Go folk yourself

It's time to embrace British musical heritage

There are a collection of images that seem to be indelibly linked to the phrase "traditional British folk music”": drizzly village greens populated by small groups of old men morris dancing while their families cower under umbrellas and look a bit embarrassed, blokes with unfortunate facial hair irritating the patrons of pubs with badly-tuned guitars, strange willowy women with over-the-top “ethereal” voices.

There is more than a grain of truth in this perception, but it also lacks an awareness of how much fun the British folk scene can be. I don’'t mean Mumford & Sons or Noah and the Whale - as entertaining as they are they shouldn'’t overshadow the thriving world of traditional British folk music. I have less musical ability than most (clapping in time at gigs is a tremendous challenge) but it doesn'’t make the blindest bit of difference. If you have a sense of fun and the ability to sink a few pints of ale, you can’'t go far wrong.
We sit on a vast vault of cultural history in this country and it seems a massive shame not to make the most of it – the timeworn tales of mischief and tragedy are still pleasingly entertaining to this day. Bellowhead, my favourite band, is a good example of how resiliently enjoyable our musical roots can be.
In an average gig they'’ll perform old songs about being robbed by sneaky prostitutes, losing your entire family to whiskey and the heartbreaking experience of seeing your girlfriend transported to Australia (life events I'’m sure we’'ve all confronted). The songs are a living embodiment of our history and there’'s something very evocative about listening to the experiences of our ancestors. It’'s historically interesting, but more importantly it’s incredibly fun. Whether it’'s in the Albert Hall or a crowded pub, there is a rich layer of culture just waiting to be experienced.
I acknowledge that it is futile for me to ramble on about my favourite genre to people who have different tastes - a variety of interests is obviously a very good thing and I don’'t want to force mine on anyone. The people I have a problem with are the ones who like to proclaim loudly and often that “Britain isn'’t British anymore!” Depending on who you speak to, the root of the problem can either be Muslims, the European Union or the left (sometimes all three, if they’'re feeling particularly annoyed). There is one consistent feature with this group, though - a complete lack of participation.
They will moan about a perceived loss of Britishness, but they are the last people you will find actually getting involved. There'’s no hope for a wider cultural acceptance of our musical roots if these people can’t be convinced to enjoy some British culture, rather than just moaning about the lack of it. I admit that the prospect of having my local folk night invaded by a cohort of tedious bores isn'’t an exciting one, but I’'m willing to put up with it for a bit. A diet of good ale and decent company should soon sort them out. Give them a few hours and I’'m sure they’'d be singing along with the same enthusiasm as everybody else.
I am aware that this call for greater links to our cultural past is something that the BNP would probably endorse, a fact that I find aggravating. Those on the far right are the antithesis of everything the British folk scene represents. Their dreary half-baked mewing for cultural homogeneity has no place in the hearts of folk fans. When the BNP tried to use the Show of Hands song “Roots”, there was an impressive backlash within the community, resulting in the creation of the “Folk Against Fascism” movement. You might think that traditional folk would shun the new and innovative, but it'’s really not the case. Just look at the wonderful Imagined Village project - their sound is composed of sitars and dhol drums as well as fiddles. This is where folk's true value lies, in its unique blend of tradition and innovation. Folk provides us with a strong link to our cultural history and more importantly, a source of merriment and joy. 


There's more to British folk than Mumford and Sons (Getty Images)
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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood