Seriously? You went again? Yes I did. This time, though, I was invited.

They wanted me there to do things such as teach evening classes, host shows, organise competitions, devise party activities for the Fridays, and other such things that I have done many times in the past. I was asked whether I was going to go anyway, and I said that I wasn't sure. They offered me free ice cream. They knew my weakness.

In the run-up to the trip, though, I was not fuelled up with a spirit of joyous optimism. It felt more like 'Oh well – here we go again', and I left it to the night before to start packing. My flight was at six in the morning, which meant getting to the airport for four, so I decided that it was pointless to go to bed. I thought I'd watch a DVD while I waited. Something light, I thought. Aha! This would do: Funny Face (1957). This, as it turned out, was an unfortunate choice. Watching the visibly-aged Fred Astaire dance with the youthful sylph-like figure of Audrey Hepburn was not the reminder of passing time that I needed right then (some might argue that it was precisely the reminder I needed).

My mood was not helped by the fact that I had just spent the useful parts of four days on the telephone trying to sort out my flight ticket. I bought a return ticket, to fly back on August 2nd, but when the confirmation e-mail came, it said August 30th. Muzak... Skyscanner blamed Booking.com,.. muzak... Booking.com said that I had to speak to the airline, KLM... muzak... and KLM said it was a matter for Booking.com. Repeat, with the same muzak. It seemed that I would be better off flying out first, and then contacting KLM in Sweden, because once I'd used part of the return ticket, my case became the undeniable responsibility of the airline. Undeniable.

The taxi ride to the airport has trebled in price in the last few years. Once there, I witnessed again the farce that is the theatre of airport security. I was asked to open my bag, and the man had to find something to examine. “I think it's probably these,” he said, supposedly identifying an item that had triggered some sort of alert. He swabbed the item for suspicious substances, and soon the item was declared safe. It was a packet of sausage rolls. I never knew that I had taken such a risk.

After chilling along with everyone else in the somewhat under-heated aeroplane, I touched down in Arlanda, and upon exiting the baggage reclaim, saw a man in a chauffeur's uniform holding up a sign saying 'GODOT'. I wasn't sure who was playing a joke on whom there. In short time, I was on the 806 heading towards Rimbo. Alas, I had not thought about Sunday bus services, and the journey to the camp involved long waits there and at Hallstavik. It didn't matter, though. I had time, a need to catch up on sleep, and sausage rolls (certified safe ones).

ARRIVAL

I pitched my tent under a shady tree, and almost immediately met an old friend from the camp – a top physicist from Sweden, who invited me to join her group for a meal at the Tai place next to the Kuggen, but there I also ran into Nicolle Rochelle, and catching up with her took so long that the first group had eaten and left before I joined it. I thought, wrongly as it turned out, that I had all the time in the world to talk to such people, but fate can keep people apart at Herräng, so I'm still unsure of some of the latest findings in science.

The weather was baking hot. I have known it very hot at the camp before. My first ever year there reminded me of the heat of Crete, but that was a dry heat. This was a muggy clammy a-storm-is-coming heat which lasted all of week three and was a bit of a disincentive to dance. In week four, the weather changed and it got cooler and a lot wetter. I ended up pitching my tent four times, each time to a shadier spot. On the Monday of week three, I woke up because the heat from direct sun on my tent was too great to sleep in. On another night, I showered, went to bed, woke up and then had to shower again.

Around the camp, much was familiar of course, and, as predicted, many of the treasure hunt numbered stickers I had put up the previous year were still in place. Week three was the most crowded the camp got and there were about eight hundred people there, of which one hundred and eighty were staff – not quite the ratio of a luxury cruise ship, but approaching it.

I met Maja Hellsten and we hugged in enthusiastic greeting. It would be good to work with her again. A short while later, I met her sister Mikaela and went through the same ritual. A short while later again, I met the actual Mikaela Hellsten, greeted her, and realised that the first time I had greeted Mikaela I was actually greeting Maja for the second time, which explained that brief look of confusion I noticed in her eye as I went in for the hug. I did have a bit of an excuse, however, which was that the second time I met Maja, she was wearing different clothes. I didn't say anything about it at the time, so, if you're reading this, Maja, that was the reason.

I went round the camp, volunteering myself for whatever people wanted from me. This meant meeting Rasmus, the very straight-faced and even-tempered chap who was running the Friday parties. He seemed to feel that his task was a rather hopeless one, as the themes picked and near total lack of budget somewhat limited his scope of action. He told me that he had advised against the theme of cows (it wasn't just 'cows' but the wider topic of pastoral idyll, but it had certainly been interpreted as 'cows' by many people, who had brought cow costumes), and that at the last minute it had been changed to 'flowers', which still wasn't a theme that lent itself to many party activities. What mystified me at the time and still does, is that the cow theme was seen as in some way 'problematic'. It seems that some young folk have developed a way to be 'triggered' by the concept of cows. Did they fear the wrath of vegans? I did not know. What about the potential backlash from the League of Hayfever Victims?

I also reported for duty at the Dream Factory, which this year ran no 'evening meetings' but instead it ran 'variety revues' which were the same, but with a new name. I had been saying for years that calling them 'meetings' meant that a lot of campers didn't bother with them, which was a shame because the camp put on a one-hour show six nights a week, which is quite an effort and achievement, and they were a major part of what made the camp special. The new shows got initialised to 'VR' which then required expanding to something like 'VR in real life' which rather spoiled the abbreviated nature of the initials. They were also referred to as 'rabitty-doos' or 'rabbit-idoos' depending on which sign you were reading, by people whose first language was not English.

I feel that they missed an obvious rhyme here.

In the evening meeting – sorry: rabitty-doo - they announced a short film competition. Entries had to be in by noon on Wednesday and be no longer than fifty-one seconds. They also announced the 'ramble'. The Ramble Man entered to the opening strains of I Like It Like That by Pete Rodriguez, which always makes me want to move, and said that in the library that night they would be playing salsa.

Salsa turned out to be my first dance at Herräng. My salsa is very rusty, and yet in that context it proved more than serviceable, and I had several happy partners. Some of the music was a bit challenging, but there were smiles.

ICE CREAM

I had, in theory, free ice cream at the camp. I was still British, though, and so getting it came with a terrible cost: embarrassed awkwardness. Every time I went to either the ICP or the Lindy Hop Shop (which this year also sold ice cream, at 5 SEK more than the ICP), I would have to make the claim that I was somehow entitled to free ice cream. Each time, I would be greeted with more than a little scepticism, with which I entirely sympathised, because I wouldn't believe it either. Each time, a manager would have to be consulted, and each time the manager on duty would have to make a 'phone call to higher up for confirmation. I would then be served by an incredulous staff member, who would hand the cold gold over with a sideways look of continued suspicion. The next time, the person serving ice cream would be different and the process would repeat, until after a few days everyone would have been told, and the process got a lot easier. Then, when week four started and the staffs were replaced, I was back to square one. The embarrassment was such that I never tried to get ice cream at the bar or cafe.

Which eyes are more googly? Picture courtesy of Eunji Choi.

I recall a one-ice-cream day, but typically, I was eating about three a day. This represented a substantial input of calories and nutrients. Ice cream covers pretty much all of the requirement for a growing lad. Cream was developed by Nature over countless millennia to be the perfect all-round sustenance for mammals. I made sure to have enough chocolate for the many vitamins and minerals it contains – like cream, it is truly is a superfood – and I can report now having done the science that I suffered no ill-effects from my largely cream-and-sugar-based diet. Much of the food I took to the camp I ended up taking back. Certainly, I never felt any urge to devour the big bar of dark chocolate I had in my tent. My body knew that it had no need for any more sugar.

There was an alarming number of places in which this photograph of Steven Coombe turned up.

MONDAY WEEK THREE

On Monday night in the rabitty-doo, they celebrated the birthday of Barbara Billups. This opened with Nicolle Rochelle sitting on the windowsill and singing Stormy Weather about as well as it is possible to sing it. She sounded in-period, and yet this was not just an impersonation, but was instead a very expressive and individual rendition, delivered in her pitch-perfect voice. Chester had put together a great dance routine, and a man who had been waiting patiently a long time inside a huge 'cake' made of painted paper and bent tent poles jumped out of it and just managed this without injury, to dance with Barbara. I inspected the cake afterwards and saw that the jump was a big ask. I don't think that they had taken into account the decelerating effect of a sheet of thick paper. Barbara was suitably overwhelmed and touched, and I observed something I have seen many times there: someone who had done nothing at all to contribute to the celebration put himself in a prominent position to be seen by Barbara and, with a fixed huge oh-so-earnest smile held out his arms to her with a huge 'we have done this for you because we love you' gesture, hoping presumably to be mistaken for someone who knew who she was a few days before, and had lifted a finger to stage the celebration. I suppose that there are people like that everywhere.

After the VR in real life, Chester Alouisius Whitmore was on stage to be interviewed about his life. His interviewer spoke briefly about four or five times, and the rest of the time, Chester rambled. He told us of the times in his youth when he needed to be able to defend himself with his fists, which got him into martial arts. He lived in a rough neighbourhood. It seems that his various careers as martial artist, stuntman, and dancer were pretty much simultaneous.

TUESDAY

Chester and I wanted to make a video, but we hadn't an idea yet. Fifty-one seconds shouldn't tax us too much, though. We were in the ICP when he wanted a smoothie, and he complained that the old ICP freshly-made smoothies were no longer served and instead they had mass-produced plastic bottles in the fridge. I jested about a video in which he crawled through the desert crying “Smoothie!” and he said “Let's do it!”

When Chester Archibald Whitmore gets the bit between his teeth, and you are involved, there is no stopping him. This year, however, he had a minder. A young scarlet-haired lady had been given the unenviable task of making sure that Chester made it to all his classes. She took her duty possibly a bit too seriously, though, and Chester griped about being told to eat or go to bed by someone less than half his age. We would go to the desert and I would direct. I had no bike. He would find us a car. We got two smoothie bottles from the ICP, and then went to reception, and someone from the limousine service was summoned within five minutes. The general attitude from people was 'Is this for Chester? I'm in!' I ran back to my tent to get a long-sleeved shirt to prevent burning, and another volunteer tagged along, which filled the car, so the minder had to be left behind. Oh dear. She pleaded with me to get him back by 15:10, ten minutes before his next class. We drove out to the desert, and the driver dropped us off on a footpath and told us to be back in ten minutes. It must have taken at least a couple of minutes more to get to the location on foot and yet we were back in time, so that means we shot the whole thing in six minutes. That is so quick that I have my doubts, but let the record show six minutes. I didn't get as many shots as I wanted, but in the end it didn't matter.

We started editing it that evening on Chester's laptop back in his digs. My incompetence at shooting with a mobile telephone showed in that I had managed to get one of my fingers in shot. There is no viewfinder, you see, so on a sunny day with the sun behind you, you can't see what you're doing. Worse, though, was that for some unknown reason, some of the later shots, including one crucial one of Chester in close-up deciding to die rather than drink the mass-produced smoothie, were completely silent. As it turned out, I think that this accident led to a better video. I had the idea of doing a Morgan Freeman voice-of-God to cover the gap in the sound and explain the joke. I had never done a Morgan Freeman voice-over before, but I was pleased enough with the results. We did a few takes of different lengths, and I noticed that in all of them my accent slipped into British, but never in the same places. The first cut came out at one minute fifty seconds – oops! One challenge of the collaboration in editing was that Chester kept falling asleep mid-sentence. I had to go to teach an evening class and when I left, we had it down to a minute and ten. Chester would later trim it by various cunning means to fifty-one on the dot (if you don't count the end credits).

In the end, the video was not entered for the competition, but was instead played in an evening meeting.

I think that this might have been the day when I jammed with a band outside the Folkethus. I whistled 'counter-melodies' (apparently) to some tunes, and did a solo or two. I was complimented on my 'choices', which was interesting, because, unusually, my 'choices' surprised even me. I kept thinking that I was going to whistle one thing, but then found myself whistling something else entirely. Perhaps this was what proper jazz feels like.

One good evening meeting was hosted by Steven Coombe, a British band leader. There were videos of his failing at many jobs at the camp, and each time getting the sack. Then he was given the job of hosting a show, and he walked onto the stage in person, and hosted the show as a sort of chat-show host, complete with sofa for the guests.

My evening class was 'How To Dance Really Well' and, as has happened before, I was a bit worried when I turned up and found just a handful of people there, but in the end the tent filled up, and if anything I had too many people, which made crowd management a bit tricky. It went very well. There is a wonderful sound which I get to hear when teaching these lessons: that of people having just tried something with a partner all enthusiastically talking about it afterwards. It tells me that they are enjoying it, sharing it, and not just waiting for it to be over. Another marquee-load of people can now dance really well. Afterwards, a trickle of campers came over to speak to me, and one said that he wanted to thank me especially because “I have never felt so welcomed to a dance floor”. I think he said something else about himself, along the lines of 'neuro-divergent' or 'Aspergers' but I forget exactly what it was. My YouTube channel is very popular with such people, and I don't know why exactly. No hidden agenda and/or a clear voice, perhaps. Anyway, it was very nice to hear.

A short while later, it was time to get into the Folkethus ballroom to see the blues night opening show. I changed into my smarter gear and watched the two dances they had prepared, but then the curtains just closed and there was no snowball to start things off, so the slightly confused crowd just stood up and got on with it.

I was still behind on sleep. I had been woken by the sun on Monday morning at 10:30. I had decided to give it a go, though, and not give up as I had the year before. I was in some degree of discomfort. I was tired, very hot, and as has happened before several times when I have gone abroad, I had not yet defecated in Sweden. The blockage lasted only a couple of days, though, and so I can report that overall this wasn't a big problem – for me, that is. I talked to someone who was at the camp for a full week, and never got relief until returning to Arlanda Airport, where apparently the relief was tremendous.

I danced moderately and never very sexily. I saw a lady standing by the fan, cooling off while she watched the floor. I went over to ask her for a dance. She told me that she had seen many 'terrible things', and yet when pressed for specifics, all she could offer as an example was that some of the leads were hugging their partners strongly. I find that it is easy enough to tell whether hugging a partner close is appreciated or not. If I give her room to back away and she stays in close even when I am moving backwards, then I think it's safe enough to say that she's happy close.

I went to the sauna, endured the cold showers, sweated a bit while wondering why I was there, and was ready for breakfast at 07:35. Snag was, breakfast at Heaven's Kitchen didn't start until 08:00 or 08:30. No matter – I would wait in my tent. I was then awoken in my tent at 12:30 by an incredible noise. Some lorries had turned up to empty the massive steel rubbish skips near the ICP. From the sound of it, their method was to hoist them up high, and then with a dozen mighty blows hammer them down through the Earth's crust.

Noisy.

WEDNESDAY

I was not at my physical nor mental peak. These days, there are no dance course lessons at all on Wednesdays. Instead, there are many 'cultural activities' and I missed most of them. I joined in a lesson under a tree near the Folkethus in Italian hand gestures. It seems that the Italians couldn't always agree, as there are many regional and generational variations, but I think I came away with a couple of useful ones. Within sight of this group, another was making and then launching bottle rockets, and I had a go. The most successful design had fins at a slight angle, to induce spin. Three was, as I would have predicted, the optimum number. One intact plastic bottle would be filled about a third full with water, then its neck pressed down onto a cork through which the needle-like adapter for pumping up basket balls would be passed. A second bottle would have its pointy end cut off and taped onto the bottom of the intact bottle to form a nose-cone. Everyone would step away as someone pumped up the bottle with a hefty bike pump, and after just one or two big strokes on the pump, the bottle would shoot up quite a way.

It might have been this day that I went to the Marina for lunch with Chester and group of potentially interesting people, including his housemate – another teacher. It is with regret that I write 'potentially', but this word is fitting because what could have been a fascinating exchange of anecdotes and bonhomie became instead sitting with a group of tired people who talked to the people they already knew and then stared at their telephones individually or huddled around one telephone to watch a video that someone liked and listened to the tinny tiny noise that leaked out from behind a screen so small that no more than a third of us could watch, thus dividing the group. I'm sure that humanity would be happier if we all smashed our mobile 'phones up into small pieces.

In the evening meeting, one notable act was the Russian Aleksei Kazjonnov dancing with a spot of light on the back curtain, projected by the camp's follow-spot. There were quite a few Russians at the camp, and so far as I know this caused no trouble. I was told that some were telling people that they were from other places such as Belarus, but that might not have been true. So far as I know, most of them were no longer living in Russia. It was also the last night for a particular host of the news section of the rabitty-doo. Humour is personal, but I marvelled at this stage character, because I found the style painfully slow and unfunny. The character was very camp, so was the audience laughing to show approval? We may never know.

One amazing thing at the meeting was a man who stood up to announce a meeting of a men's 'emotional support group'. That such a thing might exist at a dance camp is remarkable enough. I don't disapprove of an attempt to help men, nor of all-male discussion groups, but I did marvel at the sales pitch. He opened with “As we all know, white men have fucked up the world for everyone”. About 98% of the men in the room were white. Of course, men are not allowed to take offence nor complain, so this statement was suffered in silence, but can you imagine any other subdivision of humanity's being addressed in the same manner? “As we all know, left-handed people have fucked up the world for everybody. There will be an emotional support meeting for sinister left-handers, and all evil left-handed fiends will be welcome.” He closed with the same flagrantly-untrue and insulting statement. The following week, another man stood up and used the same language. I spoke to one man who had been to one of the meetings, and his account made it seem quite reasonable. Personally, I'm of the school of opinion that insulting the people you are offering support to is a bad opener, but possibly I'm old-fashioned.

That night, there was a great band in the Dansbanan called The Toulouse Hot Club. Maka, in his Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses played with his voice-changing gadget a lot (possibly too much) and I enjoyed dancing to the music. It was engaging and fun. They played a combination of T'Ain't Whacha Do and The Macarena which made the Shim Sham less tedious. One problem with a good band is that it tends to crowd the floor, but there was just enough room to be creative.

This was the night of the 'throw-down' competition in the Folketshus ballroom. Sugar Sullivan was there to judge, and four couples threw down, in the manner of the Harvest Moon Ball, of which Sugar was once a winner. There were many air-steps. Oddly, the showy couples did not win. Sugar stood up and took the mic before the surprise winners were announced. She said, by way of explanation for what was to come, that it didn't matter how fancy your moves are “if you can't keep time”. I rather agree with this, but it didn't seem to fit the old films we see today of Harvest Moon competitions. The dancers seem very ragged in their movements and to be near-enough ignoring the music, however, I think that these films are seldom played with synchronised sound recorded at the time.

Start them young.

I was invited to a crisp-tasting at the Lindy Hop Shop at 02:00. They had at least two sittings. We all filed in to a reception of such solemnity that we were a bit unnerved. When we were seated, a straight-faced hostess explained to us that we were there to settle the matter of which crisp ('chip' for you yanks) flavour was the best. Each of us was in turn issued with a single crisp, and we waited in dumbstruck silence for permission to eat the crisp. When someone's 'phone went off, there were worried looks. Steven Coombe was the man who read out the elaborate descriptions of how each crisp was made. These generally involved an astonishing amount of work by a solitary artisan working in a cabin somewhere, using unique laborious methods. We were then required to vote for the best. I liked the lime, but went for the sea-salt. Parmesan won.

I think this might have been the night when I hit my head. I was flopping down onto a sofa in the bar, when something caused the window behind me to open inwards. Was it the wind? It wasn't very windy. Was it a person wanting a better view into the bar from outside? They did not introduce themselves. Either way, the bottom corner of the window coincided with the back of my head and as I sit to write this nearly three weeks later, I can still feel it. It was one hell of a clonk, but those around me did all the right things, and soon I had an ice pack and a supply of white paper napkins, and as I applied these to the back of my head, each subsequent napkin was less bloody than the last, and soon I was satisfied that I was going to live.

Later, a chap came up to me and asked me to lead him on the floor. I found the dance interesting, because it was just like several others I have had with men. Technically, he was a perfect follow. I could string together all manner of tricky moves and he followed everything, with a very strong connection. He brought zero creativity to the dance, though. It was not a conversation, it was pure lead and pure follow. This is rare amongst women followers, but seems quite common amongst men. I saw him a couple of days later and asked him about it, and he said that he followed in the only way he could. In stark contrast was a dance the following week where I was following a man, and I can report that my leader was rubbish.

Me. It seems that outdoor life suits me. I always look better when I'm camping.

One day, I found myself in conversation with Marie, the top manageress of the whole camp, and she said that she thought it a waste to go to all the trouble of setting up the camp's infrastructure and to use it for just a few weeks. Instead, the dance camp could be preceded or followed by other camps. What do you think there should be? The Herräng yoga camp? The Herräng mosquito research facility? Herräng air and water drone pilot training ? The Herräng circus school?

THURSDAY (Cabaret)

Frida Segerdahl had been asked to host the cabaret as well as present the rabitty-doo. Chester Aaron Whitmore and I were then asked to host the cabaret. She told me that she was relieved not to have to do both. I watched her do her show, and she did a fine job. Several times she was required to pretend to look for her notes, each time in a slightly different way. The next day I suggested that she perhaps should lean into her Swedishness more. Ah men va fan!

I was a bit concerned, though, that we had no time to rehearse for the cabaret. I had several ideas of things we could do, such as a two-man version of the act I did in 2013, but these didn't get much past the initial-discussion stage. Chester seemed confident that everything would be fine. Time passed, and the show approached and information was scarce. I never managed to find the show's producer all day. Things tend to get a bit last-minute in Herräng, but this was beyond the norm. Chester got one of the DJs, an ostentatiously-dressed Brit who goes by the moniker of Natty Congeroo, to join us and do some scat, but even when the final rehearsal came, just before the show, neither Natty nor I had any much of an idea what the actual act was. He seemed happy enough, though.

Chester always leaves anything involving writing to me, so I went round the performers getting their names right, and how they wanted to be introduced. As always, the running order changed. Nicolle Rochelle was going to open the show, because she is so reliably excellent, but the problem was that the camp's one and only double bass, essential to her act, would be in use at the 'pub night' before the show, so some extra time might be needed to carry it to the Folketshus. She was to be on first, then not, then first again, then not, then when it turned out that the pub night would be ending in time to make the first act of the cabaret, she was back in first again, and then not. We didn't have any act that was an obvious big opener or closer.

Rehearsing with Chester was further hampered by the fact that he was being given a birthday celebration outside the front of the Folketshus, where a very long line of tables had been set out, and running the full length was the longest continuous cake I had ever seen. I did not see them put it onto the tables, but it must have been done in many sections, with the joins hidden by icing and whipped cream. He had to go out of course, and be photographed many times with it and his many fans.

We got to rehearse our entrance dance once, and then before I knew it, we were on! The curtains were drawn, the audience in, and Chester had us stand with our backs to the audience. We had only one headset, and Chester was utterly unhesitating in giving it to me. I did 'the relaxing voice', asking people to switch off their annoying little mobile telephones and instead watch the show as though they were actually there... which they were. Curtains open, dance, cheers, opening silly speeches, I told them that we had tall artists, short artists, and... several AVERAGE-HEIGHT ARTISTS! Cheer! That would do – first act: a choir singing a Norwegian drinking song. I had heard this choir once before and it was amazingly good. You might think that a load of campers, none of whom spoke Norwegian, who just turned up to a Wednesday cultural activity to learn a silly song, might just grind out a boozy bit of nonsense, but there you (and I) would have been wrong. This choir was absolutely together, and had clear separate bass, tenor, alto and soprano parts, and was positively soaring and angelic.

Next up was Chester and Natty's scat act. That happened in front of the curtain while we set up the next act behind it. I think Chester's original idea was for me to be in the scat skit, but the two of them seemed to do fine without me. I then came out to introduce the 'neo-burlesque' act 'Demons Rising': two girls and a very thin angular chap whose costume and make-up exaggerated his physique greatly. This was arty stuff, done to a very heavy music track, but it worked well. The lighting crew really went for it. In my intro I told the audience that it need not sit in awestruck hushed wonder but was positively encouraged to gasp, laugh, or scream as appropriate. A couple of people afterwards asked me for the name of the chap. I had only the stage-name: Zizi Buffet.

After that, Patrick Kuntschnik went out in front of the curtain and did a bit of slow stand-up, this time playing the part of a mosquito, complete with costume wings. His act was probably good, but much like last year, I heard next to none of it while we set up the next act: Nicolle and her band. I'm glad that we didn't open with this, because it was quite low-key. She sang opera, and then after a while changed into Swedish, and there was a slight mix-up in the music which meant that she wasn't quite singing the same part that the musicians were playing, but most people probably didn't notice. Her voice is so mesmerisingly good, that it was a perfect distraction from such a trivial thing.

Next was 'Swinging the Blues' – a couple doing a straightforward swing dance. This was fine, but at a swing dance camp, I think that you need a gimmick in order to convert this into an act for the cabaret. Here, we can all swing dance, and see loads of it every day.

After that, I saw two words scrawled on my sheet: “Hound Dog”. Now, at some point before this, the curtains were stuck open for some reason, and the stage needed clearing, so Chester and I were required to go on and fill for a bit while the stage hands cleared away cables and the like. We had no material, and I did something a little cruel when I said “You entertain the ladies and gentlemen, and I'll go over here and watch how it's done”, and I stepped away from him and left him floundering comically for bit. With a face as expressive as Chester's, just a look can entertain the audience for quite a while. Anyway, now we came to this next bit, Chester had his chance to get me back. We had never decided on what exactly we were going to do. I had shown him my video in which I sing a British cleaned-up version of Hound Dog. My suggestion was that we could use this idea as a throw-away line in a bit of banter, but instead he got me to sing the thing.

After that, we had a sea-shanty sung, accompanied by tap-dancer and an assortment of instruments, then 'Dancing With My Shadow' which was a duo dance, one in white, one in black, and I had persuaded them to go without an introduction (the one they had written seemed a bit pretentious) but instead to let the piece stand on its own, which it did fine.

Next, was a return of Thorsten from Germany, the gentle giant with his new version of 'Lindy-hoppy-poppy-nachos'. This time, he had a pre-recorded backing track to sing to, and Chester and I fooled around behind him, pointing to the projected lyrics as human bouncing-balls.

The next bit was another unrehearsed bit with Chester. We bantered and blundered our way into dividing in the audience into two and getting Chester's half to clap the on-beat (1 and 3) and do a Sith version of Imperial March from The Empire Strikes Back, and then I led my Jedi half in an off-beat swung version, and it all got a bit chaotic. I got carried away with Jedi scat and many of the Jedi struggled to follow me, and somehow the Sith and Jedi at one point finished at very different times. I suppose that the spontaneity of it all must have added something, because this was the bit of the cabaret that I heard by far the most praise for. Never over-rehearse.

Last was Maka's 'bring your own instruments class' amateur band to finish. The stage was quite full, and they played us up to the end. For the end, Maka's professional band joined us, and as they set up, I went forward to teach the audience the 'hand shim sham' which it could perform while remaining seated. I wanted some variation from the usual. As I was doing this, the other performers were supposed to be taking their places to perform the closing dance. Not one of them did, and I'm afraid that possibly a bit of irritation at this may have sounded in my voice, for which I apologise. Anyway, we got them on eventually, many performing in front of the stage. I tried to lead the audience in the hand shim sham, but alas Maka launched into his version of T'Ain't Whacha Do mixed with The Macarena, and I and the audience got lost. Still, a bit of chaos can help with the fun.

It was over, and I was ready for a drink. One of the reasons was the stress, but another was the astonishing heat. They had packed people in for the show, not leaving the usual central aisle, and the heat rising from the hundreds of bodies joined the heat of the lights on the stage, and wafted into the cul-de-sac of black-wool-curtained side stage where I lived, and this, combined with the already-stifling weather, caused me to be more than a little on the sweaty side. Maja the producer was happy with how things had gone, and said she'd get me a beer from the bar, but when I went down there, there was a queue half a mile long, so instead I went to the party at the German house, where I enjoyed three stiff gin and tonics (served over a civilised period).

At the party, I had my first proper conversation with Laura Glaess, someone who has been at loads of the same events as me in the past, and yet we always seem to have been scheduled in the next room each time. I also talked to the generous host. It seems that he turns up every year with a car-load of booze bought cheaply in Germany, and works for half the day on his computer, and some years does no dancing at all at the camp. He owns the German rights to Tintin and Studio Ghibli, which keeps him very busy. I also talked for some while to an American with a huge blue curly mohawk. I wouldn't mention that last detail were it not for later events.

FRIDAY week three

The next day, it was to be the Herrängwood party, and I was expected to help out, so I reported for duty with Rasmus. As before, little was known about what might happen, and resources were scant. During the discussion in his office, a lady turned up saying that she wanted to do something, and that she had a good Alfred Hitchcock costume. I thanked her and said that we'd try to think of something. When I said this, I really had no idea.

We planned an award ceremony, like the Oscars, but if possible even sillier. I was to be some sort of host, which got me out of having to think up a clever costume. I had a black bow tie. 'Best film' was one obvious category, since the film competition had already been announced, but after that it got rapidly trickier. Rasmus had 'best ice cream flavour', 'best competition', and 'best dance floor', and I added 'best Chester' after I suggested nominating Chester Algernon Whitmore for every single category, and then having him lose every single one, including his own. Rasmus designed some voting tokens that would come in strips, and be numbered one to five. Another volunteer would make the ballot boxes for these to go in, and paint fancy Hs on the envelopes I found. Rasmus wanted the voting system to be as simple and clear as possible.

Rasmus had things to do and left me alone to work on my hosting speeches. I went into his little office space to do this, and was soon joined by someone who had seen me enter alone. I was to be visited by the speech police. She was in full uniform, and introduced herself. What followed was an entirely cordial conversation in which not a single harsh word was spoken. She was there to address the problem of my 'non-inclusionary' language when hosting the cabaret the night before. At once both amazed and not at all surprised, I asked what I had said that was the matter. She told me that I had used the phrase 'ladies and gentlemen'. This was true. I had used that at least once and probably twice during the show.

Not wishing to cause any further upset, I did not defend my words at this juncture, but instead merely enquired what might be used to remedy the phrase. I wish, dear readers, that I had on videotape the astonishing self-satisfaction with which she cheerfully announced that she had a really great thing that she liked and I could use. It was 'ladies and gentlemen, and those who know better'. I'm not making this up. That is what she actually thought would be an improvement on the much tried-and-tested 'ladies and gentlemen'. It seems that I managed to keep my exterior civil, and yet inside I was reeling on behalf of almost everyone who has ever lived, who were insulted to the very core by that suggestion. As I was utterly incapable of using this phrase, I decided to suggest alternatives in a similar line. Even though I am an atheist, I feared that going with her suggestion would surely condemn me to the deepest recesses of hell, if there is one. Indeed, were I a god, and there were no hell, I would consider creating one just for people using this phase. She seemed happy enough with 'ladies and gentlemen and those in-between or beyond', which, while still awful, was something I might be able to bring myself to say without immediately vomiting.

Another thing she said, in a very sneering tone, was that the camp had in past years been very appealing to heterosexual people. She said this as though it were somehow a bad thing. Why would that be bad? An event is popular with a certain demographic. Great, no? There are now 'queer' swing dance events. Are these bad because they appeal to a certain demographic? Are some demographics allowed to enjoy events and others not? I would agree that the camp did indeed cater well to heterosexuals, but I never saw evidence of people there being uncivil to homosexuals. Indeed, the sort of people who do swing dancing are really not the sort to be rude in that way.

It strikes me that Herräng is a business, and a business does not have to cater to every demographic. A maker of small hatchback family cars does not have to produce a sports car just because someone comes along and says "But what about people who want a sports car?" The customer base that the camp spent decades building up was a liberal fun-loving and fun-sharing one that wanted good-natured slightly-wild anarchic japes, plus jazz, booze, and parties with lots of the opposite sex. Trying to keep that demographic while also overtly catering to a censorious illiberal and ever-demanding rules-bound puritanical sect is not just difficult, it is also unnecessary.

She then told me that she had been fearing that I would be very scary to deal with. I don't know what put that idea in her head. Not my behaviour at the camp, I'm fairly sure. The end of that last paragraph? That hadn't been written yet. She then left. Yes – you understand correctly – that entire scene took place solely because of that one phrase that I used. I had said nothing else that she had issue with.

So here is the appropriate place for the following:

A HISTORY OF 'LADIES AND GENTLEMEN'

The first written use of 'gentlemen and gentlewomen' is dated A.D.1586. Back then, though, it meant something rather different. Those were social ranks. They were not necessarily nobles, but 'gentle' folk were 'gentle' for a simple reason; they did no hard manual labour. Not for them were digging irrigation ditches, scything wheat, laying hedgerows, or carrying sacks of flour. Instead, these were the lawyers, accountants, clergy, merchants, scribes, as well as the landed aristocracy.

The phrase became more common and morphed gradually into 'gentlemen and ladies' with this newer variant becoming the more common by 1770. It was later, though, that the rhythmically superior and all-including 'ladies and gentlemen' became common amongst ordinary folk.

In the Victorian era, manners were studied hard, and people went to great lengths to find the best ways to behave in polite society. Gatherings of ordinary people became more and more common, as sporting occasions became bigger and more frequent, even remote towns had theatres, politics involved more and more people, and the spread of literacy, printing, and new forms of transport made organising large events so much easier for all. A conventional way to address a crowd was needed, and they came up with an excellent one.

The distinction between gentle folk and others remained in some instances. Cricket teams were made up of 'gentlemen' and 'players' and these had separate entrances and changing rooms in places like Lords cricket ground until 1962. The address 'ladies and gentlemen' though, was so common, and so effective, and had changed in meaning to such an extent, that it continued without a blip.

'Ladies and gentlemen' is a conspiracy between speaker and crowd. It isn't literal at all. The speaker knows that the crowd includes ordinary folk, and the crowd knows this too. It is a compliment to the crowd's members. The speaker is effectively saying 'You look so wonderful, that I have mistaken you for true ladies and gentlemen, and I shall treat you accordingly'. It is extremely respectful. 'Kings and queens' would be going too far, but a well-behaved crowd in its Sunday best, in poor lighting conditions, could be mistaken for gentlefolk. Not only is the speaker expressing trust and respect for his audience, but also the audience, upon hearing that it is being treated as if gentle, will behave gently. The terms 'lady' and 'gentleman' changed from being social ranks to being aspirational models of behaviour. A man who behaves like a gentleman, is a gentleman. Any scullery maid who behaved properly and respectably, would be afforded the title 'lady' and treated accordingly. Shop assistants were trained to address all customers this way. Thus was respect and inclusion spread to all by this simple phrase.

The term is so very obviously respectful as well as playful, that this convention served society very well for centuries. The terms 'lady' and 'gentleman' referred not to actual people, their physical bodies, nor their social ranks. Instead, it referred simply to well-behaved people of any sort. No one could take offence when being addressed this way. No one could possibly mistake the speaker's well-meant intentions.

Until today, though, when modern technology has made it possible for people to find anything offensive if they try hard enough. That someone would choose to take offence when so very clearly none was intended is unimpressive behaviour. Indeed, one definition of 'gentleman' that I rather like is 'a man who is above taking personal offence'. Did anyone actually get upset by my reckless use of this stock phrase? I don't know, but I can say that I have no reason to believe that anyone did. There was, however, a 'safety team' at the camp, hyper-vigilant for an excuse to spring into action in defence of notional potentially offended people, and this may explain everything. More on this later.

HERRÄNGWOOD PARTY

There was a party to organise. Fun, fun, fun! There were so many restrictions on what we allowed to do, had the time to do, had the manpower to do, or the money to do, that poor Rasmus seemed at times to be spiralling into despair. He's a stoic chap, though, and kept going, as he has done at the camp for several years, so clearly he's made of the right stuff.

I needed to recruit people for my award ceremony. Activities at the camp should be as participatory as possible. I wanted people to do the traditional open-the-envelope-and-say 'And the winner is...' plus I needed people to organise the voting, and of course to receive the awards. The jolly pink-haired chap who was running the bike-hire service said no because he would be elsewhere. Chris Wells had turned up that day, and was, like me, described by the management there as one of the 'oldies'. He used to teach stand-up comedy, but he said 'no' too – I think he just wanted to be on holiday. I got a lot of 'no's but eventually had my team. It didn't help that the ICP had organised a party to clash with the main party.

After getting back to Britain, I learned that Chris had been doing a lot of hosting duty the week before, and that it had been he who announced in an evening meeting that the cow theme was unacceptable, arguing that it was racist, because some people might associate farmyard animals with American 'black' people. That anyone at the camp would do this is more than a stretch, and yet the management bowed to this idea and even apologised. If you put in enough effort, though, it is possible to find an objection to anything.

Plans changed again and again. Reasons that we could not do something kept cropping up. One of the events was to be a show of some sort in front of the Lindy Hop Shop. Very late in the day, that got cancelled. By the time the party came around, people were turning up to it expecting a party, and we were still running around trying to sort things out. There was no parade, which was designed partly to avoid the sudden arrival of a horde of people. Alas, there was confusion about the start time of the party, and people started arriving long before the intended opening time. I was trying to field questions coming at me from all sides, while at the same time work out what was going on. I saw Rasmus fiddling with a projector which wasn't working properly. His plan to project the nominated films for the film competition outside the Folkethus fell through, and he had to think on his feet, cancel some other plans, and move the whole screening indoors, which would cause more delay, but there was no better suggestion on hand. One inconvenience that I notice every year is that the audio-visual team is always given Friday off, and every party organiser would benefit from its help.

Another spanner in the works was that someone had organised a screening of all the films that Chester made with Fish, the camp's former video man, in the library. This clashed with the opening ceremonies of the party, and no one had told the party's organisers that this was happening. A lot of people disappeared to watch that, which caused yet more delays, not least because we needed Chester for our gig, and it was inevitable that Chester would be kept behind for questions and adoration.

We moved the crowd upstairs, and showed the short videos. All in all, they were pretty good. Most had struggled to get the time down to fifty-one seconds, and some had done this by the simple method of speeding up the footage. I rather liked 'Dance Crush' (2025), which was a much sped-up conversation between various Lindy hoppers, each jealous of the others who wanted to be the special partner of their crush. We then had to get the crowd back outside again, and make sure that they all had voting strips.

Outside, a small table had been set up, in an unlit spot, on which were the unnumbered (until I numbered them) ballot boxes. Each had labelled slots on. The voters had to put the number one token in the first box, the number two into their chosen slot on the second box, and so on. Five tokens each, five boxes. It was too complicated, it seems. People complained. One lady moaned to me that it was far too complicated. I asked her what would be simpler. A mobile telephone app was her answer.

The voting took far longer than planned, and we were worried. Chester's thing was still going on, and so we announced that the awards would be in half an hour, and then crossed our fingers. We retreated to the office and quickly counted the votes. People sat on the tables in front of the Lindyhop shop, and we fretted. We had a speaker and mic set up, but there was nowhere good for me to do my Oscars-style speech. I would be standing on a step, next to an ice-cream sign, with people walking past me into the shop - not quite the glamorous podium I had had in mind. One decision we had to make was whether to announce the film competition winner first or last. The award for 'best film' was easily the most important and anticipated, and so deserved to be last, but we were losing confidence. People had been waiting for ages by this time, and there was dancing to be done. Would the crowd turn nasty? If we announced the best film first, would the crowd then just disappear and not bother with the rest?

Here I am in my awards host costume. I am holding a sign that I finished off, which has on it the hand-prints of some of the old-timers at the camp. Picture courtesy of Eunji Choi.

We decided to announce the best film first. We were wrong. Everyone was in the event very patient, and they all stayed to the end. Faith in your friends is not a weakness. My performance was not my best. I had prepared a long speech which was a spoof of the usual Hollywood guff. I had to edit great chunks out of it because they referred to things that had been cut, such as the red carpet walking competition, and other bits I rushed. I suppose that I just didn't feel that my glamour-free situation was suitable for what I had written. I needed a lectern and lights to carry off the pretentiousness. “Without film... we would be lost, unable to know what emotions to feel at any moment, nor even know what emotions are...”

There were little mounted Hs as awards for the runners up (Baguette (2025), and Dance Crush (2025)), and then I summoned the master of suspense himself – Alfred Hitchcock! - to present the award to the winner. This was The Beat (2025) and the director came up to receive the award. She was an Oscar-night host's dream. She was beautiful, charming, very funny, and gave an excellent acceptance speech. She was also a dancer, and a film-maker – in fact, everything I've been saving myself up for. “I must get to know this woman,” I thought. I never saw her again.

A gag I had worked out for the 'best dance floor' category was that the presenter and receiver were from the same family with the same surname. Next was 'best competition', and I had managed to persuade a reluctant Aleksei Kazjonnov to be there to accept an award. He was the competition organiser, and he was the first, second, and third nominee, before Chester, and he won. Best ice cream went to the Lindy Hop Shop and to my surprise someone appeared from out of the Lindy hop shop to accept, took the mic, and then started to be amusingly random.

Last was 'best Chester'. I had asked the camp's main organiser, Marie, to award this one, but this busy lady was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, I saw an unemployed Steven Coombe nearby, and recruited him. The four slots on the ballot box had been labelled TAP CHESTER, KUNG FU CHESTER, LINDY CHESTER, and MAN CHESTER. The votes were close, but MAN had won. Chester, who had throughout the previous awards been in attendance, looking confused, now looked more interested. The winner was announced, and then I said that unfortunately, the mayor of Manchester, that city in north-west England, couldn't be there to receive the award, but standing in for him would be... Chester Artorius Whitmore. As he approached me, I was fluffing my words a bit and then suddenly the microphone was wrenched from my hand by person or persons unknown, and I didn't know what was going on. Days later, still no one owned up to taking my mic, but one said that I had stepped too close to the speaker and the system was about to feed back horribly, which I suppose was probably true. Anyway, Chester still seemed confused and was playing up being old. I noticed that he was slightly tangled in the microphone cable, and I think I did a fair job of tangling him up further while making it look like an attempt to untangle him. “Ladies and gentlemen: Chester Whitmore!” - applause and end.

The rest of the party was much like a normal party night. I met another old friend and we chatted for a while. Another long-distance Lindy friendship with years of no contact. One piece of excellent décor which deserves a mention was yet another use of the big hollow sphere they have, this time expertly turned into the moon with a rocket stuck in its face, à la 'Le Voyage dans la Lune' (1902).

A DIFFERENT BEACH

I did just the once make it to the beach, with its strangely gritty sand. The stones on the seabed still sliced at the feet as though somehow honed rather than rounded by the lapping action of the waves.

A Swedish man woke me up to ask if I were all right. It seems that I was suspicious in the way I dozed off on my towel. I had done it alone. Groggily, I reassured him, and then looked around me again. This was not the beach I first encountered long ago. Back then, the Swedes, comfortable with their bodies, would get changed into their swimming costumes quickly and without fuss on the beach, and then go for a swim. Some might swim out to the headland on the right and sunbathe topless on the rocks in the distance, outraging nobody.

Today, though, things were different. A very large extended family of middle-eastern-looking people was there. The daughters went for a swim in full body suits, including socks, gloves and balaclavas, only their eyes showing. The dads were trying and trying to get the barbecue going, using up amusing quantities of petrochemicals and no kindling. I didn't dare offer advice, and in deference to the newcomers, the Swedes were all tiptoeing off to the tiny, miserable, damp, and dirty changing room. No one was on the headland to the right.

RETURN TICKET

Thanks to the aid of the fine staff in reception, I was able to speak to some people at the Swedish KLM office, to sort out my flight home. No, they could not sort out a refund or anything like it, despite everything they had repeatedly told me earlier, but yes they could sell me a ticket over the 'phone, but there were seats available on one flight only, and they were horrifically expensive. Thank goodness I didn't go through with it. Instead, I went on-line and found plenty of tickets still available on three different flights on the same day, at a small fraction of the cost. I hate being lied to.

SATURDAY week 3/4

I recall that in the evening meeting, which greets a new intake of campers, some of whom were new to the camp, Marie spoke to the audience stating that there are people at the camp from many places and cultures, and that misunderstandings are inevitable, and she asked that people always defaulted to the assumption that no offence was meant. Possibly this did some good. People at the camp used to be able to get on excellently, so we know it can be done.

Need a tent pole to repair your tent? Tough - this year they were made into ornamental fences.

CLOSE EMBRACE

I went along to an evening class in close dancing. I was there as a curious teacher. Perhaps they would show me a new way to teach. It was mostly very basic stuff, but I did get one tip: to point out that a good rule of thumb is for the shorter partner to choose the angle between the bodies. Some short follows prefer to be very off-centre to the lead's right side.

At the end of the class, I thought that I would contribute something to the teachers, and spoke with one of them. They had mentioned during the class that the lead can end up looming over the follow and stooping forwards, forcing her to arch backwards uncomfortably. Something that I have noticed is that this can come about when the follow leans back a bit, which can make it difficult for a tall lead to connect well on her back, which then causes him to stoop forward, which causes her to arch back more, in an unfortunate feedback-loop. The snag was that the teacher was not a native English speaker, and there was a misunderstanding. She thought that I was asking for an answer to a problem. I tried a couple of times to explain myself, but this was made very difficult by the interruptions of a bystander, who had been eavesdropping, and thought it appropriate to wade in. The eavesdropper had also got the wrong end of the stick, and was reinforcing this misunderstanding. I soldiered on for a short while, but the bystander was a righteous type who was so confident in her ability to school someone twice her age that no mere silent glances were going to stop her. I gave up.

I don't recall which night it was, but I'll put it here: one night I thought that the evening party was poor. The dansbanan was very crowded, partly because that's where the good music was. In the library were some listless intermediates. The main room was playing loud booming music that prevented anyone in the cafe outside from conversing. I left early, and walked up the road from the Folketshus hearing alien thud-thud music blasting out from the building behind me. I did not feel that I was at a swing dance camp.

SUNDAY week 4

A friend drove me away from the camp for an ice cream somewhere else. It was rather nice to be away from it all for a while. There are some nice places in Sweden in the summer, but I imagine that they are a bit grim the rest of the time.

In the evening, I taught a lesson in how to lead and follow the difference between walking and triple-stepping. It is a favourite class of mine to teach, and something I wish I'd been taught when I was starting out in Lindy. I got a good turn out, and a good response. “Wow! That was like two years' of material in an hour!” was a rather nice comment.

KEEP THE BEAT

There was great confusion over when the 'keep the beat' competition would be. It was at 1 a.m. So, when it was first announced at about 21:30 in the rabitty-doo as 'tomorrow', did that mean later that night, in about three and a half hours, or in twenty-seven and a half hours? As it turned out, 'tomorrow' meant the evening of the following day, which was fifty-one and half hours later. The confusion became a running gag in the meetings. Trouble was, people, including me, were genuinely confused.

The competition was to dance to music that kept changing tempo, as someone tweaked the speed control. This sounded fun, and something I might be good at, but I needed a partner. I started asking my partners whether they'd be up for it. One turned me down, claiming to be the one tweaking the speed dial. Eventually, a Greek lady was up for it. But we had the wrong day. On the right day, she was meant to be working. Perhaps she would find someone to replace her. She asked around, and was after some effort able to find someone to cover her shift. It was on! She seemed quite excited to be competing.

We were knocked out immediately. She was back on shift by 01:10.

There were many contestants. I think that the judges had quotas to eliminate. We were eliminated so quickly, however, that we had hardly had time to get out of tempo. I suppose that the bit that defeated us was dancing well to a changing speed.

It may have been this night that I sang in the bar. There was a regular pianist working for the camp, who was playing the rather quiet piano there and marshalling the musicians. After various other people had taken their turns, I said that I could hack my way through Saint James Infirmary Blues. This I did, but the extra challenge was that I had never had to sing it so slowly before. I recall once having to sing Hit The Road, Jack at a concert at a pace so slow that I nearly lost it. This wasn't that bad, but I still felt the need to get out of the car and push. Anyway, I put a lot of expression into it, to mask what I lacked in vocal tone, took a whistle solo, then made it to the end and got a cheer. Some people will cheer anything.

BLUES NIGHT – CANCELLED!

On Tuesday of week four, I was to be in the opening blues night show. Chester Algonquin Whitmore was the choreographer, and had a role for me. I was to act/dance out an argument. I went to the rehearsals, and everything seemed fine. The final rehearsal was in the ballroom immediately before the performance, and I got into some finery, and turned up on time to the side entrance to the Folketshus, where there are stairs up to the ballroom stage. Waiting for me there were two staff organisers. They had no part in putting together the show itself, but were the duty managers of the evening as a whole. They stopped me, and took me aside for a word.

They explained that an unspecified number of the dancers in the show had claimed that they would refuse to perform if I were in the show. Why would they do this? No one knew. They certainly had no reason to fear for their safety. However, it was known that someone had gone to considerable lengths to find a reason. I was told that an item I wrote twenty-six years ago, on an obscure little website, explaining the convention of men leading and women following in partnered dance, was the reason. Just that. Was it possible that anyone could be so petty, or so intolerant, or so mistakenly offended, that this excuse could be the true reason? To all three of us, it seemed unlikely at best, but nevertheless the decision made by the two manageresses of the evening was to remove me from the performance rather than to tell the complainants either to come up with an enormously better reason, or to get on with the show. One of the pair was effusively apologetic to me, while the other was a bit more centrist, stating that she didn't like the article, but couldn't see how it could justify this militant stand, but even she apologised a bit.

I had many options. I considered several. I didn't want to make trouble for the evening's organisers, though. Also, it is perhaps important to let the young folk make bad mistakes, else how are they ever to learn? It was not worth a big fight. It was suggested that Chester could dance my part. Time was ticking by, and this had already caused quite a delay.

As it turned out, Mr. C.A. Whitmore was pretty annoyed with his cast. He refused to play my part, and told the cast that since it had caused the problem, it would have to provide the solution. He finished the rehearsal in what little remained of the time, and refused to have anything more to do with the show, and left. Talking to him after the camp, I learned that during this last rehearsal, someone had told him that he had to change the show that he had already choreographed. They disapproved of the 'gendered roles' he depicted (the show was a ballet telling the story of a gambler who when doing well was popular with the ladies, but they abandoned him when he lost). He refused, believing that were he to kowtow once to such demands, he would be handing control forever to such people who saw it as their place to interfere with his creations. He had been asked to create a show, so he was going to do it his way. If they wanted a different kind of show, they should have asked somebody else. The performer was free to leave, however. It might have been the same person there who told him that I was very difficult to work with. The person who said this had (probably) never spoken to me, and was saying this to someone who has worked on dozens of complicated projects with me over the last quarter of a century.

Since you may be curious, I can direct you to the article in question here. I will not be taking it down, but I shall perhaps write a new introduction to it. You'll note that in 2010 it also sparked some discussion, but this discussion was civil, and became the seed of a discussion to which I was cordially invited on Yehoodi radio – a webcast for swing dancers.

There was a live band that night down in the Dansbanan, which never would have been the case when I first went to the camp. They didn't organise things to clash with blues night. In the early days, almost everyone would be on the blues floor, back when they could fit them all in. I had a few dances and then went up to see the show. It was all right, but not the best. They had found someone to fill in for me, and he was fine. The audience would never know what was supposed to happen. It was then time to dance the blues.

I had plenty of nice dances. One partner complimented me on my musical 'choices'. I got big smiles from some of the older women who I think have a harder time getting partners on this night. One young woman, right from the beginning of the dance, was on me like an uncommonly amorous shower curtain. The intense proximity was definitely her choice and not mine. She threw both her arms behind my neck and by this method signalled stay close. I didn't complain, but still broke away in the dance a couple of times, just to make sure, and of course because it suited what the music was doing just then. We had two long and very close dances, and I thanked her and moved on. I had plenty of repeat customers, so presumably wasn't overstepping any boundaries. A couple of hours later, she came over and asked me for another dance. So there we were, in broad body contact from chest to knee, in close-folded embrace, for many minutes. Now, blues is often danced with eyes closed, especially when, as at this point, we are using up very little floorspace. This means that visual signals don't work very well. One signal is a hand slide. I might, for example, slide my hand along the underside of my partner's arm from the elbow towards the wrist. This is a signal asking for hand connection on that side, so the follow should get ready to catch that hand. An upward slide can be a signal to raise the arm. I went for one of those, but whereas in fast Lindy hop the slide has no time nor business being sensual, when the music is slow sexy blues, the slide follows suit. Her arm recoiled, and she spoke, telling me that she was 'sensitive' to that. Did she just mean ticklish? Possibly, but it struck me as odd that given what she had been doing for the last four minutes that this comparatively mundane contact should raise objection. Still, it was no matter, I didn't do it again, and all was fine. The next day we chatted amicably. Most young folk are more robust than my cancellers suggest.

My laundry was presented impressively and unnecessarily neatly.

WEDNESDAY week 4 – Trouble at t'ICP

It was the day for more 'cultural activities'. I was teaching one: kung fu hand connection. They had put this on the timetable very early, which I think goes a long way towards explaining that I got only four people to my class. Never mind. It went enjoyably enough, although I don't think anyone became a kung fu master. This was followed by a Thai boxing class given by someone else, which Chester joined us for. I learned that in theory at least, there is a martial art in which one is taught to straighten one's arm in a punch completely – an absolute no-no in the arts I have hitherto learned.

In the afternoon, I went to the ICP for my ice cream ration. All seemed well. I queued at the till, and when I got to the front, the girl serving there threw her hands above her head and declared loudly to the room “I am not serving Lloyd”, turned, and walked out. With one exception, the rest of the staff in the room all avoided everyone's eyes, and became suddenly much more focussed on their various tasks. The exception was the one person there who knew me, who served me courteously. She was lovely about it, and I thank her.

No one at the camp who actually knew me was ever nasty to me in any way. All those who had instead decided to be rude to me were deciding based on rumour. That a person had managed to grow to full height and yet still behaved that way suggests a failing in the basic education of manners. This was a member of staff who was supposed to serve customers. The youngsters who were doing this sort of thing were apparently very happy to be convinced on negligible evidence that I was a person so terrible that the only right way to treat me was badly. If I were truly so terrible, why do people who know me behave so differently? Why do I not get this problem elsewhere? If I were truly, for example, a misogynist, how long would I last in the world of Lindy hop? Five minutes? Ten? I taught Lindy professionally for over fifteen years.

Later that day, I played boules with a few people, one of whom was David Hermlin. He was the drummer and singer with a jazz band that was playing for three nights that week. It can't be cheap for the camp to bring in a band from Berlin, and accommodate it. Anyway, I happened to remark on a badge he was wearing – a small thing looking like a little twist of ribbon, much like the ones I see in Britain for charities connected with breast cancer, only his was yellow. He told me that it was a 'bring them home' ribbon, in support of the plight of the Israeli hostages held by Hamas. He then told me about the trouble he had had when he went along to a meeting at the camp by a group called 'Jazz for Palestine'. He had been curious, and had asked where the money the group intended to raise would go. This was considered aggressive behaviour, and he was ejected for supposedly making people feel uncomfortable (click here for his version of events). It was natural for me at this point to mention what had happened to me in the ICP, so I did.

The game continued. While I was partnered with one chap, my opponents took a commanding lead. That chap then left and was replaced by David's father, who was also in the band. I then found myself in the same situation in the game over and over again. I would be in a position to score one point, and with a ball left to throw. I could risk it to go for more points, or play it safe and deliberately miss by miles to secure the one. I was unsure of the morality of the situation. I kept scoring just one point, and the game came to the most dramatic ending. With one ball to go, if I missed they would win by one point. My ball hit theirs out of the way, and then bounced next to the jack for victory. I was unsure how much it would be seemly to celebrate.

Later, I was approached by a tall man in a 1930s fedora and overcoat. In a strong German accent, he said that I should accompany him to the ICP, where he would buy me an ice cream. The reason he gave was that if the behaviour there were tolerated, then it was the sort of thing that would lead to what happened in a certain other place in the 1930s. The irony of this moment was not lost on me. It was David's father Andrej, and he had heard about what happened through his son. It was touching that someone should show such solidarity, but with a laugh I had to explain that what ruined this plan was that I got free ice cream at the camp!

David came along and saw that there were yellow T-shirted people from the security team on the path to the Folketshus, and he said that they should be informed. I doubted that this would help, but was dragged along. The security team was a small group of men who were there to handle matters such as intruders to the camp, drunkenness, theft and the like. I don't think that they were over-worked, as the camp is mostly pretty secure. They were appalled to hear what had happened, but felt that it wasn't in their remit to do anything. I was offered sympathy, and they went on their way. Fair enough.

There was another group of people at the camp, entirely separate from the security team, called the 'safety team' and it wore pink T-shirts. I think that there were about six of them. Whether they were paid staff or volunteers I do not know. Now, studies have shown the rather unsurprising result that companies that have a personnel department have more personnel problems than those without. Imagine that you are a personnel officer at a company, and everything there were fine. How might you justify your existence? If all you did is sit in your office all day waiting for complaints that never came, you would surely soon lose your job. It would be up to you to be active, to go out there and find some problems, and if necessary create some. Why would the camp invest in six pink T-shirts every year if all they ever heard from the team was 'everything is fine'? Why would any people deal with a problem themselves when there was a whole team of people to magnify their outrage? In meetings, the team needed to have things to report, so every teacup had to become a storm-generator. In the past, things were mainly fine, and if not, then the place to take a problem was to reception, and the people at reception would either deal with it, or refer it to people who could.

There was an evening class in the waltz. I went along, and it was great. This was 'Viennese waltz' and I was/am a bit hazy as to the difference between one waltz style and another. Anyway, I have generally made this dance up, and it was good to get some proper tuition. Heel-toe on the first one, stepping forwards between her legs, then turn two-three, then BACK two-three, spinning round and round and feeling the whoosh of a fairground ride. There were many there who had never tried waltz, and stuck to the slower inner lanes, but I was swooshing past them on the outside and grinning like (I presume – I wasn't using a mirror) an idiot. Definitely a skill worth having. HEEL toe toe TOE toe toe HEEL toe toe... In the Victorian era, this was often danced belly-to-belly, the man's paunch an aid to connexion, and this partly explains the slight backwards lean of the dancers. One thing I became very conscious of was how much the tempo of orchestral waltz music changes during one piece of music, which is a large part of what the dancers have to work with.

One sheet of A4 was not enough to illustrate all the various team flags. If a movement is this stridently divided, is it really a movement?

INTERLUDE OF THE MISCELLANEOUS

This was the year of Louis Jordan for the DJs. When I first started Lindy hop, he was very popular, but soon he was considered primitive and uncool. Clearly, the fashion cycle has come round, and to the new DJs who haven't had time to get jaded with him, he's cool again.

I met Giedre Paplaitytė there again, and we had, according to her, 'such a cool dance'. We talked about how the Lithuanian gang that I got to know years ago, had been such a 'family' in those days. The Lithuanians exploded onto the European Lindy scene around 2007-9, and the gang did everything together, but that time seems to have passed. Many of that gang have emigrated to various other European countries, and lost touch with each other. They were good people, with initiative and energy, but nothing lasts.

The nachos in the bar were not good this year. They were expensive once you had paid extra to have a half-decent number of ingredients added, the portions were small, and the homogeneous orange substance poured over them with not sufficiently reminiscent of cheese.

This was the first time I had ever been to Herräng and not got at all ill at any time. I know that a sample size of one is not enough for a scientific conclusion, but it does seem as though cancellation might be good for the immune system. It was also the first time I had never been involved in an evening meeting.

Back in the old days, there was 'rock-star corner'. I was never very fond of it, but this year I missed it. The big-name rock-star so-cool teachers used to dance with each other near the exit door just to the left of the stage in the Folkets Hus. That way, they had a quick exit to avoid the riff-raff. I didn't like it because it seemed very aloof of them not to dance with the ordinary folk, a bit cowardly of them, and a bit show-offy too. However, this year's alternative was that they didn't dance on the social dance floors at all, and that seemed to me to be worse.

It is possible that I have persuaded the camp to continue with its payment card system. It had been announced that it was being phased out, but I argued for its continuance, and one point I made was that the proposed alternative was using contactless debit cards, but every time I use mine abroad I get charged about £1.50 by my bank, and when buying lots of small things like ice-creams, that quickly mounts up.

THURSDAY week 4 – Cabaret

I had put my name down for the cabaret fairly early, and this usually made it a near certainty that I would get to do an act. Time went by, and there was no word, but in Herräng one would be unwise to read much into that. Most things get thrown together last minute. Even on the day itself, though, I had still heard nothing, and popped into the office to check. There was no one there, but I saw the sign-up sheet lying on a desk and noticed that by every entry on it except mine, there was a tick. As I write this, I do not know what the ticks meant, nor did I then, but it was an easy guess that those with ticks had been selected to perform and those without not. From that (as it turned out, wrong) assumption, it was then not a ridiculous leap to imagine that the reason was that I was now a pariah, and that the producers of the cabaret did not dare go against the will of the Shadow Snipers. This serves as an example of the lingering venomous effect of the SS. As it turned out, my penguin act was in the show, and the producers had not fallen victim to the venom.

I was to be in not one, but three acts. One was my own – a version of the same penguin acrobats act I performed in 2000 and in 2010. Another was as a member of Chester's band, and the third was a puppetry act. An Englishwoman had stopped me a few days before and asked me to help her with her act. She had the germ of an idea, but not much more. It would involve a few people with hand puppets performing the 'ma-naah ma-na doo-doooooo-di-dooo-doo' song, made famous by The Muppets. She didn't want it over-rehearsed, and preferred it to be a bit improvised on the night. I was up for this, and over the next couple of days, whenever we met, we batted around an idea or two, and I helped to develop the act. Then one day a small group met to make the puppets. I managed to get a needle and thread from somewhere, and a glue gun, and she had socks from the laundry's 'Wall of Shame', bottle-tops for eyes, and some bits of yarn for hair. Five puppets were made. I made two of them. We would convene on the night to rehearse just before the show. Sitting nearby us was a woman painting a sign. Upon hearing our conversation, she got on her mobile and reported something to someone.

A jazz band playing for the queue. Who's idea was this, and what was the main aim? I do not know.

In the evening, they put a big line of stools outside as usual for people to sit upon while queueing for the rabitty-doo. There, I saw something strange. Several stools had been tied to the basketball hoop, and to this had been added a sign – the same one that I had seen in creation, only now it was finished. It said “Step out from GENOCIDE”. Step out from? I don't think that a native English speaker came up with that slogan. I had heard rumour that something had been organised to take place there, and possibly then – some sort of protest/fund-raiser – but I cannot give you any details. Most people were just confused by the sign, and a few other people had heard vague rumours, but I heard nothing definite. The display wasn't greatly respected, as people took down the useful stools to secure places for the show. No one seemed disappointed that the protest did not take place, and rumour had it that camp's management had quashed the idea. It may have been coincidence, but David Hermlin and a few other jazz musicians came out to play to the waiting crowd. The mood did not become jubilant, however. I think people sensed that anything expressed by anyone at that moment could have been misinterpreted as stridently political.

After the rabitty-doo, when I arrived to the cabaret rehearsal, I was ignored by the puppet team. This didn't matter hugely, since I had other things to sort out with my own act, and with Chester's. There did come a time, though, when it started to feel ridiculous that I had still not been told a thing about the puppets. I saw a Chinese-looking girl sitting near the Englishwoman, and asked her whether she was in the puppet act. She was. This interaction was very friendly. Still, though, the Englishwoman stared into space away from me. Shortly before I went to talk to her, though, another woman arrived and engaged her in what looked like strangely intense and rather one-way conversation. As I approached, the newcomer, upon seeing this, grabbed the wrist of the other, and led the Englishwoman away to a more private corner to continue the... well, let's use the word 'discussion'. I found something else to get on with, but when I returned, I was still ignored. It was getting very late in the day, and we had still not done anything resembling a rehearsal.

I sat down next to the Englishwoman, and said something very straight-forward like 'So, what are we doing, then?' With an expressionless face, she looked at me and said, “We've got enough puppeteers now... we've got enough puppeteers now,” and left it at that. I held her gaze in silence for just long enough to make it clear that I knew that she was lying, and just said, “I see,” and I walked away. If ever you find yourself in her situation and want to lie convincingly, just try to imagine what you would say if your reason were true, and say that instead.

The venom didn't end there. Another performer had been forced to drop out of another act, having been 'threatened' by the Shadow Snipers. At least two people told me this, although no one seemed to know exactly what the threats were, and I'm curious to know. When I later asked the performer about this, the response was evasive – no denial, but no details either. The threat had something to do with 'sharing a platform with' (as I believe the young folk call it these days) someone from the same band as David Hermlin.

So, I was being made to feel very unwelcome, and the notion of not appearing on stage at all that night was something I seriously considered. That, however, would have been a cowardly and immoral act. The villains cannot be allowed to win. Oppression must be resisted. The show must go on. I wouldn't enjoy it as much, but I had a duty. Others were of the same mind.

One nice thing that came out of this night was that I was able to unite a chap with a love message that had been sent to him. It was one of the last messages that the love letter postal system was trying to deliver before the camp ended, and I just happened to recognise his name when someone spoke to him, and recalled hearing it in the queue before the rabitty-doo. He later told me that he was very glad of this.

The show was hosted by a couple that had met at the camp and become rapidly romantically entangled, and wanted everyone to know how happy they were about this. She was from South America, and I think he might have been German, so some airline company is going to do well out of that turn of events. She told us that though the dancers in her scene might not be the best in the world, they danced the best shim sham, and she spread the idea of calling out loud 'oo-oo' noises when doing the boogy-forwards.

One had to pay a high price to be this side of the velvet rope.

They used to give the bar over to the performers. This year, there was a small roped-off area away from the bar near the telly for the cast, and the rest of the bar was filled with civilians. This changed the atmosphere a bit. There wasn't the level of camaraderie, and people coming off stage weren't getting an extra round of applause downstairs. Acts included a low-key opening with a sort of Zen world music musical number; a rather earnest but good poem; a couple that did a dance that had to be cut down from nine minutes to something acceptably short; a song sung in French with a very long spoken explanation; a solo dance; a chorus line routine thrown together in two hours which had one dancer rather noticeably less good than the rest (this bug could/should have been a feature); me; and the puppets. The puppets went sort of all right but could have been better. My act went fine, but it usually goes better. Twice I dropped a penguin, and then had to recover somehow and keep it going. People later all said that they assumed this was part of the act. Well, I made it part of the act, but after a while the dropping gets too much. It's a comedy juggling act, and juggling matt black juggling balls with numerous very powerful lights in one's face is always tricky.

The 'tramp' band in rehearsal.

Last, was Chester's 'tramp' band, made up of largely home-made instruments. I wasn't really needed for this act, which had made it easier to consider not taking part. Very late in the day, Chester had handed me a home-made one-string fretless guitar and told me that it was easy to play. Perhaps it was, but I had no time at all to find out. Plan A was to do five tunes, these being a medley starting with just Chester and bass for Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me, then the whole band joining in with Bir Mir Bist Du Schoen... er... another one, Splanky, and then Flying Home to be used for the Shim Sham. This got changed at the last minute to three tunes, and then getting Maka's band on to play for the shim sham.

Most of the time, I was too far from a microphone to do much mischief. I sat down on the stage with my guitar, and when I plucked it, I'm fairly sure that neither I nor the audience could hear it, which was fine – it just added visuals. I also drummed on it a bit, but the only bits I wanted to be heard were when I leaned in to the nearest mike and whistled, and when I was required to start one of the numbers by playing the invisible demijohns. This was a bit nerve-wracking for me, because we had not rehearsed it, and I had no idea of the required pitch or tempo. Other instruments included a kazoo onto which had been added three functionless trumpet keys, a makeshift drum-kit, the one-string mop-and-tub bass we made last year, and one of those little plastic pianos that you blow into (melodian) which struck me as too close to being a 'proper' instrument (the chap playing it though was really good, so we'll let him off).

We finished up; on came Maka; I helped The Flying Penguini to dance the shim sham; off.

It was over, and for many of us, I think the feeling was one of 'phew, that's over' rather than anything more joyous. I went to the German house again for more gin.

Every time I caught someone paying any attention to me, I had to ask myself a couple of questions: were they looking at me through the eyes of someone envenomed by the Shadow Snipers, or through kindlier ones; and did I care? When I found out which, it was the kindlier sort. Some people were very complimentary to me about my act. A young girl I had never seen before came over the next day and high-tenned me. Despite everything, I think the next generation is going to turn out fine.

FRIDAY – last theme night

The theme for the party was Swedish folklore – trolls, and all the rest. I helped out with decorations for the party, fashioning a lot of cardboard Viking shields to adorn the longship that went outside the main entrance. I was cast as a story-teller, and my place would be in the Lindy Hop Shop, where I would read from a book of Swedish folk tales.

For a costume, I had my 18th century shirt, and I made myself a very unimaginative hat. Many of the reference pictures we had been shown for inspiration were of some characters who wore mushrooms for hats, so I made myself one of those, imagining that I would be one of a great multitude with the same obvious idea.

My story-teller costume, with LHS staff member for scale. She wasn't as scared as she looks. Picture courtesy of Eunji Choi.

I made my nest in the LHS, complete with an array of cushions for the listeners, and waited. After a while, no one came. Now, it may occur to you that the explanation for this might be that the word had got around that listening to me reading a Swedish folk tale could taint the listeners with my evil, but a much more likely explanation is that my story time clashed with the costume competition (which people told me I should have been in) and that the organisers hadn't told anyone that I was there. After a bit, I gave up, and handed back the territory to the LHS staff.

I did some dancing, mostly in the dansbanan, where The Big Five was playing. David Hermlin came to the mic a few times with one half of a high-hat cymbal in one hand and a stick in the other, to accompany himself on vocals. My hat was very tall, but it fitted me well so was comfortable and I kept it on all night, which made me very easy to find. I was not lost in a forest of similar hats. Most people just hadn't bothered. It did limit my move vocabulary, but a limitation is a springboard to creativity.

I saw a few people wearing 'Ceasefire NOW' badges. Why do people do this? Was there any chance that these badges might increase the chance of a ceasefire in Gaza? My guess is not. Back in the jazz era, people dancing in the ballrooms left their politics at home, for the benefit of all.

I recall having dances with two very young and very good Poles. I had not danced with them before nor did I do so again. In fact, there were very few people there that year that I danced with more than once – very unlike the early days of the camp.

As the camp neared its end, and resources ran out, the prices and menu items available in the bar changed by the minute. I talked to one of the owners of the camp. I was surprised to learn that he had read my account of the previous year, and he claimed to have “laughed my arse off” which I felt was an exaggeration. Apparently, people had brought my Herräng accounts to the attention of the camp's big-wigs, warning them that I was saying bad things about the camp. One concern was my having mentioned that there was a picture of Steven Mitchell hidden behind the curtain the year before. So what? Steven Mitchell used to be at the camp, and now he is not. Denying history doesn't help, and I pointed it out because I thought that it was mildly amusing. As it turned out, the big-wigs didn't mind at all. There were aspects of Lennart's rule, however, that were criticised – for example, his ever-lengthening list of banned music. I was also told that some things 'cannot' be done any more. An example here is that they used to mark the Swiss national day (July 31st or August 1st depending on source) at the camp, and this involved a man who yodelled (quite badly). I asked why such a thing would now be impossible, but never got an answer. Can you think of one? Why would bad yodelling, or a pale-faced man's yodelling, or the marking of a national day, be impossible? Which element of the act, which never offended anyone a few years ago, is totally unthinkable now? I don't get it. How would finding a way to be offended by Swiss national day make the world better?

I made my way back to my tent.

HEADING HOME

Getting back from the camp is never good. One is always tired, and the airlines do not schedule their flights conveniently. I booked the expensive laid-on bus, and had a long wait ahead of me. I went to the No-No Box to leave my mushroom hat, should it prove useful to later generations, and then made my way to the bus-stop. On the way there, I said a few goodbyes. I said goodbye to the pink-haired bicycle man, who told me that he was staying on to strike the camp, and that his week would get steadily harder as more and more people left. I then said a goodbye to Marie, the camp's main coordinator, who seemed sad that things had been spoiled for so many people, I among them.

I then got to the bus stop, and joined the queue. The people in front of me were all looking at photographs on their mobile telephones. These turned out to be shots of them all trying on my mushroom hat.

The real world comes crashing back at you at the end of the camp. Here you see some Swedish tabloids keeping it classy.

CONCLUSION

Now having been to the camp eighteen times, I cannot recall exactly which thing happened in which year. After a while, they tend to blur together. This one, though, will certainly stand out for unnecessary unpleasantness. I was told that a meeting had taken place between management and some known cancellers, with an attempt to sort things out. If one is running a department store, one has to know that the staff will serve customers. If some of the staff decides not to serve customers who are members of a certain group, such as short people, gingers, or people who are rumoured to have written something twenty-six years ago that some people are not sure they agree with, then the management has a problem. You train staff to greet all customers with a smile. Everyone at a holiday camp is there to have a good time. I had been invited specifically because in the past I had proven good at helping others to have a good time. That there were judgemental staff there who were letting their intolerance get the better of them was a concern.

I was told that the conclusion of the meeting was that the excluded parties such as I should meet their excluders and reconcile. This did not happen. I could not initiate the meeting, because I did not know the identity of my accusers. They all knew me, though, but the Shadow Snipers kept to the shadows. In English law, a man has a right to know his accuser and to defend himself. Why did they not step out of the shadows? Well, of course I am forced to guess. Too cowardly? Too ashamed? Too lazy? Too indifferent? What is the kindest possibility? Too forgetful?

One lady there said that because of this matter, she had for the first time in many years found herself crying. She reckoned that of all the thousands of people that go through the camp in a year, it was probably fewer than twenty who were causing all the trouble.

Would I go again? Well, I might, but I would first have to be convinced that something had been done to rectify the way things work at the camp now. That a handful of bigoted fanatics is able to, in the name of inclusivity, exclude anyone it chooses, not just with impunity, but also without good reason nor right of appeal, is clearly a sign that a rot has set in, and needs to be excised. The 'safety' team has to go. The camp managed without one for quite a few decades, and humans have not changed. Your friendly local receptionist can field most problems, and any Stasi-like tendencies amongst the receptionists are yet to be reported.