Oyster Weekend

October 1997

It beats me why people will pay an arm and a leg to sip snot from a sea shell, but last week, Ynys Mons, the largest Welsh island, was having an Oyster Weekend, and one of the local teams, Clerical Error, a Welsh Border team, were paid to attend.

Seeing that there are dancers, from such temperate climes as Australia and California, it is hard to explain the difference to the Morris year for teams that are based in colder and wetter areas. It could be said that such teams should just have a shorter dance season, when the weather is fair. Having danced mainly in North Wales and the North East of Scotland, I have found that the opposite occurs. Perhaps in defiance, such teams have fairly strong programmes throughout the year. They go out knowing what the odds are, and still mustering a team. Accept it. There will be no crowd. Perhaps no-one at all. You will be cold and wet, perhaps for the whole weekend. It will be dark, even in the daytime. But frankly, my dear, we don't give a damn.

So, after a 300 mile drive, I arrived in the middle of a field, at midnight, still wearing a business suit. The wind howled and the cold rain was horizontal as I surveyed the empty tents, flysheets beating angrily in the air. The Clericals do enjoy an evening beverage before they sleep, and were probably at a milk bar drinking a mug of hot Horlicks.

In the early hours, my slumber was disturbed by hearing the team rifling through my mobile cocktail cabinet. We had a little party, which moved from tent to tent, each one a smaller tent. Twelve dancers in a two-man tent, playing Hide and Seek is a challenge. The rest is a blur.

In the morning I found myself in the bed of Ali Luyah, of this list. I've known her for years, but this is the first time I have seen her first thing in the morning. No wonder they call her Scary Clerical. As her bigger-than-me spouse, Hairy Clerical, had only gone out to the toilet block, it was time for a quick exit back to the tent, to the rabbit. This is not the time to tell you about the smell of wet rabbit.

Another problem of performing in rain is face make-up. I have enough problems with sweating it off, without the problem of having it washed off by rain. When I black up, I use hair laquer to spray my face with. The make-up stays on better, but doesn't prevent it being sweated off. I use the laquer with the coloured bits in, because I'm in show business. Avoid silver bits, because it looks like sweat. You also have to put cling-film over your explosives, but be careful that, when you use them, that molten plastic doesn't go in someone's face.

So off in convoy we drove, back to the other end of the island. We passed through the quiet village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. We arrived at the Anglesey Arms hotel, Porth-Aethwy, by the Menai Bridge, built by Thomas Telford. Or was it the Romans? There was low cloud and drizzle. It was cold. Other team members appeared, fresh from the warmth of their beds. It was 10:45. There was something about to happen, because there was a press photographer hanging around. In the UK, just because you're in a pub, doesn't mean that you can buy a drink. They started to serve some guys drinks outside. They were all wearing shorts, which seemed a little strange. But they were each given four pints and a tray. I stepped forwards, and someone also gave me four pints. Uncommonly generous, I thought. "On your marks! Get set! Go!"

"Uh?". Bugger, I seemed to be in the waiters race. No-one was pushing themselves so I trotted beside the stragglers, chatting. The beer was crap, but the scenery was nice. As I returned near the back of the pack (not last) I could see Clerical Error dancing White Ladies Aston, and the winner being given one hundred pounds. A hundred quid! And four pints! Its a bit late now, but we will be prepared for it again next year.

Schemes include putting a team member in the race and : Ambushing the runners and beating them up with pick axe handles. Having another team member hiding near the end of the race. (Tortoise and Hare) Discreetly spraying their nether regions with aniseed and letting the wild dogs on them. Have a runner run the opposite way and knock their drinks over. They need 1.5 pints at the finish

We'd appreciate, any other ideas. Watch this space, next year.

Now into Brimfield Stick dance. Just before the first bar, the Foreman advised that the dance had changed "a bit". A bit? I hardly recognised any of it. I quickly looked at my partner, who was looking at me for inspiration. Fortunately, the skill of old hands, is to not make it look obvious that you have no idea what is going on, and we danced something or other very competently. Dancing stopped abruptly as the news that the bar was open, circulated. A few pints of Lees Jumbo Bitter saw an end of the prospects for further dancing that morning. The team started to get peckish. Some had not eaten for an hour.

Turning, our backs on the majestic Eryri mountain range, we headed back in convoy back towards Caergybi, the ferry port to Ireland, visible on a clear day. We passed back through Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. This time it was easier, as I could cut and paste the name into the text. The convoy stopped and started, restricting the ferry-bound traffic, whilst black-faced scouts leapt out and checked the chippies on the way. Eventually, in the village of Caergeiliog, the convoy stopped and everyone tried to be first into the cafe. The coal-fired tea room had probably not seen a crowd for months. As we all looked the same, the proprietor walked up and down yelling "Who ordered the Beans on Toast?" Food fit for heros.

Conversation went onto the misdeeds of Silurian Morris Men. This was whispered, whilst a dancer kept screw at the window.

The team suffers from a surfit of Pauls. It was announced that Swimming Paul had changed his job, so his name had changed. I don't know why he was called Swimming Paul in the first place, and didn't hear what he's called now. I think I'll call him Paul for the time being.

Onto the secong gig, the Trearddur Bay Hotel. There was already a crowd here; some of them drunk. The hotel had put a lot of effort into a ceremonial judging of Oyster Dishes of local chefs. The press was there. The judges were minor celebs, from S4C, a local ethnic Welsh TV channel. Sorry, that should read MINOR. A couple of whistle-whetting pints and we were back into the swing. Craven Stomp, was quickly followed by Wrekin Havoc, both taught to the team by those morris millionaires Flag Crackers. Then into Much Wenlock. To a little embarrassment, the call of "P on the floor" was misinterpretted by a couple of careless dancers.

The team looked good. The Black top hat and tails, offset the rastafarian colours of red, yellow and green. The beast, a red Welsh Dragon, added a further touch of colour. The yelling, leaping and clashing just animated it all.

To my mild consternation, Ali kept talking to me about marriage. Two people tried to book us for forthcoming weddings. We detailed all the expensive services we could provide. As a bonus, I offered to take the photographs of the honeymoon night for free.

Into the pub for more beer. The crowd inside were becoming restless as the food judging proved to be dull and poorly conceived. Three Jolly Black Sheepskins broke the ice. A good dance for confined spaces. This incident is mentioned in CE's forthcoming children's book "Clerical Error saves the Day" Then on with the Mummers play. A good local story with lots of violence. As the pub was quite full, the play was being executed in the midst. This looked very good. Very, very good. One moment you're talking to a guy about tonight's football, then he suddenly turns around and booms "In comes I....."

For the finale it was the four-dancer Ragged Crow, another good dance for the spacially challenged. As the team danced off, a drunk danced on. The musicians continued to play to allow him to expose himself, in time with the music.

As some of the team wanted to watch the Big Match, and others wanted to go back to the tents to play Hide and Seek again, this was the end of the dancing for the weekend. On top of the fee, we also got tickets for an Oyster Bash the next day. Many stayed for the free feed.

Entering the hotel the following lunchtime, it was noticed that there were a lot of Irish already there, who'd come across for their Sunday lunch. Musicians would break into tune at the slightest provocation. As a dedicated member of the Morris Snatch Squad, I filmed the young colleens doing their step dancing. Stills available on request.

Their standard height was suprising. Their coach said it was because of EEC regulations, but I've yet to see a Morris team without a great variance in height.

I was given four tickets, entitling me to four pints of guiness and four kilos of mussels. Do you know how long that takes to consume? Not long.

Paul Millennas

Foot Note :

Scary Cleric