To those who can't even get the letters of F IngNobody in the right order it's unsurprising that the point eludes them. With apologies to L Heath, I got bored with Borfolk 30 years ago, not because it was inaccurate but because it was far too frighteningly close to reality, and still is.

The so-called "revival" has much to answer for (mainly tie-dyed flares, beards, wilfully ignorant GEFFism and utterly, utterly BORing f*lkies with very low horizons). I learned to play and sing at school (before and after, actually). Also after school I learned step and clog from a traditional dancer, Johnson Ellwood, with local musicians sometimes including my grandfather who was my biggest influence, with the possible exception of Thomas Tallis.

The two worlds were entirely separate, one was never mentioned in the other, though the latter certainly wasn't called "f*lk". It was just what you did and it introduced me to pubs throughout the North East at an early age. Very early.

Come the early 60s, I pitched up in London where F ingF*lkClubs were all the trendy rage. I thought "I can do this, it's a bit like what I did with granddad". But it wasn't, really. I quickly tired of being told how inauthentic is was to read music, or what was considered kosher (or insert term appropriate to religion of choice) to do by one set or the other. It was less antagonistic to do the rounds of ultra-left splinter groups (or warring born-again christian sects - probably, but I wouldn't really know, not having tried any, not even ISB-scientology . . . ) I took to writing instead.

What's wrong with parody is either that those who ought to don't recognise themselves or else become ridiculously upset. Both reactions are tedious, as are muddy ceilidhs.