Xmas orgies make H
fat, and therefore miserable. With not so much dancing going on, I get tetchy. Since the
servants quitted, we've been sitting around the Manor getting on each others nerves. So,
last night, H and I made a truce and decided to descend into the nearby village of
Llanferres, to the 17th century coaching house of the Druid Inn, and mix with the oiks.
The pub was half full for a Friday night, and we were happily draining the remains of the Xmas winter warmer barrel by the smouldering peat fire. H gazed through the window into the darkness. "Oh. fuck!" he said quietly, "Don't look now". If ever you don't want someone to look, this is a phrase to be avoided. My eyes drifted to that middle space that he was staring at. "Oh, fuck" I agreed, as we watched the figures come in from the car park. We swivelled round to see the figures enter the pub. "Oh, no. It can't be them again?" He was cut short by a loud booming voice yelling "Make room, dear people...."
The dog collars signalled that it was the Clericals, again. How many ARE there? Have they got a breeding or cloning programme somewhere? Being a sheep area, perhaps they're all related to Dolly.
And now they've got a Didg. If I make those noises at home, I get told off. They make them in public, and are applauded. Fair? We winced through the resulting folk music. Where the instruments came from, I can't guess. OK those with fluty things can keep them in their inside pockets, but the squeeze boxes and didg were impressive street magic. Don't Mottley Crew dance Herne Bay to didg, or is just the drugs?
They played "Sweet Jenny Jones", who apparently is a maid in nearby Llangollen, but didn't dance to it. What a waste. I did the dance in my head. It's a bit like watching the Spice Girls. You have to use your imagination to get the full effect.
At last, a dance, in the now crowded pub. There were no more patrons, just loads of mummers. The North Welsh being a "compact" race, see no reason for placing roofing beam more than 1.5 metres from the floor. So, the traditional border dance from the viillage of Leominster : "Three Jolly Green Ash Trays" was performed to the expletives of dancers holding their cracked heads. We rocked the joint with a very robust version of the dance, dragging parts of the crowd off with us, in the distictive figures.
After a little more valuable consumption time, I was recruited into the Michael Flatulence Appreciation Society, for an impromptu demonstration of Irish Dancing. Although I've never done any before, it seemed to be of the same quality of the other dancers. Between you and me, I think that they had been drinking.
So at one in the morning, after consuming more free beer and food, H and I rolled out the pub, and played our own game of chicken home. You know, when you drop the front seats down, sit in the back and drive the car as fast as possible down the country lanes, with your lights off. Great when you're drunk.
What a great night that was. I've always liked mumming. We've noted when the next
performances are.
Paul Millennas
Isn't the tow truck here yet?