People have often been bewildered or snarky about the fact that I like and engage in Morris dancing. I used to say, it involves beer and hitting people with sticks, what’s not to like? When I decided to write a novella about sex and Morris dancing, one of the reasons for doing it was because I knew so many people would go, you can’t possibly, it can’t be done. And I would contemplate Rule 24 (if it exists, there’s porn about it) and say, oh yes I can, and so I did.
I was out yesterday with all my Morris dancing pals, and had a gratifying chat with someone who had not only heard about the sexy morris dancing book but knew several people who had read it. Shortly after this, I was performing a dance and there was a little mishap with a stick – a four-inch long piece of wood flew abruptly into the back of my head. I finished the dance without swearing, screaming, bleeding or falling over, and once I had had the post-accident pint, fag, five minutes of shivering and blubbing and application of icepack, I began to consider, once again, the potent blend of pleasure/pain that some people love (I’m normally the one dishing it out, of course) and how some types of impact are so much more enjoyable than others.
And then, naturally, I thought: this would be a good scene to write at some point.