Bank Holiday

You can tell it's May Bank Holiday because (a) there are Morris dancers walking around and (b) it's tipping down with rain. However, tomorrow the sun is supposed to come out and there will still be Morris dancers.

Now, for the benefit of any of you over The Pond - Morris dancing is Very English, like Shakespeare, tea with scones, and late running trains. Traditionally they are all male, but there are some rebellious women's Morris sides around now, I'm pleased to say. The traditional garb is

White shirt

black trousers, sometimes with socks over

coloured sash

hobnail boots

flowery hat

and - this is the important thing - bells. Bells on his boots, on his trousers, on his shirt, you can hear a Morris man three miles away. If you're a pub landlord it gives you warning to pull a few pints, because good traditional Morris requires good traditional quaffing. They dance waving handkerchiefs or banging sticks together. (Honestly, I'm not making this up.) And they tend to be accompanied by a man dressed up as a woman, or a guy with a hobbyhorse. It's all, as you have no doubt worked out, as mad as a brush and why anybody wants to do it is beyond me. But Morris dancers take it very seriously - it's tradition, after all - and take pride in putting on a good show. I reckon a Morris dance with nice colourful umbrellas would be a good call.

Another May Day custom here is a lot of choirboys singing on a tower in Oxford at sunrise. Whether they are volunteers or not I have no idea, but they're probably a lot easier on the ear than the Morris Men. But I like to see a Morris side. Keep dancing, chaps.

And this particular May Day - weekend - welcome to the world, little princess whatever your name is. Look out for Morris dancers.