But what struck me is how in years to come, if it looked sharp about it, The County Councils tourist office, (And yes, your community charge does pay for such an office,) could market these drunken orgies as an ancient Essex Tradition dating back to days of old.... So imagine if you will, a future Essex Tourist Brochure - On the cover the headline, "See the traditional Dance of the Essex Virgin." Inside the sales pitch.

And how could they promote this venture? Well as a free gift to out Tourist chiefs ... Could I suggest the following copy - "Our luxury coach will collect you from your Hotel and whisk you to a genuine Essex temple of Dance. Here you'll see, winding around the temple, the queue of the tribes young single males, their entrance forbidden by the temple monks or Bouncers as they are known But you'll be waved through to join the packed but hushed assembly as the lights go down to reveal a circle lit by only UV and dim red lights. You'll gasp as slowly into this circle enter the dancers, led by the one that is to marry come the morning, traditionally accompanied by her hand maidens.

These fearsome females will have been selected from her close friends within that most feared tribe, Known as the Essex Woman. These then are her companions for the coming traditional ceremony, as all wearing their traditional costume of mini top and high white stiletto heals they first gather in the darkness beyond the range of the circle of light.

This is the moment you have been waiting for. So have your cameras ready, as into this pool of light walks our soon to be married maiden to place in the circles centre her sacred pure white plastic hand-bag. It's a sign to the tribal priest who away in the darkness at his high alter, allows his recorded musicians to begin their throbbing war dance. It's also the signal the girls have been awaiting. As with bodies glowing with perspiration, their bleached blond hair and white stiletto heals gleaming blue under the UV light, begin their sacred dance of the Essex Virgin. As the dance progress's, and the effects of the earlier hot curry take over, the dancers become ever fewer in number as two by two, they drop back into the outer darkness, leaving eventually just the bride to be, alone with her floor-bound handbag the music, and her thoughts, the others having long gone to throw up in that inner sanctum of the high priestess, the ladies toilet. Latter they will return to half carry, half drag her back to her hut to await the dawn and her marriage.

What do you mean, it can't happen. Oh yes it could. With the right marketing, it could be a winner All the County Council need to do, is find a pack of Essex virgins and you have your dancers.. On the other hand???

Mind you we Males have our own sacred dance, and here I speak of the Dance of Morris. You see once upon a time, you'd be able to sit outside some quiet Essex Country pub, beer mug in hand at ease with the world. Not now you can't, for the chances are that no sooner have you ventured into the beer garden, then from around the corner will come the sounds of tiny bells on shoes, the banging of sticks together, followed by a heaving mass of shouting seemingly drunken white shirted yobs tumbling into the garden. Yes, it's an invasion of yet another Morris Dance side. Their aim, they will tell you, is to bring a little bit of true English Culture to the natives, and to keep alive the true sprit of the tradition.

Now of course, here in Essex, as we know, that Morris dance tradition is the one devised by those old farm workers to give thanks for their ploughman's lunches. It has little to do with culture. Personally, I have come to the conclusion that the real reason these middle aged louts inflict themselves on us beer garden drinkers is because it's now the only way they can escape their wives. You see, back in the happy days of their youth, Morris Dancing was simply a good way of working off those endless pints of I.P.A, and after, the chance of a couple of hours singing dirty songs together in he back bar.

Once a year it would be off to some distant folk festival for a couple of weeks spent under canvas and days spent parading the festival town, bells on their shoes, hankies flapping in the noon-day sun and beating up any passing local lads, who took to asking if it was true Morris dancers were galloping queers" Then the rot set in, they discovered Women, that strange sub species of humankind, noted for their nesting instincts and hatching habits after a few minutes of horizontal pleasure. An activity that trapped many a good Morrisman into a life of domestic bliss. Plus of course, that boring job with a pension.

For as is well known, your average Morris dancer is a secret social worker, librarian or worse, a computer programmer. Now in middle age, in their search for that lost youth, they still after parking up the company BMW or Volvos come together again. Only now it's just a Half please, and only two dances - the old legs can't take more and away home by 9.30. And just to rub it in, some even bring their womenfolk with them. Not just to drive them home but god forbid - to join them a part of the sacred dance of Morris.

The sad thing is that this regained activity could be soon be lost again, For it seems there is a lack of young lads stepping forward to continue the tradition, No more will the tourist be able to cry.. "Gee look Elmer, some farm workers giving thanks for their ploughman's lunch." On the other hand, if it means a quiet drink, perhaps that's no bad thing.

My days as an Atheist I suspect are all but over, for I have this growing suspicion that there is a god, and he hates me. Why else, would he send that most heinous of visitations on me, To wit, the telephone sales call. Take the other Tuesday afternoon for example. The letter R must have come up on countless computers so it was my turn for the torture. Without a word of a lie, what follows is the time table of what happened.

Time 4.31 pm. Phone rings, Dennis in search of a clean hankie, (Sorry squire, I had a cold at the time) picks up the dog and bone. Sweet young lady at other end, (They always are -either that or keen young students), am I interested in a kitchen extension. Try to explain that in the great scheme of things, what with the state of my bank balance, Kitchens now or otherwise are not on my wish list right now. Anyway I've already got a Kitchen; it came as a free extra with the house. Surprisingly lady loses interest at this news and says goodbye.

4.45 pm. My nose really needs the ministrations of another hankie, so make for the fast emptying box of paper hankies. Ringing phone beats me to it. Can't think why I rush to answer it, what's the point of having an answer machine if you don't let it answer the bloody phone. No I have to answer it don't I... It's another lady. Ask her if she wants my body. Says no, but how about some double glazing. Give answer as above, only change words 'kitchen' to 'double glazing'.

4.50 p.m. Yes, at last, goodbye runny nose. Have supped a cough mixture of Lemsip, and have obtained a nice box of man sized paper hankies in hand. About to extract one of the little paper delights, when, you've guessed it. Ring, ring, "hello this is mission control" I mutter in what I hope is a witticism. "We are looking for some new show houses, and yours, Mr.. er Mr (hesitation as she consults her paperwork.) oh yes, your home, Mr Rookard, has been selected." Says she, oblivious to my humour at the other end, "Is it for double glazing I ask. "Well yes admits this female voice," Give answer as above, Crestfallen voice clicks off line.

4.55pm. Yet another call. And by now it's getting beyond a joke. "I'm conducting a survey..." comes the bright voice of female doom. "Surprise me I say." "It's about your family's holiday plans." She brightly announces. Now as the Rookard family at the present time consists of one, it's unlikely I'll be needing a bucket and spade or a fortnight on the beach someplace. Suggest if she marries me we could soon produce a family to enjoy her wonderful offers. For some unknown reason she declines my offer and cut's me off her list. Shame that, as it would have been the ultimate telephone sales offer.

5.05pm Bloody telephone rings again, Could it be a personal call. Of course not, it's yet another sales call. Now it might have had something to do with my rejection by the previous caller, but It was at this stage oh lord that I lost my temper, and I'd like to say that I'm sorry to the lady on the phone for telling her where I would like her to shove her survey forms.

But it's not just the curse of the telephone sales call is it. No, life has one other little terror. The bang on the door from some passing salesman. Timed you will note just as your relaxing, feet up viewing the activities of our four legged friends pounding around Newmarket or Goodwood. Mind you slinging open my front door and yelling "Sod off your little parrot" often seems to work here.

But theirs one bunch of callers for which a more crafty form of attack is called for. For even now though-out Essex 'they' are holding secret training sessions, selecting their troops and targeting your home. Who are 'they' you ask. God's shock troops that's who - Jehovah's Witness's. For come the weekends and long evenings, no home is safe from them. I know mine isn't.

It's always the same, either you're halfway through a meal, laying in the bath, getting towards the end of a fascinating television programme or even worse, all ready to view one you have been looking forward too all week. There you sit a few beers alongside, the crisps ready in the bowl and the telephone left off the hook. You're going to vegetate, and no one, but no one is going to disturb you. Oh yes they are, Their already standing outside your door, stopwatch in hand, just counting down the seconds till the programme get to within five minutes till the end. You know the stage when the clever Inspector turns to his thick as two bricks assistant to reveal who done the dirty deed. When with a happy grin at each other, it's bang on the door time, and you never do find out

And you have to answer it don't you. Well it could be important. It's not of course, for there they are. Always two together, always wearing those smart leather gloves, presumably to go with the floppy leather covers on their large Bibles each book-marked all ready to quote from, and always with that glint of the already saved in the eye, that says - "come the end of the world mate, we'll be OK on our mountaintop. And you're not invited."

So what to do. The best way of course is to buy a copy of Watch Tower and slam the door, an operation that can take all of 90 seconds – just in time to catch the bit where the serial murderer is unmasked and dragged away. The thing not to do is, and here I quote the words of ex Prime Minister John Major - 'engage them in badinage.' I'm sorry to say I have a tendency to commit this foolish act, and great fun can be had for an argumentative little Atheist such as I. So score 50 bonus points if you end up driving them away without a Watch Tower sale.

But remember you can't win as your name will surely go down on their list. The one that's headed. Return visit every week with their secret weapon, the two female 20 year old blond bombshells they send out to lost souls like me, and its very hard not to buy a Watch Tower from them isn't it.