later they will dress in their civvies and resume their normal bland personas, but for this weekend they came; they drank; they dressed up.


For the record, we went as 60s throw-backs. We could choose our own skirt length and neckline, although the high-heeled boots were not a good idea in hindsight. My dad said I looked like my mother from yesteryear.

The boys went as Morris Dancers. When England won they waved their hankies and jingled their bells – even though some of them were Irish. Seeing them dance with Oscar the Grouch in the street at 1am was one of those surreal moments that make up major sporting tournaments.

Olympics: Disappointing ending

It's really no secret that I have loved these Olympics, and followed the antics and achievements of the athletes like a spectacular drama.

But I'm afraid to say that the finale was ultimately a let-down. Despite all the hoopla of the closing ceremony and the handover to Britain involving a double decker bus, David Beckham and some umbrellas, the events of the last day were all a bit ho-hum.

True, it kicked off with the men's marathon which was remarkable for its pace and style in that heat and humidity, but where were the rest of the athletics? I'm sure that the final day used to involve proper events and baton twirling - sorry, relay races. Now the baton twirling is not ironic, and represented by rythm gymnastics, with handball and volleyball finals also being decided. Add to this the spectacle of water polo and the whole thing is a bit of a damp squib.

So I am left looking ahead to the prospect of the next games in London. I really hope that we will dispense with the lavish ceremony and cut to the parade of nations, a couple of speeches and then everyone is entertained by a quick burst of morris dancing and a couple of stand-up comedians, and it's off down the pub - bring your own tankard. We could save a good thirty million pounds right there. Maybe we could plough it into sporting organisations or, and here's an idea, give it to the health and education systems!

I have heard a rumour that darts will be in an as exhibition sport - now that's pretty British. Let's not stop there. Why don't we include cheese rolling, fell running and pint racing? This has to be better than cricket, golf and rugby which are some of the suggestions for sports to be included. They have their own major, and highly paid professional, tournaments. They don't need to be part of our games.

I have also heard that baseball and softball will be dropped, and if there's any justice, beach volleyball will go the same way. If we must include it, why don't we make them play on Brighton beach with its not-so-soft shingle and it's freezing water? They'll rue those skimpy costumes then, although that would probably please the lecherous lads (the only people who actually watch this 'sport') even more.

And if we must have a closing ceremony, let it be along the lines of It's a Knockout. The athletes could race up and down on tricycles wearing comedy clown feet and royal family masks. They could play their jokers, wade through blancmange and carry buckets of coloured water with holes in the bottom. And Stuart 'As a Hatter' Hall could guffaw throughout proceedings. Now we just have to start lip-synching and crushing protests. I'm looking forward to it already!