The Vicar

The Vicar was rescued from almost certain disgrace in the early days by the Tarts, following an ‘unfortunate incident’ at a funeral involving a heavy glass of communion wine, a pair of warring siblings and some bike clips. In return for their hospitality he offers divine intervention for every aspect of Tarting, including ordering rain for when the supposedly ‘big name sides’ are dancing, to the resurrection of the souls of the fallen women who make up the Tarts.

 The inspiration for Dick Emery’s Barmy Vicar (before he got his teeth fixed), the Vicar is actually much older than he appears, and is the high kick specialist of the team. Just don’t ask him what time the services are on Sunday, as he hasn’t been inside a church for years.

The Witch

Mystery surrounds the early years of the Witch. An apparently ageless specimen, she is believed to be around 300 years old and hails from the wilds of the South Yorkshire forest.  Though, as she is prone to programming her broomstick’s sat nav system (formerly a cat) in incorrectly on a frequent basis, she has lived all over the country.

She is one of the newer members of the Tarts, latching onto them during one of their Hallowe’en excursions and feeling quite at home amongst the weird and wonderful characters. A rather grumpy, plump looking creature, she is to be approached with caution by anyone not proffering beer or chocolate.

The Tartlet

The Tartlet is the Tarts mascot. A rather endearing creature, she was the result of an ill fated spell cast by the Witch some time ago. Whilst wandering the freezing wilds of Yorkshire, the Tarts were feeling rather peckish. Not being the most organised bunch, all they could rustle up was one hard boiled egg between them. The Witch announced she would turn the egg into a lamb, whereby they could roast the creature on the newly constructed bonfire.

However the silly Witch had been drinking too much of the Irish black stuff and the words to the spell went somewhat awry. The result was an impossibly cute child with a penchant for prawn cocktail crisps. Well even Tarts won’t eat children (yet) so she was adopted into the team initially to play percussion. However the Tartlet seems to spend more time chasing the Vicar and trying to fix the sat nav on the Witch’s broom.

Miss Tart

The Ever-So-Slightly-Scary Tart

Ever-So-Slightly-Scary Tart has left the safety of the Rhubarb Triangle to become a Fiddle-Maker’s Assistant in the Scottish Borders. Quite the scariest move she has ever made! In this land of Reivers and Ruffians she stumbled across Rag Bag Morris – Rag Bag by name and Rag Bag by nature – and has become one of their number. Her slinky velvet tops and bouncy headgear have been replaced by a tatter jacket and a red top hat but, much to her disappointment, face paint isn’t permitted.

As one of the original Rhubarb Tarts, tarting is in her blood, and ESSST hopes to make a guest appearance or two when time and circumstances allow. Until then, should you find yourself in the vicinity of the Scottish Borders, watch out for her with Rag Bag Morris continuing the true Reivers’ tradition of terrorising the inhabitants of small, picturesque villages…

Lady Tart

Lady Tart is the senior member of the Rhubarb Tarts. She was initially drafted in to enable the slightly flagging Tarts gene pool with a bit of class, elegance and the ability to make the meanest pavlova this side of Russia.

However not even the cultured vowels and globetrotting escapades of this most elegant creature was enough to bring the standard of new recruits up to the desired level, so she passes the time whooping the Mississippi, banging an exotic variety of drums, sitting in any old gutter and making sure that the Tartlet has a ready supply of crisps so that chaos does not ensue.

A truly fascinating Tart.

Feather Tart

Often confused with being the Vicar’s carer, the Feathery one is actually one of the founding members of the Tarts. Unfullfilled by being a long standing member of just ONE team, she yearned to spread her wings (covering everything with feathery bits) and dance dance wherever she may be. After everyone else had stopped sneezing, they agreed that yes, she might be on to something and....

LO! It became that on the First Day of Rhubarb the Feather gave to all ten tambourinemen, nine lime and sodas, eight tankards gleaming, seven muscles aching, six bangles clinking, FIIIIVE DIFFERENT HATS!!!, four packs of tissues, three tubes of Savlon, two pairs of glasses and a fine Molly dancer was born! (There are also rumours she is responsible for the arrival of the Witch, claims she frequently denies).

Hungry Tart

Another rather more cultured member of the Tarts, and one of the more recognisable with his bright red Fez and assortment of instruments, the Hungry Tart is also one of the original crew. Always on hand for those wishing to know where the nearest cafe is, HT is a versatile musician. He was taught how to play the squeezebox by a Moroccan pharmacist in Tangiers, whilst he was searching for a pork pie one rainy afternoon.

  The Hungry One was so entranced by the cocktail of music he could produce from this wonderous instrument that he missed his tea for the first time in some 60 years. He was so grateful to the pharmacist that he brought the instrument to the Tart community and adopted the Fez in honour of the pharmacist’s favourite comedian Mr Tommy Cooper (RIP).

He is rarely allowed to wander on his own during breaks in dances, so if you spot him on your travels, do escort him back to where he belongs.

Princesstarta

The country of Sweden has given us many fine things- the Vikings, IKEA and Stefan Edberg immediately spring to mind- however one its finest exports has to be the Princesstarta, who comes armed with an insatiable appetite for dance and an even more insatiable appetite for ice cream.

A devotee of the fine work of ABBA, our little Chiquita rarely meets his Waterloo during a session, mainly due to being the Dancing Queen (and always knowing where the nearest public convenience is- ask him if you see him. Quite extraordinary...). Should an SOS be required due to a lame Tart, the team are always happy to Take A Chance On Him as he is indeed a Super Trouper of the highest order.

The baby of the team (barring any Tartlets), the Scandinavian Fernando is rather a shy creature, however he is producing a promising double act with the Witch, determined as they are to be the Bruce and Tess of Molly dance.

We never need to ask him Does Your Mother Know as....

Most Tarts, upon encountering the team, simply tagged along, invited themselves in or cast spells on all the dancers until they start seeing things HER WAY. Some people have even MARRIED a Tart, so desperate were they to join the hallowed bunch. Pixie, as in many things, does like to be different.

She was actually donated to the Tarts, right at the outset by a strange, darkly bearded overlord who claimed to be related to the Black Dog. The reason for the donation was rather unclear until the minute Pixie opened her mouth and all manner of words tumbled from her mouth in a fit of verbal dysentery. The Tarts, being a polite-if uneducated- bunch allowed her to ramble on for three whole days, until they could take no more, gagging her with one of the tumbleweeds that had floated by and set her to dance.

What a revelation! Despite being no bigger than the (not very) common flea, the Pixie could dance! Powder, Pop Tarts and a few bottles of liquid grape were duly found to enlarge this delicate specimen, and a drum was procured from a passing child band- who clearly remembered that Pixies like nothing better than a roasted child of an evening- and a star was born. The voice, however, remains weeny sized. The Tarts are many things, but they are not daft.

Now what can be said about MC Tart? Whilst there have been many truly great MCs over the years- Shabba, Solaar and, of course, Hammer- MC Tart actually got his name quite by accident. Born not that many moons ago following a dalliance betwixt his turtle chef mother and a mysterious Lord of the Realm who liked a tipple and was rather dyslexic. So what should have been MR Tart ended up as MC Tart- spellchecker being at a rather primitive stage in those days. Not wishing to disappoint his father (even though no one was ever quite sure who he was) MC Tart took to learning a weird and wonderful variety of instruments. Attempting first the Squirrel mandolin, graduating to the Caribbean keyboard and finally to the Fruity Squeezebox (sniff it if you don’t believe me!).

Along the way MC Tart learned how to charm a crowd like one would a swarm of birds from a tree (albeit more carefully and with marginally more feathers). His deep, resounding tones will be heard in streets and on cobbles the length and breadth of the United Kingdom.

You can usually find him propping up the nearest session (coincidentally these things happen in the pub), followed loyally by the beautiful Miss Tart whose violin is also charmed by his mellow baritone.

Tarte Citron aka Southern Tart

This recent addition to the side claims her great, great grandmother was an infamous Parisian courtesan and thus is a natural (dancer that is). Living in a fantasy world of faded glamour and past glories, she is proud of her proper southern English vowels (retained firmly despite living in Yorkshire for nearly 30 years) just ask her where she spends vast parts of the day immersed in perfumed bubbles and you’ll understand.

Horrified by the vulgar antics of the side and determined to introduce some decorum she can often be seen making notes of serious transgressions of taste in her “little pink book”. The rip-off Chanel jacket, cheek kissing, pink handbag and use of a lace-edged hanky is a dead give away but she can also be recognised by cries of “oh la la, the darling horses, they are frightened” , the rattle of bone china and the clink of cheap diamonte.

You may well assume giving Model Tarts flowing auburn locks, her delightful peaches and cream complexion and her ramrod straight posture- the latter being due to her sleeping standing up against a lamppost- that she is named for her physical attributes. You would be wrong. What separates MT from the rest of her peers is her ever expanding collection of model plasticine fruits and vegetables. There is not a banana, cucumber or even a moist cumquat that our Tart has not managed to wrap her hands around in the name of art and her own personal entertainment.

One of the more natural dancers in the team, MT is also a game musician and a fine soprano, rather giving her er ‘affectionate’ nickname of Granny Tart something of an inappropriate edge.

If found awandering you are best advised to wave some fresh ginger loaf under her nose and lead her to the ceildh. Just lock up your husbands.