This article had just been started, when we heard of the death of James Stewart. Thankyou everyone who sent their condolances to H, during his recent bereavement. Well spotted the dancer who noted the mysterious veiled figure, by the graveside, holding a bouquet of carrots. Unfortunately his loss has taken its toll. Most of his hair has fallen out, and his continued high blood pressure has caused a further dropping of his piles.

He is sad. Very sad. Very, very sad.

But not as sad as the people who talk about Morris Dancing every day, and read Morris web pages at the cost of their employer.

Reading the MDDL for the first time for weeks, we were attracted by the description of Stony Stratford. So we had the servants pack the dog-cart, and headed off to England for five weeks of recreational Pure-Finding. We booked into the Bull pub, and strolled down the main street in the first evening evening. We played Whist with the pensioners in the Community Centre, drank a Guiness in the Workman's Club, a pint of Bomabadier in the Plough (We request that Customers wear their shirts at all times in the pub), mugged by the kids at the Jet garage, a pint of Websters in the Forrester's Arms (Strictly over 21's only), a fight in the the Old George Hotel, a pint of Brakspear in the White Horse, a pint of Abbot in the Cock, a fight in the Fox and Hounds with the same pensioners that caught up with us in their wheel-chairs, and finished with being thrown out of the Moghul Palace after regurgitating a 4, 7, 14 and 27 with brown rice.

So there we were, H and I, in the Vaults bar of the Bull Hotel, Stony Stratford. I had a pint of Fuller's London Pride, as I find Abbot a bit sweet, these days. H had his usual Vodka and Carrot juice, with a squirt of Toilet Duck. It was an old room. Bare weathered floorboards, and bare soft red-brick, worn down as soft as stone-washed jeans.

As we sat down, we noticed a pair of musicians setting up in the corner. To our suprise, one pulls out an accoustic guitar. "Oh Fuck!" says H, as he realises that we may have stumbled into a Folk Night. With our glasses still full, we were unable to make a hasty retreat. In our embarrassment, we started to whistle no particular tune, and avert our eyes by staring at the ceiling.

We should have noticed it before. What this bar considered as "decoration" was numerous old folky posters and handbills, pasted to the ceiling. They were all brown, so were probably over a week old. Then we saw it. As the scripts on the posters merged into the nicotine stains, the words "Stony Stratford Morrismen" could be seen. Ghosts of Morris Past. As we concentrated, we saw another. Then another. Posters detailing the rise and fall of these great men abounded aloft. About a dozen in all. Unfortunately our observations were cut short by the first chord of a song about farmers, or sailors, or something. We'll never know. We were in Milton Keynes by the time the singing bit started.

Sitting on the pavement outside the Off Licence, with our cans of Special Brew, we reflected upon the past week. We had only collected three buckets of Pure, and in the hot weather, the car was starting to honk. Suddenly, H came up with a brainwave. He pulled out his laptop from a moist crevice, and pulled up today's MDDL.. "We're rich" he winked. Some Aussie loser had gone and put a story on the list - so it was fair pickin's. H changed it a bit to take out some of the convict-speak, and make it a little more Anglicised. A few references to carrots were added. Then it was straight down the Stony Stratford Publishing Company where, after a fine liquid lunch, we obtained an advance on the forth-coming book, and the world rights. We have omitted distribution to any previous penal colony of the British Empire, in case any scallywag believes that they have a similar work. Of course, if we don't get Part II soon, we're in deep Pure.

Still hot on the tails of the ghosts of Stony Stratford Morris Men, H and I have discovered the following :- Don Allison, ex-musician for the side is getting married on 23rd August in Newport Pagnell, and many ex-members are sure to attend. He is marrying a girl who is ex-Old Mother Red Caps, who danced Manx. SS used to dance Brackley, Bampton, Bucknell, Fieldtown and Lichfield, amongst others.

Their penultimate do was this year at the Boat pub, Stoke Bruine, on St.Georges day.

Watch this space for more hot news, directly from the heart of Stony Stratford............

This week, H and I have taken rooms at the Cock Hotel, next door to the Bull Hotel. We are no longer at the Bull Hotel after a disagreement over H draining the mini-bar. They did not mind him consuming all the booze in the fridge, but objected to him drinking all the coolant.

The Cock Hotel claims to be the home of the "Cock and Bull" story, a type of story that H and I are no strangers to. Charles Wesley wrote "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" there in 1759. It was damaged in the Fire of Stony Stratford of 1742, although no clear evidence was found against the Stony Stratford Morrismen. It was here that the last skirmish of the English Civil war took place.

Nearby, in 1483, Richard III, Duke of Gloucester, captured the uncrowned boy King Edward V, who was later murdered in the Tower of London.

I was informed by the receptionist of the Cock, that the "Stony Stratford Live" festival was on 30/31st August 1997. "Our own Morris dancers should be there" she said. We didn't have the heart to tell her.

For those of you who have been mourning such a tragic loss, there is some good news. The death of the Stony Stratford Morrismen may have been greatly exaggerated. They recently danced at a wedding in Newport Pagnell, perfoming Fieldtown Valentine and Bledington Leapfrog with their characteristic high leaps. Their co-stars were a team of Czech dancers. There's a fair chance they'll be out on Boxing Day.

Hold on. A team dancing out on just special occasions? Isn't that what they used to do in the olden days? Quick, I'll keep them talking, and you get on the phone to Buzz.