Scroggling the Holly - invented tradition revisited

Christmas arrives in Haworth

We popped over to Haworth this afternoon to watch "Scroggling the Holly". I don't know whether this is a tradition dating back into the mists of time beyond memory or if it was the brainchild of some people who'd imbibed a little while discussing what Haworth could do for Christmastime.

In essence Scroggling the Holly is a little ceremony to welcome Christmas into Haworth. Like all the best traditions (even invented ones) it combines the church - and one supposes Christianity - with ancient pagan leftovers and a smattering of the modern. In the case of Scroggling the Holly we've Morris dancers providing a sort of sanitised paganism, the familiar pre-christian references to holly and ivy - culminating in turning the Holly Princess into an Ivy Queen! All this plus Father Christmas who joins the festivities from inside the church.

I guess none of this really matters or indeed has any deeper meaning than the symbolism of the season. The holly and ivy are rulers because they are still green in the depths of the coldest winter - a sign of hope in the dark and cold. But that is to apply a greater significance to a little celebration that serves to bring in visitors to the village on a winter weekend, helps bring together the community and provides a little bit of pleasure to a whole host of people. Hundreds who, if asked, would sniff dismissively at Morris dancing are caught smiling as a bunch of bell-bedecked middle aged men bash sticks and wave hankies to the sound of a squeeze box.

Such occasions bring people together, provide an unspoken - perhaps hard to articulate - sense of meaning to a place. And are fun for young and old.

These invented, reinvented or discovered traditions are to be encouraged - scroggling the holly here in Haworth, a scarecrow festival in Cullingworth, rushcarts in Saddleworth, well-dressing in Derbyshire all provide a link to the past, play to the idea of community and provide a justifiable excuse to finish the afternoon with something else that's quintessentially English:

Almost a pint of Timothy Taylor's Golden Best

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Wednesday whimsy: Community (or Why Elections are Important)

Yesterday got me thinking about why elections are important. OK, I hear you – what a silly thing to think about – of course elections are important, we’re choosing a government, electing an MP, playing the liberating game of democracy!

Stop there a second and think about it, think about the election and what happens – about the extended period of campaigning, about the debates, the endless stream of leaflets and all the chattering excitement of the media. Is this just about choosing an MP or even choosing a government? Agreed that’s the obvious and ultimate purpose of the election – that’s what we get the day after we vote. But don't elections have a deeper purpose – a purpose beyond that of choosing some person to represent us in choosing a government?

After all, if all we wanted to do was make this choice we could get it all out of the way in a week – especially if we applied the technology available to us to manage voting. But we don’t, we stick with a clunky, old-fashioned system dating back to the 1872 Ballot Act and candidates run decidedly old media campaigns involving the same techniques as we used back in 1872 – giving out handbills, writing letters and identifying supporters through a canvass.

In one respect we stick with this system because it ‘ain’t broke’ – we’re familiar with its workings, there’s a sense of ‘doing our civic duty’ involved in wandering down the local school, church hall or (for the lucky residents of Leeming) the Lamb Inn! And we are comforted by the familiar noises of elections, the inevitable call that “this is the most important election in a generation” and the chuntering sound of politicians and media hacks playing the age old game of stats tennis.

And this is why elections are important. Elections are one of the few times of shared national community, one of the rare occasions when most of us do something together. Tomorrow, millions of people from the Scilly Isles to Shetland will cast a ballot for their favoured candidate – electing people who will sit in the same house and decide about our government. And this shared act is more important, more significant that the outcome of the election – it is a shared act we prepare for. For some the preparation is limited – perhaps just making sure the poll cards are ready by the door but for others it’s treated like first Holy Communion! Debates are watched, discussions are held, manifestos are read, leaflets are poured over and local candidates are asked pertinent questions that will guide our decision “on the day”.

So the important thing about the election isn’t really the result but the act of community that voting represents. The shared decision-making – however flawed the process may be – speaks of what we believe significant: that no man is more important than another, that the nation is a place to which we relate and that we, the people, retain the right to determine who rules that nation. These are hard won things, matters we are rightly proud of and the election reflects these rights and values not some petty scrap between different factions clambering up the greasy pole of government.

Of course I care who wins tomorrow but I also care – as a good Conservative – about the traditions of the election. And I know that this great act of national community is why the election is important.

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Reclaiming England's May Day - an anticipation

Today is May Day – that time when all the Communists and assorted fellow travellers, useful idiots and such like bang on about “international workers” and the revolution. We get to hear the Internationale sung (by the three or four folk who can still remember the words) and tales of the workers struggle are voiced. This is the day of labour – which of course makes it a holiday.

Well dear commies, just as I want my flag back from the racists, I want May Day back from your ghastly authoritarian creed. I want us to reclaim May Day from banner waving reds and self-important lectures about work and workers. I want May Poles, Queen of the May, Morris Dancers, song, sunshine and a celebration of our ordinary lives and our ordinary history.

May Day isn’t a festival of workers. May Day is a festival of fertility – an anticipation of Summer’s fecundity. An excuse to let our hair down a little, sing, dance, get drunk. It’s a day of traditions – whether the maypole, the hobby horse or the green man.

So put away your banners, your red flags. Get out your bells, straighten your beards, dress up fine and get with the magic of nature. Look about at the fresh green shoots, the skippety young animals, the blossom of apple, may and blackthorn and the glories of England around you.

Let’s have back the festival Cromwell’s puritan work ethic tried to kill. Let’s celebrate life and growth, nature and land, good things, fine people and what we share in this great land of ours. Let’s put away the destructive message of class war, of workers revolution, of communism’s cursed legacy.

Let’s have the English May Day back.

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