The Folk Society meet on Thursday
 nights; clear their throats and put
 their coughs to flight to sing the
 dusty cobwebs from the room - a
 repertoire both in and out of tune.
 Don't assume a singalong, or worse;
 this history in song and countless
 verse pays homage to the man who,
 long ago, collected all the songs the
 singers know. Edward Alexander,
 man of action - armed only with his
 reel-to-reel contraption - one hundred
 years ago in mac and boots set out to
 faithfully preserve the region's roots.
 And every night in some small village
 inn, fortified with fortitude and gin, Mr
 Alexander, for a shilling would thus
 record your song, if you were willing.
 So word got round, and soon there
 formed a queue; and the line of willing
 singers grew and grew. Brass for oohs
 and aahs? You can't go wrong when
 there's someone paying a shilling for
 a song. When all his tapes are filled
 up, Edward leaves. There's a history
 preserved, so he believes; but all the
 so-called singers back inside know
 they took a city scholar for a ride - for
 they shook the man for every coin he'd
 got with words and tunes all made up
 on the spot - invented tales not twenty
 minutes old; so history, like ale, is
 bought and sold. The old contraption's
 packed away and boxed and a century
 is marked upon the clock. So tradition
 holds that Edward's great collection is
 honoured with a weekly resurrection.
 And now the old Society sing the
 songs word for word, and kept where
 they belong, as once again, they
 eulogise the past ... you can hear the
 ghosts of history laughing last.