Morris dancers, wi rings on they fingers and bells on they toes they creates bloody mayhem wherever them goes
You may think as we Cornish folk be a bit thick.
Denzil Penhalligon an me growed up down Port Wen. One Sat day us went up the smoke for a bit of a spree . We went up on the train to Paddington which is as near London as the train gets. We bought they saver tickets about a month afore so’s we could afford it.
We knew the streets weren’t paved with gold but we had at least expected some tarmac not pot holes held together with more pot holes and us ant realised how much they rip off bastards charged for everything.
Anyway us went up the West End, Us wanted to see a show. Us went to the Box office for Les Miz as we wanted to see some girl on girl, but they wanted an arm an a leg to get in an didn’t have no tickets till November!
So we went down the Pub, They wanted three quid for a glass of water, and the beer was like weasel piss. Warm weasel piss. Warm draft weasel piss freshly pissed by a weasel, not that I drink weasel piss or know what it tastes like but it tasted like I reckon weasel piss would taste if I tasted it.
Still it weren’t all bad as poor old Denzil pulled. It were a bit of a shock as he’s so ugly that we don’t need no bird scarer when he be around but this bird, she were a bit tarty but I wouldn’t have said no, obviously took a shine to he.
Anyroad round her went with her and told I to wait for he and next thing after a bit of hows yer father she said as he owed her an hundred quid. Bloody ton for a bit of a fumble. E ant got an hundred quid, E ardly ad a tenner so these dark fellers laid into him summat savage.
Poor old Denzil he come back looking a bit second hand, blood pouring from his head.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Just about,” he said, “You should have seen the other bloke.”
“Why, laughing were he.” I asked.
“Hope his fist hurts as much as my head.” he replied
Now I ent no more vindictive than the next bugger but beating me mate up ent the best way to get on me good side.
We slept on a bench in Hide Park and went back home the next day, “Bloody bitch tried to charge I to fuck her,” Denzil explained.
“You ought to try that our Demelzer,” his dad suggested to Denzil’s sister, “You’d make a bloody fortune.”
“I just wants three kids by three different blokes so I can get a Council House and three lots of maintenance like me mam done.” she replied.
“So what happened to thee head?” he asked.
“Bloody darkies beat me up when I wouldn’t pay.” he muttered.
“Well better reform the Morris Men I suppose,” his dad suggested.
“What fucking goods that?” I asked, “Poncing about with bells on yer knees carrying bloody sticks?, every bugger will laugh at yer.”
“Till they gets a whack from the stick they will,” he laughed. Bggers be still laughing when they hits the deck with a busted jaw, “All together in the Floral Dance,” he sang “Whack they all fall down.”
“So how do we find the blokes?” I asked.
“Well you know the pub?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted.
“So look it up on Google Street view yer lummox,” he suggested, “Now I’ll get the lads together.”
We found pub on Google earth, Denzil’s dad rang the Landlord.
“Port Wen Morris Men yer, us thought us would drop by next Sat day, give thee a bit of a turn,” he suggested. There was some mufled laughter in the background.
“Nah mate not nuch call for Morris Men round here.” the slimy cocky cockney muttered.
“Well just make sure you have some pasties warming and some cider cooling,” Denzil’s Dad advised , “And it will be two hundred and fifty quid pus free booze, good evening.”
He put the phone down.
Denzil’s Dad, he were called Denzil same as his dad and his dad’s dad afore him, had all the old gang rounded up by Thursday night.
He had the costumes out the loft and there we stood like a right load of prats. Blacked up faces, false noses, bells round us knees, old Ross on squeeze box, Peter on drum, Isiah on some clarinet thing, some bloke on Violin and best part of a dozen other blokes including the life boat crew.
“Right lets sing the Floral Dance,” Old Denzil Senior ordered. You never heard such a fucking row.
“Bit louder,” he called and then that were it. He handed the sticks out. “Its one, pause, two, pause, one, two, three.” he said. “One, clash sticks, two clash sticks, and one two three, belt the living day lights out of the bastards.” he said. “Now practice knocking cocoa nuts out of the cups so you get a feel.” he advised.
We went up the smoke on Sat day. Cornish Riviera Express, first class. Didn’t even have to buy tickets, just showed the chap on the barrier us sticks and said we would greatly appreciate being granted a free ride.
He weren’ stupid enough to refuse, him being outnumbered thirteen to one and all that.
We had a bit of a practice when the ticket collector appeared and he wisely buggered off and we sat and the old codgers sang witty sea faring ditties and we passed the hat round for peope to show their appreciation with a suggested donation of a tenner a piece. They weren’t daft enough to refuse. It were bad enough us listening to the old codgers and we was used to them, with their tuneless caterwalling, but for the poor cultured buggers who paid extra to get away from riff raff like us it were pure torture. They kept it all way from hoe to tother side of Taunton. It were so bad their singing as I reckon we’d a gone Bodmin us selves if they hadn’t paid us to shut up.
We got up the smoke, They says Paddington's London but it ent London, its bloody miles away. Anyroad us had to wedge the patform gates open as they didn’t reckon much to us not having tickets, and hailed a bus to get us down the West End.
They are argumentative buggers Lunnon bus drivers. Down home they takes you to the door and helps you down with the baggage, up the smoke the says they has “Roots."
We told him where the pub was but he said he were going to the Elephant and Castle. Proper obstreperous he were, so we started singing and when he still didn’t do as we said we slipped him fifty quid. That's when he saw sense. Turns out he liked that Rap music where the first C is silent.
We was a bit early, “Cider all round Bar Keep,” Denzil senior demanded.
It were about eighty quid, “Take it out of our fee,” he said.
“What fee?” The Bar keep asked. He saw thirteen sticks swinging. “Oh that fee.”
Just then a couple of gorgeous birds come in we some darkies.
“That’s them!” Denzil whispered.
“How can thee tell they all looks alike?” I asked.
“Bloody shape cut in they hair,” he explained. They had stubble all over they bonces wi funny patterns in.
“Good evening Gents, come to enjoy us Cornish Traditions?” Denzil senior asked.
“Fuck off weirdo, don’t cha know its an offence to black up,” the mouthy darky muttered.
“Well that would have you buggers banged to rights wouldn’t it,” he laughed, “We come a long way to meet you gents.”
“I said fuck off weirdo,” the mouthy one repeated and he pulled a flick knife from his back pocket.
“I had one of they in the boy scouts,” Harry piped up, “Handy for getting boy scouts out of horses hooves or summat.”
“Are you jiving with me?” The mouthy darky asked nastily.
“Wouldn’t know a Jive if they saw it on eBay,” Denzil senior laughed, “Put it away lad, you’re not impressing anyone.
“Make me,” the guy challenged.
“Thwack.” down came a Morris stick straight across his bonce. He went out like a light falling on his knife which unfortunately were point down so it just bust a couple of ribs instead of running him through.
His mate decided discretion was better than valour but Denzil had he spotted and “Thwack,” down come the ebony stick and down went ebony bloke like he were a sack of spuds.
The girls looked nervous, “We don’t want no trouble,” they insisted.
“Free fucks for everyone then?” Denzil Senior laughed, “Rubber up mid we do know where they bin.”
I turned to the nearest girl, “That’s a lovely dress your wearing, why don’t we hang it up so it don’t get dirty?”
“Cause I ent wearing anything underneath,” she snapped. She looked round, “Look fifty quid each is the best I can do.”
“Our Demelzer does it for love.” Denzil replied.
“Well a half of Cider and packet of pork scratchings,” I clarified.
“Then she’s a fucking idiot,” she replied.
“How do you know our Demelzer?” Denzil asked before the penny dropped. “Oh trying to be clever are you?”
“Compared to you I’m a fucking genius!” she replied. She looked round. Thirteen condom clad cocks now glistened moistly in anticipation. “Oh fuck it, don’t get spunk on me dress, hang it up someone!”
She stood there stark naked, thin as a rake you could see her ribs and the track marks where she been shooting up.
Her tits had sagged an all, “You needs a bit of Cornish air,” Denzil Senior told her “Up at six for milking.”
“I am not milking any bloody cow,” she snapped.
“Who said anything about cows, I wants me cock milked you silly bint,” he laughed, “Sucked off , fell atio or whatever they calls it now, deep throat.”
She blushed briefly but someone had pushed her over a table and was jabbing their cock at her ass. They didn’t get far so they rammed it up her well used cunt. “One and a two and an One, Two, Three,” we chanted as he got into the rhythm.
“Your next,” I said to this other girl.
She protested but her knicker was soon down and her dress over her head and hung in a hook by the door. My mistake, she was the cleaner not a tart but its an easy mistake and no harm done, as long as her bloke don’t find out.
Must have been twenty seconds tops between, “You’re next,” and me cock ramming up her from behind. Next off Nigel sticks his cock in her gob for her to suck on and stop her from screaming as it wasn’t in time to the others and she screamed nearly as bad as the old codgers sang. One and a Two and a One.Two. Three.
Fucking in Cornish time in the smoke. Next thing there was three more birds stripped down and some blokes what weren’t wi us going at them hammer and tongs. Place was more like a Roman Orgy than a pub. Bints fucking left right and centre, squeeze box going, Us lot singing and fucking in Cornish Rhythm. Darkies led on the floor bleeding. Barman pulling pints like they was going out of fashion, queues outside the door.
Bit like St Ives on a Sat day night really.
That’s when the Coppers turns up. Some bastard had phoned them.
“Ello, ‘Ello, ‘Ello, what’s going on here then?” the mouthy one with stripes on his sleeve shouted. Scruffy bastard, helmet on, flak jacket and short sleeves. What a prat. He waved his tazer around.
“Fucking mainly,” Denzil explained, “Couple of darkies fainted with excitement.”
“Bashed their heads in the floor a couple of times as they fell?” the copper asked.
“That’s right, Primps or some such.” he added.
“Pimps, what controls prossies,” I corrected him, “Them just sleeping it of mate.”
“Well we have had a complaint,” the copper continued.
“Ah you can get ointment for that,” Denzil senior suggested, “Probably ought to used a rubber.”
“Oh right, a comedian!” the copper observed.
“Nah mate, Tin miner me,” he replied, “And Morris dancer, lets show them the Floral Dance, Lads, a One, two, a, One, two, three, four. Clash the sticks came together. Coppers looked nervous.
“Just keep the noise down” the copper suggested as he ushered his mates out of the pub and beat a pretty quick retreat.
“They’re going to fucking kill me,” the girl muttered, “Doing all these freebies.”
“Well come down Corn Wall along wi us,” Denzil Senior suggested.
“I can’t I’m not supposed to be here!” she protested, “And I owe them thousands of pounds for getting me into the country.”
“Thousands,” Tristan gasped, “Old Petrock only charges a thousand for St Malo to St Ives, you been had girl.
“He’d have to pay I thousands, to sail wi he, that old boat’s clapped out.” Morgan advised.
“No you come home with we,” Tristan offered, “You can bunk in wi me sister, she’s a bit of a lez.”
It were a right bugger actually, bloody girl was high and o course when she cum down she were climbing the walls.
We bade the Landlord farewell, tossed the darkies in a skip, arranged another visit for the next year with a couple of hundred notes as an advance and set off back for the station.
They was bloody obstreperous. “Next train to Plymouth is at 6 am.”
“Well us has to be back home for milking, what up wi that un?” Denzil asked pointing at a train doing bugger all at a platform.
“It goes to Fishguard via Bristol,” some smarmy git smirked.
“Not now it don’t,” Denzil insisted, and he stormed up to the driver, “Take us to Penzance!”
“Right Oh squire,” he replied.
Bloody bastard, he turned right at Reading not left and us ended up at Swansea.
Course we never twigged it as the only to keep the stupid bitch from climbing walls was to screw her. We damn near ran out of rubbers. Then some bint in first class thought we were having an orgy so her stripped off and joined in.
Next thing ticket collector was having a poke, then the guard, then the fucking engine driver came through and he had a turn.
“Whos’e steering the engine?” I demanded.
“No one, its on rails,” he explained, “Couldn’t do this on the old engines, no door like on the HSTs.” Lord alone knows what he were on about but he certainly knew how to give a bint a portion.
Next thing we had to get back from Swansea to home. Taffys weren’t so understanding about no tickets so we had to let them have a poke each of our bint afore they let us on the train for Bristol, and somewhere round the big tunnel under the Seven the bint collapsed into a deep sleep.
We were all knackered when we got home. On the way we all drew lots for the bint and I won her. I can’t pronounce her name so I calls her Morwenna. She bunked in with Denzil’s sister for a bit ‘till she could afford her own flat which wern’t long, bit short of prossies in St Ives, good business.
What with good Cornish food, and fresh sea air she’s a different woman now, twice the bloody size she use to be. We got married a while ago, kid on the way.
Do you know I wish as I’d never been anywhere near London.