Littleborough Rushbearing Festival 2012
So here is the Littleborough post - there has been a few posts before this one relating to the festival, because our morris side were heavily involved in the creating of this event this year, even though we went to our first meeting for it only 6 weeks before hand - We were in charge of the rushcart, which only needed dealing with in the last 4 weeks before the event (re-sewing banner - see previous posts - and rushcutting and dressing).
Here is my previously written journal entry - Then I'll put up Terry's post next...
We set off late on Friday the 20th of July, having packed the car to the brim with stuff, I was amazed I got my stuff in the car with 3 kids too. We got to Steve and Hildred’s at about 7.45, and unpacked most of their stuff and the boys, then got to the campsite at about 8pm and quickly unpacked my stuff, then SJ took people to the Littleborough Conservative Club where Steve’s Folk night had begun. I took my sweet time and went with Jeanette and others to the Con club. The evening was a bit dull for me, and I remember getting stressed out because I had no money and had not eaten and it was 11pm, and I ended up asking Dawn to borrow some money for the weekend.
Like most of the other folk nights, we deal with a repeat of most songs - my friends love it so much, they don’t seem to mind hearing the same song every time. Dawn and I even sang ‘Cummer gae ye afore’ because it was a new crowd. Was not as bored as most nights, but still got stressed and tired.
Slept in Dawn’s tent which was great! In the morning, it was going to be a lovely day, as it was sunny and clear. But we had to get up and get moving, as everything started at 10am. Had an awesome bacon butty for breakfast and got ready in good time. Got the second bus load to the Moorcock Inn, and found out we forgot the magpie-on-a-stick. I thought Jeanette was going to bring it with the rushcart banners. Gordon went back with Helen to get it before we took off.
The other teams arrived. The Raving Maes, who were with us for the entire weekend, Ryburn Longsword rapper, and Cinquefoil rapper too, a new team that Bekka is in. We all did some dances before we began to walk off. Ang, Brittany and I were up the front, and Magpies and Maes were spread out front and back or the poles on the cart. We walked down to The Rake tapas restaurant, and pulled the cart up there. We did some dancing there and then after about 2 dances each, we moved onto the actual township of Littleborough.
As we got closer to the town, the traffic got more horrendous and our stewards, who were Magpies and friends of Magpies, were blocking the traffic without any help of any police. If fact, I did not see one all day. We made our way through the roundabout near the Wheatsheaf and then up the road to Harehill Park where most of the festival was taking place. When we parked there, I did not get to see the park much coz I was looking for Dawn, and then got introduced to the Mayor and Deputy Mayoress by Steve Lister. Got chatting to them about the sewing I did for the rushcart and Australia too. Made my way down to the Rotunda bandstand and Brittany’s mum Sarah had bought me a drink. We danced one dance at the bandstand - and it was Diagonal Wychwood which I love - and I got to be in it! Ang did mess up at the end when she started star the wrong way. But we put up with it - she never admitted the mistake at the end. Oh well. Soon we were off again and walking the cart down to the Wheatsheaf where we spent about an hour and a half of our time there (time we wished had been spent at the park instead - that’s the plan for next year when I won’t be here). After lunch and some dancing, we walked the cart a long way up the hill to the Wine Press which is next to Hollingworth Lake and near our campsite. I did not get a spot on the cart this time, and ended up carrying James half the way, which slowed me down - I ended up giving him to Brittany’s mum. We spent a while at the wine press too, doing some dances and examining Kirsty Best’s (from the Raving Maes) wooden penis that her side had bought for her recently. We had fun laughing about with that, including a moment where I was laying down with Brittany, and Kirsty came and sat it on me. There was photo evidence. And it made it to FB. We then walked the rest of the way back to the campsite with the cart. That meant relax time! I stripped off and cooled my sore feet down, and we all went inside and had some afternoon tea. Cinquefoil joined us, even though they were not spending the night, the afternoon tea was for all teams that were there that day.
I had a relax by the tent with Zara and Jack, and got changed. Then we went into dinner and ate as much as I could to satisfy myself. Afterwards, we went into the little bar room where there were couches and we began our folk night - Dawn and I sang, and we had a good time with the Maes too when they turned up. I went to bed at about 11pm and woke to hear all the people left up chatting in Mark’s tent because clearly midnight was too early. I fell asleep again, and woke feeling like I had gotten enough sleep.
I had to rush to get ready this morning, as I was having a good time eating my butty this morning and sitting in the sun. I had been walking barefoot on the oval grass, because it’s good grass and had been wet with dew the first morning, which wet my shoes and only other pair of socks. So I made a point of being barefoot most of the time, until shoes were dry.
We got the cart ready, which had spent its first night in the rain outside (the magpie on a stick with it too!) and we walked it to the visitor centre. Here it was lovely, lots of trees and the rushcart looked lovely in amoung them. I spied a wooden stump that was carved into a green man, so Brittany and I went over to look at him and get photos. After a few dances we walked on - I walked by the cart this time, not with a pole.
We parked the cart near the train station and walked to the Wheatsheaf where there was the Square set up - stalls and all sorts - this was where we were going to be dancing later. I had lunch with Brittany, her dad and grandad, Mark, Dawn and the Armitages, and then we went back to the cart at 2pm to drive it to the Square. We arrived in popular procession, this time with a brass band heading us. It was a wonderful entrance. We parked the cart, which was its last spot before the festival ended. Here we spent the rest of the day dancing, also watching a Pace Egg play. SJ’s dad Steve Lister announced to the crowd via microphone, about thanking the Thieving Magpies for keeping the rushcart festival going, and then he saw me walking towards the crowd. He then announced that the banner had a re-design and that I had done it, so he got me up front for everyone to see. It was an honour.
At the end of the day, a few of us Magpies walked the cart to the Con club and pulled it apart, before we caught the mini bus back to the campsite. Had a huge relax back at the campsite before we packed up. SJ, Chris, Dan, Zara and I then went to the Moorcock Inn and met with Steve and Hildred who had the 3 kids and we all had dinner there - for me it was a lovely thankyou for doing all the sewing.
TERRY'S POST...
Littleborough Rushcart 2012
Arrived early evening - rugby field - tent up. Turned out to be midge infested site. And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good, though what’s good about bloody midges, I fail to see, God, to be honest, I think you cocked up on that one. Plus, having cocked it up, you couldn’t be arsed to give us a repellent that worked. Jeanette kindly fetched fish & chips, then off up the Conservative (spit) Club for a folk night hosted by Banjo Steve Lister, SJ’s Dad. Mark & I (separately) did some stuff; I was surprised that nobody had heard of the Bluesbreaker album with a young Eric Clapton reading the Beano on the cover; perhaps nobody wanted to admit being old enough. Anyway, as the night continued the Yorks/Lancs division widened, with them singing jolly humorous ditties, and us singing normal miserable folk songs, interspersed with some fine box playing by some big bloke and Josh of Raving Maes. One of the audience left, saying it was a mutual appreciation society; it was pointed out to the miserable bastard that we all knew each other. Did he want heckling and throwing things? Eventually Linda and Jonathon turned up having walked into town for a meal. Then Angie and Shamus turned up. So by the time Cheating at the Gallows wound up the proceedings, we were falling asleep. We treated the watching millions to Shula Gra (Here I sit on Butternut Hill), Tom of Bedlam (Still I sing Bonnie Boys), Bonnie Ship the Diamond (It’s 2nd fret; no it isn’t - I’ve never played it there - yes it is - it says so in the book etc.) finishing off with Rolling Home to rapturous applause that could be heard ten feet away.
And so, all piling into Shamus’ Big White Shagmobile, hied we back to the site, where interesting constellations manifested themselves in the sky. A word about toilet facilities. Being a rugby club, fairly basic, but the lighting was unusual. I don’t know about you, but I find a dumpsworth of time approx = 1 game of Sudoku on the mobile phone. In the bogs there was a time delay, but not long enough to be a dumpsworth. You’ve seen the Peter Seller’s film A Shot in the Dark? Well, it was like that. Except one letter different.
So, everybody going to bed, I accepted Angie’s kind offer of a nightcap back at Shamus’ van. On arrival it was somewhat disconcerting to see Shamus without trousers or pants flashing his arse as he climbed into bed. I am not an afficionado, I think the word is, of the male arse, especially when it is unexpectedly hurled into your line of vision with no warning. (See Cuckoo Day blog ref Chris’s arse - another shock). Pulling myself together, I accepted a drink of ginger wine (what else?) and we chatted about things, mainly how useless you lot were, - oh sorry - I meant to say how much you tried. A more trying bunch of people I’ve yet to see. (Some of this isn’t true - in future this will be abbreviated to SoTit, because it’s shorter, and slightly rude.)
Back to the tent, where Joe had applied the sleeping child rule, i.e. lying at 90 degrees to the axis. Shovelling him into a corner. I climbed into my sleeping bag. Strange phrase, that. Climbing surely contains an element of motion upwards, whereas sleeping bags are almost always level. Unless you sleep in a bag hanging on the wall, where I suppose the phrase would be accurate. Anyway mine wasn’t.
Saturday, and Bright Phoebus blessed us with his myriad beams. It was sunny as well. So, having been promised breakfast at 8, we found the doors still locked. Eventually the caterers bowled up and soon we were replete with bacon,egg and sausages, and for the vegans, sod all. Banging on the side of the Shamus’ SM (see above), the door slid open to reveal Shamus and Angie in a wild embrace (SoTit). It is strange, though, to be able to lie in bed and open the door to the world without getting up. Thankfully. Bidding farewell before any wayward arse tactics were employed, it was back to the tent for facepaint and kitting out. Then to the yellow minibus driven by Gordon, Jeanette’s dad, to the Moorcock Inn. Did they really have to call it that? The Moorcock on its own, is a sniggersworth. But Moorcock Inn? I say I say I say - where can I go for a meal? Have you tried Moorcock Inn? No, I want to eat first. I don’t wish to know that etc.
On arrival we were greeted by a skeletal rushcart and we set about putting its tatters on and sticking our magpie on top. Jeanette went up the ladder and we concentrated hard on not looking up. Meanwhile Cinquefoil? and Ryburn Longsword began the dancing. The cart finished, we took our turn dancing.
We were shite.
Raving Maes were brilliant. So began the Rushcart journey downhill with various members in yellow jackets pretending to be stewards. I reflected it was the first time I’d pulled for quite a long time. (Not counting the ex-heroin addict at Holmfirth and no I won’t let you forget it). Apparently the police weren’t interested. After all, who could be more responsible than a morris side? That’s right - just about anybody. Past the gaily waving crowds (Mr. and Mrs. Newtbucket and their goldfish, Jolyon) and down to the next pub, the Rake Tapas Bar. (Do you remember the Wheel Tapas and Shuntas club in the 70’s - no?).We had great fun dancing between the traffic.
We were shite.
I was here accosted by a fellow calling me by name and shaking my hand like an old friend. I hadn’t a clue who he was! I would be the first to admit that my memory is failing - (well no, probably Helen and Mark would be first and second - I probably would be third to admit, so that’s only a bronze), but I cannot recall him, and he spoke to me at nearly every venue. But that’s the price of fame, I suppose.
So, singing many a merry shanty, two anyway, onwards to Harehills Park, where Things were happening. Unfortunately I missed most of them queueing for the bog with small children. The sides took turns once more. Ryburn Longsword made an effort not to make a star, and it came out like a double triangle. A good try, but a long way to go to Stork Carrying Baby.
We were shite. It was extremely hot. But we weren’t shite hot. Just hot and shite.
Off again with the cart to the Wheatsheaf where we danced on the pavement outside. Spent some time chatting to a Welshman from the valleys, who seemed to think we were summat to do with mining. We reminisced about the quality of anthracite for some time, and he admitted he’d only been dahnt’ pit once. Eventually, tucking his sheep under his arm, he boarded the bus (What stereotype?). Apparently Chris, who delights in making up stories about Morris origins to give to unsuspecting normals, had told somebody we were a product of Moorish martial arts! He is very plausible. It once took me half an hour to realize he was talking bollocks. In fact, thinking about it, he may have made up the whole story about telling somebody about Moorish Martial arts, the devious little sod.
We were shite.
Then off to the Wine Press, a pub where people with big flash bikes park them, and go and look at other people’s big flash bikes, a pastime I find about as interesting as golf, but don’t get me going. We were all pretty knackered, but we danced.
We were shite.
Then the Phantom Hampton appeared, as from nowhere. Tania, who was lying down, suddenly acquired a 10” todger complete with accoutrements. It transpired it belonged to that Archduchess of Anarchy, Kirsty Best, Queen of the Maes. As far as I can make out, she needed a 10” pianist to add to her collection of carved figures, but Tom misheard and she ended up with a Beech Bishop instead. (Yes you do - flogging the bishop - don’t act innocent). He even bargained the stallholder down - that takes balls - and that’s what he ended up taking. And a Pine Plonker. (Sotit)
The final pull back to the rugby club, where snacks and drinks awaited. Then back to the tent. Some of our number were busy heating up the food. I went for a shower. There was no lock on the door, so you had to sing, but the acoustics were amazing! I almost went and fetched Mark and Linda for a Cheating at the Gallows practice, but decided against it as I didn’t have any clothes on, and didn’t want people feeling inadequate. So I sang Tam Lin - 26 verses - then discovered Angie had been waiting outside the whole time.
Food! A fine selection of vegan dishes, and some Hungarian Goulash too! Unfortunately, someone (who needs locking up) had given one of the cute little tinies, (George I think) a bloody whistle. So conversation was a bit strained.
“Hello, my name’s * PHEEP * pleased to * PHEEP * you. That’s a big * PHEEP * you’ve got there. Do you think I might * PHEEP * it for a while.”
You could get arrested. (Guitar) (play).
Then the folk night in the bar. Cheating at the Gallows did some stuff. Other people joined in dong some stuff. Noted that the spoons should not be played as accompaniment to effing everything. Went to the bar -no barman, I thought - I’ll go to the toilet; he should be back when I come back. Sitting there, I was aware of somebody coming in the next cubicle. Sound of nether garments gravitating earthward. Then, suddenly, I was nearly hurled off the pan by a huge PHAARRT!! from the adjoining cubicle. This was no ordinary emission. It rattled the windows and loosened my fillings. It would have definitely registered on the Richter scale. It would have won Olympic gold. (Speaking of the Olympics, isn’t Sebastian Coe a smug twat? No wonder he could run fast. He would have had to, growing up in Sheffield with a name like Sebastian). And then I thought, “What a waste! That fart had more entertainment value than a lot of what was going on in the bar. I think anyone in our side would have been proud to have delivered it in front of the others. And that’s just the women. Then sounds of nether garments rising again and away he went. He had come just to fart! There’s manners for you!
When I got back to the bar the bloody barman still wasn’t back, so I spent the evening sharing Linda’s wine. Works just as well.
Shamus launched into some tunes. He is a fine player of the squeeze box, but you can’t keep up with him. All his music is in semi-demi- hemi-quavers. You can get a whole tune into one bar.
I was nodding off by now. I had me shades on so I don’t think anybody knew. Until they woke me up by asking me to sing. So it went on, culminating in a Bohemian Rhapsody by Raving Maes and us. The barman, who had finally turned up, said no singing after 11, so we buggered off back to Mark’s communal tent. Fortunately we managed to stop the lecherous sod telling the Maes he was nice and soft (see previous blog) and was available for lying on. Then began the ritual passing of the bottles, always deosil, never widdershins (bad luck). Gin and tonic, rum and coke, cider, meths, rose wine, furniture polish etc. made the rounds together with a big bag of Bombay Mix. (Irishmen working in India). It was a bit disconcerting that some bottles appeared to be getting fuller and somebody suggested it was saliva. Urrghh! Laughter and jolly banter pervaded the night, together with inspections of wooden willies. TMB Zara was there, but was beaten into second place by TEMB Kirsty. (That even madder bat). Talk turned to archaeology, would you believe, when she told us of a dig to discover that little known Order of monks, the Pre-menstrual Tensions (honest). I’ve just looked up religious orders on Wikepedia and can find sod-all about anybody with a name remotely approaching that. Do you think she was pulling our collective plonker? The night drawing on, we staggered out. Sneaking off for an illicit pee in the bushes, I tripped over a guy rope and fell flat on my face. Eventually got to bed. Apparently Mark went and played a jolly game in the bogs involving relieving yourself before the lights went out or some such rubbish.
Sunday started with sun, bacon butty, and lost sunglasses. Until Tania found them ouside the tent. Apparently some drunken twat had fallen over the guy rope and lost them. Onto the cart and away to the visitor centre, where we danced. My notes say “fucked up arse”, but I believe I meant that we made a mess of White Ladies Aston. I think so, any way. I would have remembered the other.
We were shite.
Down to the Wine Press again. Danced again. Persephone (from Hunsworth) danced. They are ace. We watched them. Kirsty said that arms and legs should be at 90 degrees, but unfortunately the bingo wing effect comes into play. I pointed out that, if knockers were in evidence, half the audience wouldn’t look at the bingo wings. (Is this politically correct?)
We were shite.
So, with a merry shout of “Pull you buggers!”, the long downhill trek to just outside Littleborough Centre. On this section the cart was not performing properly. It was a great bloody effort to keep the shafts from hitting the deck. I think that the bastards behind weren’t pulling back enough, so Mark was braking, causing it to tip forward. Some use thinking of that now, with bloody great bruises on both arms! Of course, I could be wrong, but everyone will tell you, I rarely am. (Unfortunately they won’t. I find that, in these situations, the support I get is never more than nil. Even from my wife). It was here that we were joined by a man with a video camera, a big serious one, who was recording for a programme on channel 4 called “The psychology of dance”. He had come across us quite by accident and ended up taking lots of shots. “Have you got some good footage?” I asked, then, “I suppose it’s not footage now it’s all digital”. But apparently they still call it that. And I also learned that RAP as in “it’s a rap” means Re-wind And Print” Learn something new every day. Having parked up, we went into town to get food. Grass and wraps for the family, meat pie for me. Have graced the co-op with our presence, we found a grassy bit where Brittany and her parents were picnicking. In the corner was Ange, being interviewed by C4 man. It’s going to be on end this/beginning next year. He took a picture of us with Paddy and his big springy legs, and sent it to his boss.
Back to the cart for the final pull. The band and civic dignitaries had to go before, and we followed with all the Magpies, and a couple of Maes as eye candy for the masses. The day was sunny, the crowd was happy. We were given a lot of praise for saving their rushcart day. And why not? We did? Then the fantastic Persephone danced, the amazing Raving Maes, and Thieving Magpie, taking it in turns. SJ showed off her new purple music stand, specially ordered to take the piss!
We were brilliant! We did Arse, Twiglet and Stomp. And we did them well. Watch the video. See Smiley Chris giving it some welly! Me ankles had now had enough. Kipping under the rushcart, I could see bits of the mummer’s play between legs. This being over, a last round of dancing finishing with a Tinner’s Rabbit. I would like to mention that my boys, Joe and Thomas, danced well for tichies, and the bit where they rounded on me and Mark in Arse was great.
Pausing only to tell Ange that if she suggested more dancing we would have to kill her, we being totally shagged out, we pulled the cart round the corner to the strains of “Ilkley Moor baht ‘at”. Yes, it was a statement. Strange that 6 of the 7 sides that danced were from Yorkshire. Still, it matters not. Littleborough Rush-bearing is a great event to be in. The cart stationary, we stripped it of its tatters and stuff. Jeanette did her stuff up the ladder though SJ said when she didn’t include in the risk assessment for wearing high heels.
Then we crammed into the minibus, the boys sitting on our knees to make more room. Joe, who is 9, looked at me and said “Is this strictly legal?”. Where does he get it from? Piled out, packed up, hung about waiting for group hug. At this juncture, someone pointed out that Angie, for a slim person, has quite chubby toes.What a good name for a childrens book!
One day, Chubbitoze went out. She was looking for some-one to dance with. Under a tree, drinking gin and tonic, was the Beardikris. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “Not that bothered” said the Beardikris, and moved onto the rum and coke. Next Chubbitoze saw the Ozzitania sticking a jumbuck into a billabong. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “Sorry Cobber, got to eat all this cake”, said the Ozzitania. Next Chubbitoze saw Big Bad Ma Quiet, who was anything but. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “NO” said Ma Quiet, “I’VE GOT TO CONCENTRATE ON SINGING HARMONIES TO EFFING EVERYTHING!” .
“Oh dear!” said Chubbitoze, moving quickly away. Next she saw the Grey Tezza, making sure his children were in a straight line. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. But the Grey Tezza had forgotten how to dance, for he was very old and wise. Old anyway.
Then, sitting on a toadstool, Chubbitoze spied Shamus All. With his box of sounds. . “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “I would do, said Shamus All, but my knee is fucked”. (Being from the Midlands, Shamus was a bit uncouth). “But I will play for you”. So Shamus All started playing, and Chubbitoze started dancing. Faster and faster he played, till her legs were going like bees’ wings. Eventually they were going so fast that she took off and was never seen again. “Nice one” said the Beardikris, Ozzitania, Big Bad Ma Quiet, and the Grey Tezza. “Perhaps now we’ll get some effing peace!”
So, preparing for the group hug, Shamus sportingly fell thought the paving and barked his shin. As Dawn had failed to bleed properly yet again, we were all very appreciative. So big group hug. Home.
Thanks to SJ, Jeanette, Tania, everybody who cooked, and everybody who was there, without whom this film would not have been made.
Getting a lift home in Shamus's van
Here is my previously written journal entry - Then I'll put up Terry's post next...
We set off late on Friday the 20th of July, having packed the car to the brim with stuff, I was amazed I got my stuff in the car with 3 kids too. We got to Steve and Hildred’s at about 7.45, and unpacked most of their stuff and the boys, then got to the campsite at about 8pm and quickly unpacked my stuff, then SJ took people to the Littleborough Conservative Club where Steve’s Folk night had begun. I took my sweet time and went with Jeanette and others to the Con club. The evening was a bit dull for me, and I remember getting stressed out because I had no money and had not eaten and it was 11pm, and I ended up asking Dawn to borrow some money for the weekend.
Like most of the other folk nights, we deal with a repeat of most songs - my friends love it so much, they don’t seem to mind hearing the same song every time. Dawn and I even sang ‘Cummer gae ye afore’ because it was a new crowd. Was not as bored as most nights, but still got stressed and tired.
Slept in Dawn’s tent which was great! In the morning, it was going to be a lovely day, as it was sunny and clear. But we had to get up and get moving, as everything started at 10am. Had an awesome bacon butty for breakfast and got ready in good time. Got the second bus load to the Moorcock Inn, and found out we forgot the magpie-on-a-stick. I thought Jeanette was going to bring it with the rushcart banners. Gordon went back with Helen to get it before we took off.
The other teams arrived. The Raving Maes, who were with us for the entire weekend, Ryburn Longsword rapper, and Cinquefoil rapper too, a new team that Bekka is in. We all did some dances before we began to walk off. Ang, Brittany and I were up the front, and Magpies and Maes were spread out front and back or the poles on the cart. We walked down to The Rake tapas restaurant, and pulled the cart up there. We did some dancing there and then after about 2 dances each, we moved onto the actual township of Littleborough.
As we got closer to the town, the traffic got more horrendous and our stewards, who were Magpies and friends of Magpies, were blocking the traffic without any help of any police. If fact, I did not see one all day. We made our way through the roundabout near the Wheatsheaf and then up the road to Harehill Park where most of the festival was taking place. When we parked there, I did not get to see the park much coz I was looking for Dawn, and then got introduced to the Mayor and Deputy Mayoress by Steve Lister. Got chatting to them about the sewing I did for the rushcart and Australia too. Made my way down to the Rotunda bandstand and Brittany’s mum Sarah had bought me a drink. We danced one dance at the bandstand - and it was Diagonal Wychwood which I love - and I got to be in it! Ang did mess up at the end when she started star the wrong way. But we put up with it - she never admitted the mistake at the end. Oh well. Soon we were off again and walking the cart down to the Wheatsheaf where we spent about an hour and a half of our time there (time we wished had been spent at the park instead - that’s the plan for next year when I won’t be here). After lunch and some dancing, we walked the cart a long way up the hill to the Wine Press which is next to Hollingworth Lake and near our campsite. I did not get a spot on the cart this time, and ended up carrying James half the way, which slowed me down - I ended up giving him to Brittany’s mum. We spent a while at the wine press too, doing some dances and examining Kirsty Best’s (from the Raving Maes) wooden penis that her side had bought for her recently. We had fun laughing about with that, including a moment where I was laying down with Brittany, and Kirsty came and sat it on me. There was photo evidence. And it made it to FB. We then walked the rest of the way back to the campsite with the cart. That meant relax time! I stripped off and cooled my sore feet down, and we all went inside and had some afternoon tea. Cinquefoil joined us, even though they were not spending the night, the afternoon tea was for all teams that were there that day.
I had a relax by the tent with Zara and Jack, and got changed. Then we went into dinner and ate as much as I could to satisfy myself. Afterwards, we went into the little bar room where there were couches and we began our folk night - Dawn and I sang, and we had a good time with the Maes too when they turned up. I went to bed at about 11pm and woke to hear all the people left up chatting in Mark’s tent because clearly midnight was too early. I fell asleep again, and woke feeling like I had gotten enough sleep.
I had to rush to get ready this morning, as I was having a good time eating my butty this morning and sitting in the sun. I had been walking barefoot on the oval grass, because it’s good grass and had been wet with dew the first morning, which wet my shoes and only other pair of socks. So I made a point of being barefoot most of the time, until shoes were dry.
We got the cart ready, which had spent its first night in the rain outside (the magpie on a stick with it too!) and we walked it to the visitor centre. Here it was lovely, lots of trees and the rushcart looked lovely in amoung them. I spied a wooden stump that was carved into a green man, so Brittany and I went over to look at him and get photos. After a few dances we walked on - I walked by the cart this time, not with a pole.
We parked the cart near the train station and walked to the Wheatsheaf where there was the Square set up - stalls and all sorts - this was where we were going to be dancing later. I had lunch with Brittany, her dad and grandad, Mark, Dawn and the Armitages, and then we went back to the cart at 2pm to drive it to the Square. We arrived in popular procession, this time with a brass band heading us. It was a wonderful entrance. We parked the cart, which was its last spot before the festival ended. Here we spent the rest of the day dancing, also watching a Pace Egg play. SJ’s dad Steve Lister announced to the crowd via microphone, about thanking the Thieving Magpies for keeping the rushcart festival going, and then he saw me walking towards the crowd. He then announced that the banner had a re-design and that I had done it, so he got me up front for everyone to see. It was an honour.
At the end of the day, a few of us Magpies walked the cart to the Con club and pulled it apart, before we caught the mini bus back to the campsite. Had a huge relax back at the campsite before we packed up. SJ, Chris, Dan, Zara and I then went to the Moorcock Inn and met with Steve and Hildred who had the 3 kids and we all had dinner there - for me it was a lovely thankyou for doing all the sewing.
TERRY'S POST...
Littleborough Rushcart 2012
Arrived early evening - rugby field - tent up. Turned out to be midge infested site. And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good, though what’s good about bloody midges, I fail to see, God, to be honest, I think you cocked up on that one. Plus, having cocked it up, you couldn’t be arsed to give us a repellent that worked. Jeanette kindly fetched fish & chips, then off up the Conservative (spit) Club for a folk night hosted by Banjo Steve Lister, SJ’s Dad. Mark & I (separately) did some stuff; I was surprised that nobody had heard of the Bluesbreaker album with a young Eric Clapton reading the Beano on the cover; perhaps nobody wanted to admit being old enough. Anyway, as the night continued the Yorks/Lancs division widened, with them singing jolly humorous ditties, and us singing normal miserable folk songs, interspersed with some fine box playing by some big bloke and Josh of Raving Maes. One of the audience left, saying it was a mutual appreciation society; it was pointed out to the miserable bastard that we all knew each other. Did he want heckling and throwing things? Eventually Linda and Jonathon turned up having walked into town for a meal. Then Angie and Shamus turned up. So by the time Cheating at the Gallows wound up the proceedings, we were falling asleep. We treated the watching millions to Shula Gra (Here I sit on Butternut Hill), Tom of Bedlam (Still I sing Bonnie Boys), Bonnie Ship the Diamond (It’s 2nd fret; no it isn’t - I’ve never played it there - yes it is - it says so in the book etc.) finishing off with Rolling Home to rapturous applause that could be heard ten feet away.
And so, all piling into Shamus’ Big White Shagmobile, hied we back to the site, where interesting constellations manifested themselves in the sky. A word about toilet facilities. Being a rugby club, fairly basic, but the lighting was unusual. I don’t know about you, but I find a dumpsworth of time approx = 1 game of Sudoku on the mobile phone. In the bogs there was a time delay, but not long enough to be a dumpsworth. You’ve seen the Peter Seller’s film A Shot in the Dark? Well, it was like that. Except one letter different.
So, everybody going to bed, I accepted Angie’s kind offer of a nightcap back at Shamus’ van. On arrival it was somewhat disconcerting to see Shamus without trousers or pants flashing his arse as he climbed into bed. I am not an afficionado, I think the word is, of the male arse, especially when it is unexpectedly hurled into your line of vision with no warning. (See Cuckoo Day blog ref Chris’s arse - another shock). Pulling myself together, I accepted a drink of ginger wine (what else?) and we chatted about things, mainly how useless you lot were, - oh sorry - I meant to say how much you tried. A more trying bunch of people I’ve yet to see. (Some of this isn’t true - in future this will be abbreviated to SoTit, because it’s shorter, and slightly rude.)
Back to the tent, where Joe had applied the sleeping child rule, i.e. lying at 90 degrees to the axis. Shovelling him into a corner. I climbed into my sleeping bag. Strange phrase, that. Climbing surely contains an element of motion upwards, whereas sleeping bags are almost always level. Unless you sleep in a bag hanging on the wall, where I suppose the phrase would be accurate. Anyway mine wasn’t.
Saturday, and Bright Phoebus blessed us with his myriad beams. It was sunny as well. So, having been promised breakfast at 8, we found the doors still locked. Eventually the caterers bowled up and soon we were replete with bacon,egg and sausages, and for the vegans, sod all. Banging on the side of the Shamus’ SM (see above), the door slid open to reveal Shamus and Angie in a wild embrace (SoTit). It is strange, though, to be able to lie in bed and open the door to the world without getting up. Thankfully. Bidding farewell before any wayward arse tactics were employed, it was back to the tent for facepaint and kitting out. Then to the yellow minibus driven by Gordon, Jeanette’s dad, to the Moorcock Inn. Did they really have to call it that? The Moorcock on its own, is a sniggersworth. But Moorcock Inn? I say I say I say - where can I go for a meal? Have you tried Moorcock Inn? No, I want to eat first. I don’t wish to know that etc.
On arrival we were greeted by a skeletal rushcart and we set about putting its tatters on and sticking our magpie on top. Jeanette went up the ladder and we concentrated hard on not looking up. Meanwhile Cinquefoil? and Ryburn Longsword began the dancing. The cart finished, we took our turn dancing.
We were shite.
Raving Maes were brilliant. So began the Rushcart journey downhill with various members in yellow jackets pretending to be stewards. I reflected it was the first time I’d pulled for quite a long time. (Not counting the ex-heroin addict at Holmfirth and no I won’t let you forget it). Apparently the police weren’t interested. After all, who could be more responsible than a morris side? That’s right - just about anybody. Past the gaily waving crowds (Mr. and Mrs. Newtbucket and their goldfish, Jolyon) and down to the next pub, the Rake Tapas Bar. (Do you remember the Wheel Tapas and Shuntas club in the 70’s - no?).We had great fun dancing between the traffic.
We were shite.
I was here accosted by a fellow calling me by name and shaking my hand like an old friend. I hadn’t a clue who he was! I would be the first to admit that my memory is failing - (well no, probably Helen and Mark would be first and second - I probably would be third to admit, so that’s only a bronze), but I cannot recall him, and he spoke to me at nearly every venue. But that’s the price of fame, I suppose.
So, singing many a merry shanty, two anyway, onwards to Harehills Park, where Things were happening. Unfortunately I missed most of them queueing for the bog with small children. The sides took turns once more. Ryburn Longsword made an effort not to make a star, and it came out like a double triangle. A good try, but a long way to go to Stork Carrying Baby.
We were shite. It was extremely hot. But we weren’t shite hot. Just hot and shite.
Off again with the cart to the Wheatsheaf where we danced on the pavement outside. Spent some time chatting to a Welshman from the valleys, who seemed to think we were summat to do with mining. We reminisced about the quality of anthracite for some time, and he admitted he’d only been dahnt’ pit once. Eventually, tucking his sheep under his arm, he boarded the bus (What stereotype?). Apparently Chris, who delights in making up stories about Morris origins to give to unsuspecting normals, had told somebody we were a product of Moorish martial arts! He is very plausible. It once took me half an hour to realize he was talking bollocks. In fact, thinking about it, he may have made up the whole story about telling somebody about Moorish Martial arts, the devious little sod.
We were shite.
Then off to the Wine Press, a pub where people with big flash bikes park them, and go and look at other people’s big flash bikes, a pastime I find about as interesting as golf, but don’t get me going. We were all pretty knackered, but we danced.
We were shite.
Then the Phantom Hampton appeared, as from nowhere. Tania, who was lying down, suddenly acquired a 10” todger complete with accoutrements. It transpired it belonged to that Archduchess of Anarchy, Kirsty Best, Queen of the Maes. As far as I can make out, she needed a 10” pianist to add to her collection of carved figures, but Tom misheard and she ended up with a Beech Bishop instead. (Yes you do - flogging the bishop - don’t act innocent). He even bargained the stallholder down - that takes balls - and that’s what he ended up taking. And a Pine Plonker. (Sotit)
The final pull back to the rugby club, where snacks and drinks awaited. Then back to the tent. Some of our number were busy heating up the food. I went for a shower. There was no lock on the door, so you had to sing, but the acoustics were amazing! I almost went and fetched Mark and Linda for a Cheating at the Gallows practice, but decided against it as I didn’t have any clothes on, and didn’t want people feeling inadequate. So I sang Tam Lin - 26 verses - then discovered Angie had been waiting outside the whole time.
Food! A fine selection of vegan dishes, and some Hungarian Goulash too! Unfortunately, someone (who needs locking up) had given one of the cute little tinies, (George I think) a bloody whistle. So conversation was a bit strained.
“Hello, my name’s * PHEEP * pleased to * PHEEP * you. That’s a big * PHEEP * you’ve got there. Do you think I might * PHEEP * it for a while.”
You could get arrested. (Guitar) (play).
Then the folk night in the bar. Cheating at the Gallows did some stuff. Other people joined in dong some stuff. Noted that the spoons should not be played as accompaniment to effing everything. Went to the bar -no barman, I thought - I’ll go to the toilet; he should be back when I come back. Sitting there, I was aware of somebody coming in the next cubicle. Sound of nether garments gravitating earthward. Then, suddenly, I was nearly hurled off the pan by a huge PHAARRT!! from the adjoining cubicle. This was no ordinary emission. It rattled the windows and loosened my fillings. It would have definitely registered on the Richter scale. It would have won Olympic gold. (Speaking of the Olympics, isn’t Sebastian Coe a smug twat? No wonder he could run fast. He would have had to, growing up in Sheffield with a name like Sebastian). And then I thought, “What a waste! That fart had more entertainment value than a lot of what was going on in the bar. I think anyone in our side would have been proud to have delivered it in front of the others. And that’s just the women. Then sounds of nether garments rising again and away he went. He had come just to fart! There’s manners for you!
When I got back to the bar the bloody barman still wasn’t back, so I spent the evening sharing Linda’s wine. Works just as well.
Shamus launched into some tunes. He is a fine player of the squeeze box, but you can’t keep up with him. All his music is in semi-demi- hemi-quavers. You can get a whole tune into one bar.
I was nodding off by now. I had me shades on so I don’t think anybody knew. Until they woke me up by asking me to sing. So it went on, culminating in a Bohemian Rhapsody by Raving Maes and us. The barman, who had finally turned up, said no singing after 11, so we buggered off back to Mark’s communal tent. Fortunately we managed to stop the lecherous sod telling the Maes he was nice and soft (see previous blog) and was available for lying on. Then began the ritual passing of the bottles, always deosil, never widdershins (bad luck). Gin and tonic, rum and coke, cider, meths, rose wine, furniture polish etc. made the rounds together with a big bag of Bombay Mix. (Irishmen working in India). It was a bit disconcerting that some bottles appeared to be getting fuller and somebody suggested it was saliva. Urrghh! Laughter and jolly banter pervaded the night, together with inspections of wooden willies. TMB Zara was there, but was beaten into second place by TEMB Kirsty. (That even madder bat). Talk turned to archaeology, would you believe, when she told us of a dig to discover that little known Order of monks, the Pre-menstrual Tensions (honest). I’ve just looked up religious orders on Wikepedia and can find sod-all about anybody with a name remotely approaching that. Do you think she was pulling our collective plonker? The night drawing on, we staggered out. Sneaking off for an illicit pee in the bushes, I tripped over a guy rope and fell flat on my face. Eventually got to bed. Apparently Mark went and played a jolly game in the bogs involving relieving yourself before the lights went out or some such rubbish.
Sunday started with sun, bacon butty, and lost sunglasses. Until Tania found them ouside the tent. Apparently some drunken twat had fallen over the guy rope and lost them. Onto the cart and away to the visitor centre, where we danced. My notes say “fucked up arse”, but I believe I meant that we made a mess of White Ladies Aston. I think so, any way. I would have remembered the other.
We were shite.
Down to the Wine Press again. Danced again. Persephone (from Hunsworth) danced. They are ace. We watched them. Kirsty said that arms and legs should be at 90 degrees, but unfortunately the bingo wing effect comes into play. I pointed out that, if knockers were in evidence, half the audience wouldn’t look at the bingo wings. (Is this politically correct?)
We were shite.
So, with a merry shout of “Pull you buggers!”, the long downhill trek to just outside Littleborough Centre. On this section the cart was not performing properly. It was a great bloody effort to keep the shafts from hitting the deck. I think that the bastards behind weren’t pulling back enough, so Mark was braking, causing it to tip forward. Some use thinking of that now, with bloody great bruises on both arms! Of course, I could be wrong, but everyone will tell you, I rarely am. (Unfortunately they won’t. I find that, in these situations, the support I get is never more than nil. Even from my wife). It was here that we were joined by a man with a video camera, a big serious one, who was recording for a programme on channel 4 called “The psychology of dance”. He had come across us quite by accident and ended up taking lots of shots. “Have you got some good footage?” I asked, then, “I suppose it’s not footage now it’s all digital”. But apparently they still call it that. And I also learned that RAP as in “it’s a rap” means Re-wind And Print” Learn something new every day. Having parked up, we went into town to get food. Grass and wraps for the family, meat pie for me. Have graced the co-op with our presence, we found a grassy bit where Brittany and her parents were picnicking. In the corner was Ange, being interviewed by C4 man. It’s going to be on end this/beginning next year. He took a picture of us with Paddy and his big springy legs, and sent it to his boss.
Back to the cart for the final pull. The band and civic dignitaries had to go before, and we followed with all the Magpies, and a couple of Maes as eye candy for the masses. The day was sunny, the crowd was happy. We were given a lot of praise for saving their rushcart day. And why not? We did? Then the fantastic Persephone danced, the amazing Raving Maes, and Thieving Magpie, taking it in turns. SJ showed off her new purple music stand, specially ordered to take the piss!
We were brilliant! We did Arse, Twiglet and Stomp. And we did them well. Watch the video. See Smiley Chris giving it some welly! Me ankles had now had enough. Kipping under the rushcart, I could see bits of the mummer’s play between legs. This being over, a last round of dancing finishing with a Tinner’s Rabbit. I would like to mention that my boys, Joe and Thomas, danced well for tichies, and the bit where they rounded on me and Mark in Arse was great.
Pausing only to tell Ange that if she suggested more dancing we would have to kill her, we being totally shagged out, we pulled the cart round the corner to the strains of “Ilkley Moor baht ‘at”. Yes, it was a statement. Strange that 6 of the 7 sides that danced were from Yorkshire. Still, it matters not. Littleborough Rush-bearing is a great event to be in. The cart stationary, we stripped it of its tatters and stuff. Jeanette did her stuff up the ladder though SJ said when she didn’t include in the risk assessment for wearing high heels.
Then we crammed into the minibus, the boys sitting on our knees to make more room. Joe, who is 9, looked at me and said “Is this strictly legal?”. Where does he get it from? Piled out, packed up, hung about waiting for group hug. At this juncture, someone pointed out that Angie, for a slim person, has quite chubby toes.What a good name for a childrens book!
One day, Chubbitoze went out. She was looking for some-one to dance with. Under a tree, drinking gin and tonic, was the Beardikris. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “Not that bothered” said the Beardikris, and moved onto the rum and coke. Next Chubbitoze saw the Ozzitania sticking a jumbuck into a billabong. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “Sorry Cobber, got to eat all this cake”, said the Ozzitania. Next Chubbitoze saw Big Bad Ma Quiet, who was anything but. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “NO” said Ma Quiet, “I’VE GOT TO CONCENTRATE ON SINGING HARMONIES TO EFFING EVERYTHING!” .
“Oh dear!” said Chubbitoze, moving quickly away. Next she saw the Grey Tezza, making sure his children were in a straight line. “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. But the Grey Tezza had forgotten how to dance, for he was very old and wise. Old anyway.
Then, sitting on a toadstool, Chubbitoze spied Shamus All. With his box of sounds. . “Will you dance with me?” said Chubbitoze. “I would do, said Shamus All, but my knee is fucked”. (Being from the Midlands, Shamus was a bit uncouth). “But I will play for you”. So Shamus All started playing, and Chubbitoze started dancing. Faster and faster he played, till her legs were going like bees’ wings. Eventually they were going so fast that she took off and was never seen again. “Nice one” said the Beardikris, Ozzitania, Big Bad Ma Quiet, and the Grey Tezza. “Perhaps now we’ll get some effing peace!”
So, preparing for the group hug, Shamus sportingly fell thought the paving and barked his shin. As Dawn had failed to bleed properly yet again, we were all very appreciative. So big group hug. Home.
Thanks to SJ, Jeanette, Tania, everybody who cooked, and everybody who was there, without whom this film would not have been made.
Getting a lift home in Shamus's van