Suggestion: Smile at the Simpleton Smiling.

Today was a day for smiling. I always make a point, when walking along Falmouth high street, to smile at people. I purposefully cultivate a "flat" expression, just so the full effect of my smile affects the people in the street. Naturally, being who I am, I tend to smile more at young ladies, although I try not to be quite that narrow-minded. Young or old, boy or girl, I smile, and feel a lot better about the world when people smile back.


Falmouth has a fairly high "smile-ratio", as I like to think of it. Many towns I have been in do not have such a ratio - Hereford for example has a fairly low smile-ratio  -  maybe one person in ten might smile back, the majority of reactions being a puzzled expression that I inerpret as "what the hell is this nut-job smiling at?". I think a lot of this is to do with the type of people you might see wandering about - most people in the daytime in Hereford are on their way to or from work, and if the talk in the taverns and ale-houses are anything to go by, probably worrying about their financial state. Also, Hereford seems a little grey, and messy, sometimes.

At any rate, I found myself smiling more than usual as I trundled back along the street, having sung my voice pretty well hoarse in the bright sunshine, outside what-was-once-Woolworths. That makes a particularly good busking spot, since the usual response to closed-down shops around here doesn't appear to be plywood and graffiti, but, rather, pleasant and colourful displays, which make a most excellent backdrop to impromptu gigs. I was surprised to see in unoccupied, by neither fiddler nor RAC recruiter, so I hung onto the spot as long as I was able. I can only hope my occasional one-legged bouncing was mistaken as dancing or musical enthusiasm, and not recognised as desperate bladder control.

I worked my way through the rowdier songs in my repertoire, occasionally adding flavour with one of the a capella slow airs, and generally met with a good response. One of these days I'll have to play to an audience who'll listen to my songs - but will that necessarily improve the feedback...? At any rate, remembering songs was rather difficult, since I've misplaced my book of songs. I even went to the trouble of writing out a list of songs to sing, and then promptly forgot to bring it into town...

As I strummed and sang, I was struck once again by the sheer number of people walking past with iPods clipped to their belts, and ear-phones firmly in their lugholes. I doubt they're listening to the Bothy Band or Paddy Tunney, but I wonder if their ears weren't so full of iTunes, they might appreciate a bit of street music? Surely the portability of music is affecting buskers around the country? I don't know. I used to have a CD walkman, but found that listening to tunes while engaging in everyday activities (such as walking) would usually result in injury. In fact, walking to the bus one day, I fell into a ditch. So I soon gave up on that. I've never owned an MP3 player, or other portable music device. I see their merit, but as with many things, think that their greatest value is probably sharing - if you stick your iPod in your car and let your pals listen to whatever, that's surely better than trudging along mutely ignoring everyone and everything in your path? I think the same is true of other things - food (a good meal is made better if you can include others), clothes (a mild chill is worth it to lend a friend a warm coat) and so on.

I need to learn a few new songs. I've been trying to get the knack of "Johnny of Brady's Lea" and "Roger O'Hehir" recently, but they have suspiciously "modal" tunes that escape me somewhat. The speechmarks are because everything is a mode of something, obviously, but there's something tricky about the notes - they don't fall into place yet.

Musically, i've been hindered somewhat by the breaking strings of death once more. I thought i'd more or less sorted that problem out with the lesser string guages, but I think there was a sticking issue in the nut. As it was, both my D strings broke quite violently just by being fretted one day last week, leaving me to play my mandolin instead, which is tricky. Luckily, Lisa Harrison came to my aid, lending me enough money to buy some strings. Unfortunately, due to the rarity of suitable strings, I was left with the "get some guitar strings and break the ball in them" option, which would have been ok if my mandola had simple hooks. But no. It has fancy little button-shaped nubs. So, carefully unwinding the loops, I managed to get one of the three strings I bought to go on without shattering. Hooray for hardened high-tensile steel, boo to only having 7 strings...  To make matters worse, the closest gauge I could find was rather slimmer than the ones I was previously using, so now the intonation is really out on that string. It'll do for busking (and did, today). I wonder how badly a quarter-tone affects my coinpurse at the end of the day.

"Mandolin?" I hear you ask? Yes. I was wandering the fair streets of this seaside town the other day, thinking to myself "Y'know, if there were a cheap mandolin for sale, i'd buy it". So, sure enough, the moment I walked through the door, my eye was caught by a fine-looking mandolin with a label that read "Second Hand - £50" and I was hooked. I asked the gentleman to get it down, had a twang on it, and bought it on the spot. It's not a particularly beautiful thing - in fact, it fits my penchant for objects with a slightly ropey aesthetic quite nicely - but is practical, small, reminiscent of the "army and navy" style mandolins I love, and un-pretentious. I like it, save for one small thing. The fingerboard is even smaller than the Fylde mandolin I once borrowed, making my stumpy fingers very unhappy, and making it difficult to get a clean sound, especially for chords. But I shall persevere.

You might be wondering why I'm still in Falmouth. Well, I keep finding reasons to stay, and, as the notion of "Well, I should probably think about going home..." surface from the dusty recesses of my mind, another old companion appears and gives me reason to linger.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Wales well enough. The solitude, however, has worn upon me these past months, and I am basking in the light of friendship and whatnot. I will eventually return, but even these last weeks (which, given my erstwhile friends' frantically busy lives, are weeks I have seen but little of my friends) have filled me with a longing to stay here. Even the crap moments (and there were more than a few) are turning into "do you remember when..." stories in my head. I miss this place, even when i'm here. Especially when i'm here, because i'm only visiting, I guess.

My travels have been delayed somewhat by other upcoming events. In October will be the Lowender Peran festival, down in Perranporth. This is another "inter-celtic" festival, with people from Cornwall, Ireland, Scotland, Brittany, the Isle of Man, and others performing. We'll be there as the Falmouth Fish Sea Shanty collective, though I don't doubt some combination involving a mandola will occur at some point. This is happening in October, so i've decided that my long-talked-about trip around Europe will be in reverse to how I'd initially planned. That is to say, something along the lines of : Cornwall, France, Italy, Germany, Denmark, Norway, Scotland, back.

More and more, as my thoughts drift and sway before heavy lids claim me to sleep, I think on the notion of travelling forever. That is to say, being "a freeborn man of the travelling people", as Ewan MaColl once sang (and I sing, on the streets of Britain...), with a pack on my back, a stick in my hand, and a song in my heart. It'd be a hard life, but rewarding in its way I think. Apparently there are two fellows called Ed and Will who have gained some notoriety doing just that - singing for their supper and all. Their harmonies are really quite something. I must get a microphone-recorder like they (and Crazy Dave) use.

I seem to be spending a lot of time with my ex-girlfriends recently. I'm not sure how I feel about this. There are the occasional moment of discomfort for all concerned, naturally, but I think the fact that they were once lovers of mine wraps up in the idea that we get along on some level - so it'd be nice to be really good pals, over and above any regrets and might-have-beens. But, I don't know. People are strange creatures, so I may be confused.

All the same, many thanks to Silje, Vera, Bex, and Faye for putting up with me in their house. Seems like i'm going to be "moving out" at more or less the same time as they all do, which is odd.

Since i've been down here, I've had my ears pierced. I always half-fancied the notion, but wondered. So, feeling flash one day, I wandered into one of the more shady body-modification-emporiums dotted about the place, and had two studs stabbed through my soft bits. It didn't hurt as much as some piercings. I have to confess, I think they look rather dashing, in a roguish sort of way. I also shaved off my beard in a fit of boredom, casting the 6-month cultivation of bristle into the bin and feeling positively peeled for a half-day or so. Despite my best attempts with shears and blade, I missed several patches which went un-noticed for a while, which might have been embarassing had someone not helpfully pointed it out. I have to say, knowing that I can grow a decent beard is a proud feeling, but I feel it's not for me all of the time.


For now, that will do. It's very late. I will edit for spelling and nonsense tomorrow/today.

Adventurous Advances in Armed Acompaniments (And Assorted Other things)

Well, it's been a strange couple of weeks.

As is often the case, it seems, I found myself winging my way down to Cornwall, to re-acquaint myself with it's shores and my good friends. The reason (excuse) this time was to go to the Royal Cornwall Show, both to fulfill a long-ago-made promise to play music in the beer tent, and to catch up with the local blacksmithing crew.

The blacksmithing bit went well, and old friends were greeted with the usual banter and joshing - blacksmiths as a rule aren't very polite to each other, but there's a certain amount of camaraderie. New friends were also met, notably Dave Budd, a knifemaker (amongst other dubious things, that we will get to). The competitions were the same as ever, with this year's set piece being a rather open "make some door furniture of your choice". I made a pair of hinges that I was quite pleased with, but unfortunately didn't manage to finish them with some pintles upon which to swing, losing me valuable "points". They didn't place. Two hours goes a lot quicker on the anvil than you think. The "Crash 'n' Dash", as before, is a competition where the competitors have half an hour to make anything that could be sold - so pretty much anything. I hacked and bashed and beat and bludgeoned out the ropiest spoon i've ever made (deciding in the last 30 seconds to take a heat and scroll the end wasn't a great idea), but somehow landed 2nd place! I think this was more down to the other entries, but I have to say I was surprised.

I'm fairly sure Lisa got a prize for her competition entry, too. But....I can't remember what! I'm a bad friend...

The usual star of the show, Tristan Kessel (blacksmith and fiddler of renown), declined to enter any of the competitions this year, making a stand against the appalling judging last time around, where a welded, contemporary gate, won the traditional category, amongst other things.

However, after the last anvil rang with the official competitions, and the rosettes were handed around, he suggested a "see how long you can forge a piece of 2" by 3/8" steel in 5 minutes", £2 entry and winner-takes-all. He won, by a good inch. 5 minutes really isn't very long. I clonked away as best as I could, and regretted not bringing my cross-pein hammer.

As for the music, at some point over the few days, the mandola, fiddle, and viola were reunited, and my somewhat-better grasp of tunes came through for once. Tristan had also brought his tenor banjo (after much harranguing from me last year), which was great fun. I had difficulty getting any decent sound out of it, but he makes a fine show of playing it. Lisa's tunes livened up the predictable nature of the Irishness (so so people claim), and I sang a few songs. Naturally, we ended up in the beer tent. Tunes were rattled out, slow airs were langourously played, and the odd sea shanty was sung, all to the applause of the audience. Once the beer had flowed a bit, we adjourned to the woodworker's tent briefly, where Pete the Chainsaw Man (also a brewer) plyed us with some of his fine draught. Then, Sgt. Bidders and Cpl. Lofty (this may be slightly wrong) kidnapped us, and we ended the night (eventually!) playing in the RAF Regiment's rifle shooting simulator! It was a blast, as various military types, and one policewoman, not to mention the local chocolatier (who fell drunkenly out of the wagon so many times people asked questions) danced and wobbled to our tunes. Eventually, the massive amount of concentration it takes for me to keep up with Lisa or Tristan lapsed into inebriation, and she gave me some queer looks.


More updates soon.

Folk Music.

Well, folk music seems to be a big part of my life nowadays. Whether it's sea-shanties, Irish tune sessions in a Welsh pub, Breton dancing in Brittany, or just singing to myself as I wander about the place, there's always some going on. It wasn't always that way, though - like everyone else, my musical tastes have changed and re-routed themselves a lot over the years.

If you'd asked me what folk music was as a teenager, i'd probably have sneered something along the lines of "What, Irish music? Or Enya or something?". It's probably fair to say that I'd not heard much folk music, or indeed paid any attention to any, until I was doing my National Diploma in Blacksmithing and Metalwork at Hereford college. There's a certain over-romanticism that goes with being a blacksmith, and plenty of the people at college were at least slightly into it, or so I later discovered.

I was on my work experience, as i'm sure i've mentioned in the past, at Bronllys Forge, the establishment of Dave Perks and his wife Dee. There, I encountered one Molly Budd, who has also been mentioned before. Like all blacksmiths, or in her case ex-blacksmiths, she is now sick to death of the song, but one evening, sat around the kitchen table, she sang "The Blacksmith", a song collected in Weobley around the turn of last century, and made popular by Planxty (and later Andy Irvine), Anne Briggs, and others. I had a moistness in my eyes as she sang, and not just because I was already somewhat smitten by this girl. Anyway, a long story being shortened, I grew interested in this kind of music, and began to sing whatever I could find, whether gleaned from "The Best of the Dubliners" tapes, or the singing of one of our college tutors, Steve Mitchell (who has a fine repertoire of English folk songs, although copious amounts of ale tends to increase the chance of hearing one).

Like many wannabe folk musicians, at some point I acquired a tin whistle. Squeaking my way through Irish tunes, and the odd melody to a song i'd picked out, I'm sure all and sundry were at one time annoyed by the screeching sounds. I still toot on it a bit, and the tunes have got better. So, the singing and the tooting carried on, idly, until such time as I moved to Cornwall.

The trouble with surrounding yourself with talented musicians is, you want to join in! Unfortunately, the talent doesn't rub off as much as you might like. All the same...

Since then, i've sung in a sea shanty band, learned to play the mandola (it's a work in progress), busked in a good double-handful of towns around Britain, and attended sessions and open mic nights. I never imagined this would be the case, even when I was singing in the workshop at college.

Sometimes I wonder "Well, what is Folk Music?", and the question seems to be a perennial favourite amongst armchair philosophers. According to a popular encyclopedia, there's a fairly easy-to-recognise list of atrtributes that folk music tends to have. On the other hand, there are always confusions - some people say "folk music" and really mean "traditional music", and then things get a bit complicated. I sometimes, probably in error, answer the question "What's that music you're singing?" with "Oh, it's a traditional Irish song" or whatever. Of course, the song may well be traditional, but the chords i'm playing on my tenor mandola certainly aren't the intended accompaniment. As R.V. Willams records, there was once a Suffolk farm labourer, who remarked "I used to be reckoned quite the good singer, until these here tunes came in" - which underlines the point - "folk" singing doesn't have accompaniment, whether on guitar, piano, or tennis racket banjo.

Of course, this is nonsense. Singing a cappella is a wonderful thing, and I daresay that some songs sound better that way - I sing a couple that way out of preference, setting aside my trusty mandola, even when busking. But, insisting that something has to be a certain way is missing the point somewhat. If you want to stick your finger in your ear and your thumb in your belt loop to sing "The Parting Glass", fine. If you want to play power chords on an electric guitar, with a four-piece band, and sing the same song - good luck to you.
One of my musical idols, Andy Irvine, has occasionally been asked if he's a "folk musician" or a "traditional musician". On one occasion, he answered that he was a singer-songwriter, as, although much of the music he plays with can be considered "folk music", and has played and arranged a number of traditional tunes, when all's said and done, he both sings, and writes songs. It seemed like a fair description, but it dismisses the notion of folk music somewhat.

A friend of mine, Luke Drinkwater, once joked about folk musicians not being "proper", and said that "Well, you wouldn't trust a "folk surgeon" to do surgery, so why trust a "folk musician" to make music?" or something along those lines. It highlights the point that there's a distinction between people that feel the need to pigeonhole themselves, I guess. Mind you, i'm not sure i'd trust a Jazz surgeon, either...

And so we come to "Dan's Theory" (Not to be confused with "Dance Theory"): Folk music is just music. All music could be considered folk music, for, as Louis Armstrong once said "All music is folk music, I ain't never heard no horse sing a song”. I agree, to a certain extent. Folk music is certainly music made by people, although you could argue it's usually made by "real" people, and not media corporation types. I guess it's all a question of flavour. I'd tentatively suggest that a group of people singing Christmas carols, Thin Lizzy playing "Whisky in the Jar", Greek bouzouki-playing rembetes, and me sat on the roadside singing "Bonny Woodhall" are all just as folk-music-ish as each other...

Not really sure where i'm going with this....

That's all for now.

Where was I?

   In Brandivy, obviously. So. We'd turned up without any grub - as it turned out, this was to become a running theme of the festival, from my point of view. Luckily, the generosity of all involved enabled us to fill our ailing stomachs, and we drank of fresh water and wine, and grinned most merrily. New friends were met, in a circle on the floor, including another blacksmith (Jaco) which was to be expected, I suppose. He's Dutch, and smelts his own iron (show-off).

   Sufficient time has now passed for me to have forgotten mostly what happened - I don't doubt that the ever-vigilant Bex Bourne will correct, or criticise, as necessary.

   It seems to me that some time must have passed. I think at this point we went along to the local primary school, and did a mini gig ( a few songs) under a hawthorn tree to the enraptured audience of little kids. A classic moment was when heaps of them started dancing to Pentorr, who rocked. We traipsed across the village to an old folk's home, where we again took turns in performing. The old folks, for the most part, didn't seem to know what to make of us. I believe Katrine (Head honcho of the whole thing, and vocal Breton) is related to one of the older types.

   Some more time may have elapsed, and, eventually, I was introduced to my host family, Nicolas and Réjanne (along with their two boys, Pol and Théo, and the dog, Jazz.*) Nicolas is a woodworker, of the timber framing sort, and has a massive workshop filled with every conceiveable tool - from adzes and side axes (huzzah!) to 12-foot sliding-bed LASER**-guided circular saws. A lot of the work he does involves old buildings, so there was a certain amount of overlap in our "talking-shop", especially, as it turns out, since Nicolas is a keen amatuer blacksmith. He showed me his forge, his anvil, and several tools, and we used this interest in metalwork as a starter to our communications - he had little enough English, and I less French, though we did OK.

   Mystifyingly, after introductions were made, we made way to Pol and Théo's school, although it might have been some sort of village hall. In any event, I sat down, and, feeling out of place for the first time, watched the "spectacle" of the local kids singing, with a small group of older musicians, and then a very strange older woman who I assume was a teacher singing about hot chocolate in the most annoying manner known to man, to say nothing of language barriers. The story she told was quite good, though. Afterwards, I talked with a gentleman about mandolas (he had an octave mandola (that's an "octave mandolin" if you're American. Tuned like a mandolin, but an octave lower. Like a bouzouki.), met up with my friend Martin Coote (whose "hosts" lived around the corner from us, and were also present) who was having more of a difficulty with the language issure than me, as no-one in his house spoke ANY English.  We said cheerio, made our way back, some supper was eaten, ukuleles were observed, and then we re-convened at the bar in Brandivy, and beer was drunk, music was made. Eventually, we returned to base, and I slept, for the first time in a while.

   The new day dawned, as sunny and warm as the previous. Doubtless my trusted companions were happy about this, and though it was nice to see the sun for so long, it's unfortunate that I spend my time in the summer-like sun squinting, sweating, and smelling. I can only offer my sincerest apologies to any that strayed too close to me over those days. The first notable event of the morning was one where my limited French was strained to its limit. Pol, aged approximately 5, does not speak English, and there are no lock on the doors of his fine home. So it was then, that I was happily showering, when a small and inquisitive voice said something I didn't recognise, and pointed. Covering my dignity, I said "Pol! Desolée! Interdit! Aller!" or something like that. The general point was taken, and he left, looking faintly confused. I then used my capo as a make-shift door lock, and finished my shower in peace.

I forget the details of that early afternoon, but I do recall having to repair my mandola box. "Nicolas, avez-vous un petit clou, sil vous plait?" was enough to get me a panel pin. Handy these woodworkers. Shame their children use mandola cases as trampolines. Nicolas is also a talented musician, who plays mainly the trumpet nowadays. Tragically, he used to be a guitar player, a very talented one in the gypsy-jazz style. I say tragically, and it really is, because in a work accident he lost all but one of his fingers on his left hand. My observations indicate that this happened only a year or so ago, so... Well, it's pretty rough on the poor guy. But his trumpet-playing was well appreciated.

While i'm on the subject, their house is STUFFED with instruments! Nicolas' father (or maybe grandfather...) was a musician, and something of a one-man band. There were:

A bass drum, an acoustic guitar, an electric guitar, ukulele, electric bass, kora, two trumpets, an accordian, a violin, and gods-only-know-what I didn't see. Phew!

At this point, having spent a delightful afternoon with the kindly host folks, we trundled off to the first of two Fest-Noz-es. Cider was drunk in quantity, this may or may not have been the time that the "Mermaid" play was played out to humourous effect, and we may have gone on a procession around the town. I played an A-minor chord for nearly an hour. It seemed to fit. The most notable occurence of the procession, in my mind, was piling through the back kitchens of a creperie, to the mixed delight and horror of the guests and owners.

Hmm. Right. Let's see.Hmm. The Sunday reared it's head, I showered (I love my capo, now), we went on a small cycle ride around the countryside, and various things of that nature, and then...what happened then? Well, the day somehow passed, and we ended up at another Fest-Noz. I should point out, in the unlikely event that anyone reads this who wasn't there, that a Fest-Noz is, roughly, the same as a ceilidh, or a jolly good music and dancing knees-up. We filled in more-or-less as the universal support band, our punchy volume and low-set-up requirements meaning we could sing two or three numbers as each of the more technically-laden groups were setting up. I think we were supposed to sing a "set", but, given the low-danceability of many shanties, and how well it worked out, I think it was for the best.

Other events that night involved talking to Jeffrey for the first time, who is a wonderful fellow, if a little enthusiastic. He also has the best pair of legs i've ever seen on a genetic male human. I was also, just for a change, nice to Vera. She seemed to appreciate it. You can read about her travels here. Eventually, we left, once more, and I slept like the dead. They get up early, you know!

I can see the final stretch in sight... OK. Sunday was apparently supposed to start with an Easter Egg hunt, but we forgot, so I didn't get any (Waaaagh!) but, luckily, i'd given Nicolas and Réjanne some eggs to give to Pol and Théo, so I didn't mind really. Giving is better than getting, sometimes. That afternoon, we travelled to Pout-.....Bout........Poul-Fetan! I knew it'd come to me in the end. That's a restored village, in the style of maybe the 11th Century. There was a tavern (Aha!), a sabotier (clog-maker. Like the saboton, a peice of armour? No?), various milk-maids (they weren't like the ones in folk-songs - I tried...), and so on. I regret not impressing people with my mighty, heroic thews, as apparently there was an impromptu weightlifting competition. Ah well.

Notably, we had another round of mini-gigs, underneath a massive chestnut tree. We sang well, and got rapturous applause. We do sound great when we all get together...

As the afternoon wore on, we returned to Brandivy to

a) Play bizarre and complicated games involving sacks***, rugby balls, toilets, and fishing. (Amongst others).

b) Lie on the floor.

c) Jam, and make sweet music. Especially appreciated was Crazy Dave's harmonica playing, which wowed many, including Luke, whose musical opinion I respect more than....well, most.

At some point amongst all this, there was an epic night of jamming. We'd re-appeared at Castell Guen (Katrine and Patrick's place) and the evening disappear in feasting and wine-drinking. Afterwards, the "youngs" as Patrick called us, stayed behind and partied. "Wild Thing" on the accordian (Cheers Seamus) was one of the more memorable moments, as well as a lengthy all-inclusive Fleet Foxes number.

The last night there was sedate. We danced for a bit under stern orders from Katrine (I tried to dance with Vera, but fate pulled us apart), ate, sat around a pretend fire, and made music. The stars were beautiful, and I wandered off for a bit to be alone with my own thoughts, which were at once remorseful, jubilant, hopeful, and scattered. I saw more shooting stars than i'd seen in my whole life in that short hour or so.

As all things, eventually, we had to leave. We said our "thank-you"s, our "goodbye"s, their Francophonic equivalents, and piled into the van once more. We stopped off at a Super-U en route, and with some saved coin, bought (in my case) mead, meat, cheese, and a "gay-German vest" and a t-shirt (which Bex promptly stained. Mucky pup.) Dave's quantity of cider and wine would have cause a mule to collapse, and Luke's rather-more-modest selection was most appreciatvely drunk on the way back. The ferry crossing was, once more, unremarkable (I don't know if I expected kraken, shipwrecks, sirens, or what...) save for some playing on the deck outside. I once more tried to be nice to Vera, but it's very difficult. We suck at shoot-em-ups. When we got back to English soil, wine was drank, and we trundled merrily back, dropping Molly Budd at Plymouth, and chasing a badger down a lane.

When we got back to 4 Marine Crescent, we mostly crashed out, save me and Luke - we sat up for some hours putting the world to rights. I like Luke.

So. In summary and conclusion: It was a fantastic few days, riddled with joy, confusion, music, dancing, things that could have been from Monty Python films, and laughs. I miss it. I still feel the place, as I look around on a sunny day. New friends in abundance, and old friends i'd not seen for a while made it the best time I can remember without straining a brain-stictch. I guess there were moments where I was a little uncomfortable (notably witnessing the affection my two former lovers have for each other - I do wish them well, though), but it was, in the main, ace.  If i've missed anything, then sorry!

In other news, the Mill at Talgarth is now producing flour, and we've done well to get it so. More updates will be forthcoming.

I will be in Cornwall next week. Whee!

* Along with chickens, three horses, a mad child-eating duck, a massive toad (un crapo grand!) and many more besides.

** I spell it in capitals because it's an acronym. I don't bother with the dots.

*** The sack race, for such it was, nearly caused my heart to explode. Fat blacksmiths with short legs are not good at this. I had to lie down for some considerable time, in the dubious solace of the kitchen steps.