Morris dancing has always been linked in my mind to village greens, half-timbered pubs selling real ale, cricket matches – the general rural idyll that is now largely preserved in the stockbroker belt.  As a result, it has acquired a sort of UKIP tinge in my mind – red-cheeked men singing Rule Britannia and waving Union Jacks.  Then there’s all that handkerchief waving and general fol-de-rol.  It’s a bit like buying free range eggs in Waitrose – being in touch with the earth without getting your hands dirty, writes Antony Mair.