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I grew up in deepest darkest Devon. Once a year, my parents would take me along to a festival in a near-by village which was a blend of ancient pagan celebration, and the carnival-style hunting of an Irish earl, and one such character there was the traditional 'Oss (Hobby Horse).
So, you're an impressionable young four year old, standing there holding your parent's hand and this thing comes whirling and snapping towards you:
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