After paying £20 for my racing red uke at a Denmark Street music shop, I happily carted this along. Funny then, that I didn’t actually end up playing it.

I rocked up to the ‘Ukelele Hootenany‘ (Monday nights, free, although the drink prices make up for it) at the Queen of Hoxton near Liverpool Street on a Monday evening, uke in hand. The kind host, an old and nutty man, came around and tuned it for me. I went to get a drink from the bar, was joined by my friend and was about to start playing when the little man whipped round again and said ‘let me tune that for you’. I hesitated, wanting to reassure him I’d not touched it since its last tuning, but he scooped it up and was off in more speed than his age should have tolerated. He returned minutes later saying ‘I’ve tuned it, but it won’t be worth it – use this one instead.’ And handed me a racing red version of a more premium uke that I happily fumbled with on the night.

You can cover the basics online – the strings, the numbers relating to finger tips etc and come along expecting to nail a C and a G which are the most commonly used chords (for the songs we covered). Just don’t expect to fluidly flip between them without missing a few strums. If you really want to impress yourself, apparently you can learn the Ukulele in 8 minutes over here – but keep in mind flipping between chords is easier said than done.

What makes this Londonised hobby so unique is in its social nature combined with the fact that it’s not seen as a ‘serious’ or ‘proper’ instrument, and so it attracts those more likely to be picking it up for fun. Monday night’s crew were a haphazard collection of around 30 people ranging from 20 to 60, with various shaped and sized ukes and various levels of ability (or in some cases in-ability, but this mattered not).

Sat around a table, with two song books in front of us, the ‘leader’ called out a page number as we flip through to a well-known Johnny Cash or Queen tune and do our best to keep up. Later on we get to haggle – a Lady Gaga here, an Eric Clapton there.

But the part I enjoyed the most that I wasn’t expecting was the sing-a-long. Everyone sings, and as no one cares about your singing abilities, people have a lot of fun with harmonising, and putting on a heavy Southern accent even (especially) if not a country song.* What resulted was a hobby with a unique mix and hence one of my favourites; cheap, social, learning a skill, and above all bloody fun. Bear in mind, it won’t sound anything much like this.

Best thing is with places like the Queen of Hoxton, you don’t even need to buy a uke ahead as they’re happy to lend them out, so nothing to lose and only Mondays to improve. That said, please don’t go – I kind of like the event and need to ensure there’s a spare uke to join in!

*This may have just been me.

Not Gryffindor as colours suggest

Intrigued by what we suspected to be an underground Hogwarts convention, we followed a few in and asked what was going on. ‘It’s the Rapperlympics‘ we were matter-of-factly informed. Scanning the slightly nerdy and extremely caucasian crowd, we politely replied with ‘come again?’.

‘It’s the annual competition of Rapper Sword dancing.’

‘Ah.’

On hearing a new wave was about to begin, we perched upon a table alongside an elderly lady (Doreen). Some polite chit-chat in, we found she was a previous rapper herself, and was only too happy to give us the low-down on this fast-paced and utterly ludicrous hobby.

The miners oop North used to use rapper swords (flexible metal strips with two handles) to scrape the gunk off the ponies when they came up from the mine. In the evenings as entertainment, and no doubt following a few beers, they would then do a little jig with these swords continuously connecting a team of five, with one or two announcers (Tommy and Betty), and a musician or two most commonly wielding a flute or fiddle.

The curious part of this bizarre pastime is that it is the meeting point of a very quick and perfectly choreographed dance, and complete ridiculousness in the form of a man dressed as a woman (Betty) with massive, er, eyes, and, in one case, a mop head upon his own as hair. The Betty and or Tommy (a gentleman in top hat and tails) serve to introduce the dancers, as well as make jokes and haggle with the audience throughout the performance. In many cases they also begin the ‘show’ with a nonsense song or rhyme.

We watched four acts perform, including Candyrapper, and Stone Monkey (as seen in my video). It was clear that the latter was Doreen’s favourite team – as she belted out the theme as the Stone Monkeys came out. What separated this team from the rest was that they were all men, a far cry from nerdy uni students from Massachusetts, and finally made the culmination of weird antics and Irish-like dancing seem to fit. Rather than a Betty they had a jovial Tommy dressed to the nines, and the collection of mixed ages ranging from around 25 to 50 gave one a glimpse into how this dance-form could have once truly been – a bunch of mining lads getting together after a tough day’s work and making merriment.

A Hogwarts intervention it was not, but a completely astounding activity none-the-less. I learnt a few basic steps, but one hobby I may leave to the professionals for street-cred’s sake.

Rating:

• Cost – £
• Energy – Quick steps and hops are needed for this and as such Doreen has retired to the occasional accordion playing.
• Sociability – In a team of five and with light-hearted tomfoolery encouraged I imagine it to be quite social… Though with the bifocals and can’t-put-my-finger-on-it oddity of those who take part, they might not transform into pub buddies.
• Equipment needed – Official kit entails worker boots (or school shoes), socks in team colours, black rolled up trousers, a team-coloured sash around the waist, white shirt. Drag for the Betty is encouraged, nay, compulsory.

Want to (for some bizarre reason) give it a go?

There’s a workshop happening at Camden’s Folk Dance Society – Cecil Sharp House – on 21 April from £17. Check out the English Folk Dance and Song website for other dates.