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| Letters From London |
| Humorous Views on London Culture, Royals, Gossip and Politics |
LET THE EGGS ROLL - 6 April 2007
So you thought Easter was all about biliously-yellow-dyed marshmallow chicks crammed into a
transparent lidded box, enormous fair-trade organic darkest of dark chocolate eggs swathed in
gleaming gold foil or a La Maison Du Chocolat Easter egg ‘delectable and delicious’ surrounded
by small delicate eggs filled with praline sitting in a egg-shaped and caramel coloured box at
Harrods for £62. Milk chocolate, white chocolate, solid, hollow rabbits/chicks/hens/ducks. No, no,
no. Where’s the fun in all that?
Instead, you could make your way to Hallaton in Leicestershire. Once there, a parade is led by a
green-robed man carrying a pole topped with a metal hare and a woman in an old-fashioned
costume carrying a basket of penny loaves. Two women follow bearing a large hare pie,
followed by three men wearing football shirts transporting three bottles on their heads. Assuming
respective. A band of drums and bagpipes brings up the rear. Once they reach the parish
church, the hare pie is broken up and thrown to the lions, I mean the crowd. A football game
follows –explaining the three men in football shirts – but played across the country with the
bottles instead of a ball (ouch) between the Hallaton team (ie, the villagers) and the Medbourne
team (ie, everyone else). Buy me a ticket.
If passing Hungerford in Berkshire, you’re in luck if you want to experience the only annual
Hocktide festival still maintained in the country on the second Tuesday after Easter (why you
might ask). Here’s how it goes; pay attention. Dating back to the14th century, Prince John of
Gaunt gave the rights of free grazing and fishing on common land to ‘commoners’. In the 21st
century, the town crier blows his horn and calls together the Hocktide Court in the town hall. All
commoners living in the High Street must pay a fee (typical) to ensure their rights of fishing and
grazing. Meanwhile, “Tutti-men” (your guess is as good as mine) carrying poles decorated with
flowers are led through the streets by the “Orange-man” (draw your own conclusions) to collect
kisses from all the ladies who reside on the High Street (sounds awfully suspicious). They
receive an orange in return. Indeed.
Egg jarping in County Durham has a special ring to it. Contestants tap their opponents’ eggs until
one breaks. And yes, they are meant to be hard-boiled, but the imagination makes it so much
more riotous… and messy. The winner of the egg break goes through to the next egg-to-egg
battle until there is only one lone egg left unbroken. A good hit by a jarper is called a ‘dunch’ in
the North East, while Cumbria prefers ‘egg dumping’. I’m favouring the former.
Time out for a marshmallow chick…or several. Well, they are fused together after all.
To break the egg theme (sorry), we can arrive at Gawthorpe, Yorkshire where we can witness
the World Coal Carrying Championship – if so inclined (there are times when you just can’t help
yourself). This event takes place between the Royal Oak pub and the maypole on the village
green. Contestants run for one mile carrying a 50kg bag of coal. This contest dates from only
1963 when at the Beehive Inn, Lewis Hartley said to Reggie Sedgewick: “Ba gum, lad, tha’ looks
buggered!” to which an affronted Mr Sedgewick replied: “Let’s ‘ave a coil race from Barracks t’
Maypole.” And have been ever since for god knows what Easter-inspired reason.
Now you just know there has to be either chaos or death somewhere in all these local festivities.
Good Friday, the Tuesday after Easter and a week from the day before Easter a game is
played in Workington, Cumbria. About 100 players make up each side. In this case, the Uppies,
having been born above the Cloffocks on one side and the Downies who were so obviously born
below, gather together in the town centre. The game ends when the ball (thank god for that)
reaches one of the goal areas at the opposite end of town. Here’s the fun part: there are no
rules. Now, why is that not surprising? The last fatality was in 1983 when a contestant drowned
in the Derwent – rather than being trampled, crushed, stomped on, punched to death.
Okay. One more. The day before Easter a group of decorative Morris dancers, dressed in
turban-like hats festooned with rosettes and coloured flowers, black jerseys, red and white kilts,
white stockings and black leather clogs will gather at the Travellers Rest pub, accompanied by
the Stacksteads Silver band, where they will dance merrily through Bacup – from boundary to
boundary. This cheery event is said to have originated with Moorish pirates, which surely
explains the turbans and stockings, and to have been brought to Lancashire by the Cornish tin
miners. Why oh why you would ask. Their blackened faces could certainly be attributable to the
miners, the Moors or more interestingly, to protect the dancers from being recognised by evil
sprits; as you would if you were so attired.
Back to reality. In Biddenden, Kent they dole out bread, cheese and tea…no stale hot-cross
buns, no melted chocolate bunnies here. As legend would have it, two sisters, Eliza and Mary
Chulkhurst were born in 1100, together – physically joined at the shoulder and hip. When one
sister died, we don’t know which one, when they reached 34, the other sister refused to be
separated from her (wise decision surely) and out of sheer necessity, died 6 hours later…thank
god. The sisters left 20 acres of ground referred to as the Bread and Cheese Lands (and why
exactly?) to provide money for an annual handout known as the Biddenden Dole. There is a
representation of the sisters on the cakes. We are assuming portraits here. Originally those in
charge had the good judgment to offer beer, but that was later changed to tea – once the China
tea trade was established I am guessing, and public drunkenness might have disabled the
sisters’ good intentions.
You can carry the cross; I’m off to the enormous 70,000 sq ft newly opened, as of Good Friday,
flagship Primark store on Oxford Street, where I can get trampled and punched and abused over
a £4 Easter-y green jumper, made by a £3 an 80-hour week worker in Bangladesh.
So you thought Easter was all about biliously-yellow-dyed marshmallow chicks crammed into a
transparent lidded box, enormous fair-trade organic darkest of dark chocolate eggs swathed in
gleaming gold foil or a La Maison Du Chocolat Easter egg ‘delectable and delicious’ surrounded
by small delicate eggs filled with praline sitting in a egg-shaped and caramel coloured box at
Harrods for £62. Milk chocolate, white chocolate, solid, hollow rabbits/chicks/hens/ducks. No, no,
no. Where’s the fun in all that?
Instead, you could make your way to Hallaton in Leicestershire. Once there, a parade is led by a
green-robed man carrying a pole topped with a metal hare and a woman in an old-fashioned
costume carrying a basket of penny loaves. Two women follow bearing a large hare pie,
followed by three men wearing football shirts transporting three bottles on their heads. Assuming
respective. A band of drums and bagpipes brings up the rear. Once they reach the parish
church, the hare pie is broken up and thrown to the lions, I mean the crowd. A football game
follows –explaining the three men in football shirts – but played across the country with the
bottles instead of a ball (ouch) between the Hallaton team (ie, the villagers) and the Medbourne
team (ie, everyone else). Buy me a ticket.
If passing Hungerford in Berkshire, you’re in luck if you want to experience the only annual
Hocktide festival still maintained in the country on the second Tuesday after Easter (why you
might ask). Here’s how it goes; pay attention. Dating back to the14th century, Prince John of
Gaunt gave the rights of free grazing and fishing on common land to ‘commoners’. In the 21st
century, the town crier blows his horn and calls together the Hocktide Court in the town hall. All
commoners living in the High Street must pay a fee (typical) to ensure their rights of fishing and
grazing. Meanwhile, “Tutti-men” (your guess is as good as mine) carrying poles decorated with
flowers are led through the streets by the “Orange-man” (draw your own conclusions) to collect
kisses from all the ladies who reside on the High Street (sounds awfully suspicious). They
receive an orange in return. Indeed.
Egg jarping in County Durham has a special ring to it. Contestants tap their opponents’ eggs until
one breaks. And yes, they are meant to be hard-boiled, but the imagination makes it so much
more riotous… and messy. The winner of the egg break goes through to the next egg-to-egg
battle until there is only one lone egg left unbroken. A good hit by a jarper is called a ‘dunch’ in
the North East, while Cumbria prefers ‘egg dumping’. I’m favouring the former.
Time out for a marshmallow chick…or several. Well, they are fused together after all.
To break the egg theme (sorry), we can arrive at Gawthorpe, Yorkshire where we can witness
the World Coal Carrying Championship – if so inclined (there are times when you just can’t help
yourself). This event takes place between the Royal Oak pub and the maypole on the village
green. Contestants run for one mile carrying a 50kg bag of coal. This contest dates from only
1963 when at the Beehive Inn, Lewis Hartley said to Reggie Sedgewick: “Ba gum, lad, tha’ looks
buggered!” to which an affronted Mr Sedgewick replied: “Let’s ‘ave a coil race from Barracks t’
Maypole.” And have been ever since for god knows what Easter-inspired reason.
Now you just know there has to be either chaos or death somewhere in all these local festivities.
Good Friday, the Tuesday after Easter and a week from the day before Easter a game is
played in Workington, Cumbria. About 100 players make up each side. In this case, the Uppies,
having been born above the Cloffocks on one side and the Downies who were so obviously born
below, gather together in the town centre. The game ends when the ball (thank god for that)
reaches one of the goal areas at the opposite end of town. Here’s the fun part: there are no
rules. Now, why is that not surprising? The last fatality was in 1983 when a contestant drowned
in the Derwent – rather than being trampled, crushed, stomped on, punched to death.
Okay. One more. The day before Easter a group of decorative Morris dancers, dressed in
turban-like hats festooned with rosettes and coloured flowers, black jerseys, red and white kilts,
white stockings and black leather clogs will gather at the Travellers Rest pub, accompanied by
the Stacksteads Silver band, where they will dance merrily through Bacup – from boundary to
boundary. This cheery event is said to have originated with Moorish pirates, which surely
explains the turbans and stockings, and to have been brought to Lancashire by the Cornish tin
miners. Why oh why you would ask. Their blackened faces could certainly be attributable to the
miners, the Moors or more interestingly, to protect the dancers from being recognised by evil
sprits; as you would if you were so attired.
Back to reality. In Biddenden, Kent they dole out bread, cheese and tea…no stale hot-cross
buns, no melted chocolate bunnies here. As legend would have it, two sisters, Eliza and Mary
Chulkhurst were born in 1100, together – physically joined at the shoulder and hip. When one
sister died, we don’t know which one, when they reached 34, the other sister refused to be
separated from her (wise decision surely) and out of sheer necessity, died 6 hours later…thank
god. The sisters left 20 acres of ground referred to as the Bread and Cheese Lands (and why
exactly?) to provide money for an annual handout known as the Biddenden Dole. There is a
representation of the sisters on the cakes. We are assuming portraits here. Originally those in
charge had the good judgment to offer beer, but that was later changed to tea – once the China
tea trade was established I am guessing, and public drunkenness might have disabled the
sisters’ good intentions.
You can carry the cross; I’m off to the enormous 70,000 sq ft newly opened, as of Good Friday,
flagship Primark store on Oxford Street, where I can get trampled and punched and abused over
a £4 Easter-y green jumper, made by a £3 an 80-hour week worker in Bangladesh.
