"Coloureds" are welcome to stroll along the harbour or dine in Rick Stein's restaurant or stay in the Metropole overlooking the Caribbean-blue waters and golden beaches where the rich and royal come to play. The Cornish wouldn't treat them any differently to any other outsiders.
And anyway, how can you be racist if there aren't any blacks around to be racist against?
Except for one, of course—good ole Ziggy, a West Indian who's lived here for years (or did he move away?).
At any rate, it never bothered him. And the former mayor, why, she used to march in London to Free Mandela, and she never thought twice about the pot calling the kettle black, so to speak.
All of which goes to show why on Boxing Day and New Year's Day—when there aren't too many emmets about—Old Padstonians see nothing wrong in dressing up like blackface minstrels, parading through town and belting out songs about "niggers".
At first, they seem to come out of nowhere, like the tradition itself. The drums, accordions and voices pulse through "Padsta" like a heartbeat, permeating the air as they make their way down the hill from the social club.
The rough music—an infectious noise—resonates through the winding lanes, but it's hard to tell where it's coming from. Just when you think you're close to the source, it seems to fade away.
Then you turn the corner, and—there they are! Two dozen men, women and children done up as surreal stereotypes: Cornish approximations of Aunt Jemimas, Jim Crows, Uncle Toms, Sambos, Mammies, Pickaninnies and Rastafarians, all with burnt cork or greasepaint smudged onto their ruddy white faces.
The men sport bow ties and sequined vests, plus top hats and bowlers festooned with tinsel and flowers.
A couple of jokers wear black crazy-curl wigs, the kind you see at football matches, while an elderly woman is sporting sunglasses and a Rasta Novelty Tam, her fake dreadlocks decorated with blue and gold Christmas balls.
The rest of the women favour the Mammy chimneysweep look, as typified by a little girl with a smudged face, headscarf, gaudy earrings, long skirt and red apron hanging down to her knees.
No fewer than eight accordions lead the group, followed by a handful of drums, rattling collection boxes, bone castanets and a couple of "lagerphones"—long staffs studded with bottlecaps, so that when they beat the ground, they ching-ching in time to the music.
At each of Padstow's half a dozen pubs, the merrymakers burst in singing and hollering, fill their boxes for charity, and then stop for a pint (or three).
Whenever a pale-faced local walks in unawares, the women will kiss him and smear burnt cork all over his face. More laughter and singing, and then it's off to another pub along the crescent-shaped quay.
As they roll out into the blinding winter sunshine, chatting and singing, the music swells to a climax.
One drummer, his double chin as pink as his face is black, throws back his head to belt out the end of "Uncle Ned", the bit where Al Jolson would have dropped to one knee and brayed:
There's no more work for the poor old maaaaaaaan—
Heeeeeee's gone where the good niggerrrs go, aye oh
He's gone where the good niggerrrs go.
* * *
©J.R. Daeschner
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