Raindance

Please note that tomorrow's raindance, in a desperate attempt to get some relief from this weather, will be in the Orchard.  Or, in case of rain, in the Dining Room.

Unwedding Ceremony

Or: the order for the blessing of the relationship of a couple whose marriage cannot yet be blessed on account of the divorce has been unfortunately delayed.

Archdruid: We come together together today to join together.... er, to accept as a fait accompli the fact that this man and this woman (or as it may be this man and this man, etc) have joined themselves together, before the legal ceremony of joining them together, on account of one of them is still legally joined to somebody else so we can't.  Or something.

Living out of wedlock is an estate that we'll just have to accept on this occasion.  We don't like it, but let's face it, it's an imperfect world.  

Second marriages are an estate ordained of the Government and tolerated by the Church, for the giving of second chances and providing an environment in which several people's children may be nurtured.  And frankly we'll all be feeling a lot more comfortable when we get them as far as the second marriage.

M and N are about to continue in their state of unwed cohabitation.  They have already given consent to one another, and in token of this we'll just move on swiftly.

Archdruid:  Now does anyone have any reason why this man and this woman should not be joining themselves together in holy out-of-wedlock?

Traditionalist: (from the back): How about because it's still adultery?

Archdruid: Oooh.  Hadn't thought of that.  I don't think we are in any place to pass judgement.  Who among us could throw the first stone?

Traditionalist: Hang on - I'll nip off and get one... 

Archdruid: Who giveth this woman?

P (First Husband): I will, just as soon as the decree absolute comes through.  It'll be my pleasure.

Archdruid: N, do you take M  to be your unlawfully appointed other half, to complain he's still down the boozer, point out that the eldest kid that causes all the trouble is his, and complain that R, his former wife, still has way too much control over him and gets too much money for the youngest one?

N: I do.

Archdruid: M, will you take N to be your equally unofficial "partner", do your best to drink the money that P  sends her for their kids, and do your best to avoid being finally roped into official marriage, as long as ye both shall live?

M: I will.

Archdruid: Q, despite being the child of neither M nor N, yet you unaccountably live in their house.  How do you explain it?

Q: Dunno. Did I get left over somewhere?

Archdruid: OK. I now pronounce you... man and somebody else's wife.  

You may kiss... well, whoever...

Outbreak of the traditional punch-up.

Wicca Man

So we forgot the Wicker Man, easy to do with all the excitement at Solstice.  I mean, it's easy to miss, is a 90 foot man made out of pallets, lurking in the garden.  And with a solstice New moon, it was even darker than normal.  So it was nice to let it go off this evening.  And what a sight.  The passing resemblance to Andy Murray was a nice touch as well,  although the way the first set went we were starting to think that there was something in sympathetic magic after all.

OK, the traffic jam on the M1 as the smoke drifted across Junction 13 was an unforseen side-effect.  And the appearance of the Fire Brigade was as unexpected as it was unneccessary.  On the whole I think it was a great celebration of the Summer Solstice.  Even if it was a week late.

Jackson Tributes

Sad news today.  The Druidic Council had planned to hold a celebration of Michael Jackson's life, but Archdruid Eileen slipped while trying to moonwalk and twisted her ankle.  She says they're not holding the service until the entire Druidic Procession can moonwalk up to the Worship Focus.

An odd occurrence today.  While walking to the White Horse for a lunchtime snifter, I found a glove laying in School Lane.  Just the one glove, quite a lacy one - perhaps the sort of thing one of Hnaef's posh friends might wear to events at the Abbey.  Being always happy to help one's fellow humans, I picked the glove up and draped it over the branch of a tree, where it could be seen.

Leaving the White Horse a few hours later, I was surprised to find twelve bunches of flowers had been lain around the tree, together with a number of poetic tributes such as "Keep on Rockin, Robin".  I wonder what it could all mean?

Husborne Crawley FM

All the news and comment on Radio Husborne Crawley...............

Middle Aged Man from another Country dies, no suspicious circumstances

Middle Aged Man - the pressure he knew - by someone who never met him

Photos of Middle-Aged Man when he was young and black

Middle-Aged Man - was it a hamburger? Those spooky co-incidences with his Father in Law's death

Middle Aged Man - was it drugs?

Middle Aged Man's Sister - those shocking pictures

"The Middle Aged Man from another Country I knew" - interview with someone you don't know

Peter and Jordan - the latest - they're still apart

Your texts: "I'm heart broken because a man I didn't know from another country has died. What do I have to live for?" - Syd in Ampthill

Labour party admits they will have to cut spending

Swine Flu - more than 4,000 cases in UK

A Midsummer Night's Doom

St John's Eve!  A traditional olde English time to be rampaging round the English countryside, engaging in traditional olde English pursuits.

In days gone by, on St John's Eve, olde English people of a certain age would sit around in the church hatch waiting to see whose ghosts were going into the church - and which would come out.  Which would lead to a certain thoughtfulness of a St John's Day for some.  Meanwhile the unmarried young people of the village, hamlet or other rural settlement would tear out into the woods in a ritual that has been faithfully reproduced by our own Beaker Fertility Folk since time immemorial, or at least 2004.  

This year's festivities will be slightly dampened by the sad loss of Private Sponge from Dad's Army.  His passing will be mourned by all those whose role in life it is to hang around at the back looking like a spare part and wishing we were one of the lead players.  Or most of us, in other words.  In honour of Private Sponge's passing, we would like to include a liturgy incorporating his catchphrase, but we're not sure he actually had one.

Anyone going out after 10pm, please ensure you wear hi-viz.  The late-night traffic on the Woburn road seems to increasingly dangerous these days and walking back along it from the White Horse is never sensible.  As my old dad used to say, before he so tragically succumbed to that incident with the baler, "do you think that's wise?"

LIturgy for the Solstice Sunrise, 2009

Beaker People, resplendent in their special midsummer pink hi-viz, stumble out across the car park to the Solar Hillock.

Archdruid: We stand here as the dawn glow gathers, waiting for the rising Sun.

All: Can you get a move on?  We want to go back to bed.

Archdruid: That's really down to the Sun, not me...

All: Whatever.  On with the spiel, Eileen.

Archdruid: We stand here at the fulcrum of the year.  The heart of the Summer, enjoying its warmth....

Voice from Back (which may be German, or possibly, South African...): Get a grip, Archdruid, it's freezing!

Archdruid: We stand here freezing in the heart of Summer.  We bless the sun for its light-giving rays.

All: Wherever it is.  

Archdruid: It will be up in its own time. We are not the ones to dictate to the heavenly objects above us.

Burton: Isn't it peeking out behind that cloud over there?

Archdruid: Oh yeah. Well, looks like it's been risen a while. Shall we sing the song?

All: If we must.

Beaker People sing "Here comes the Sun", with Young Keith totally fouling up the clever guitar bit after "it's alright".

Snorkmaiden washes her face in the dew, while all the relatively sane Beaker Folk head off to bed.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn appears through the early-morning mist, realises he's hopelessly late, and heads off towards Aspley Guise.

The Beaker Collection

By popular demand, why not try one of our wide range of hi-viz clothing suitable for freezing in a car park at 4am while watching the sun rise? 

For those unable to make it to Husborne Crawley, why not find you hi-viz and other Personal Protective Equipment here - at the home of power tools.  Buy lots for free delivery!

With a hi-viz fleece under your hi-viz bomber jacket, you will be warm and visible in all weather conditions and phases of the moon.

Solstitial Suspense

It's still two sleeps until the Solstice, so can I request that you all calm down? 

Especially those planning to stay up all night.  It's the shortest night of the year, but even so you need your beauty sleep.

The Solstice Watch this year will take place in the Watching Field.  We can stand on that little hillock again.  But please don't do that same rotten pun as last year - it took weeks for Burton's bruises to fade. 

The Wicker Man is now forty foot high and towering over the landscape.  Who would have thought that Young Keith could have found such a good supply of pallets?  And thank you to those dedicated souls who have spent the last week splitting the pallets into really thin strips.  I'm sure you will think the splinters are worth it.

Depressive Poets' Society

I wouldn't like anyone to think I'm distancing myself from Hnaef's new scheme.  Goodness knows we're thoroughly in favour of anyone coming up with alternative ways to express spirituality.  And poetry enlightens the soul in a way little else does, while offering alternative views of God and Humanity.  So poetry, qua poetry, I'm all in favour of.

But Hnaef's come up with this latest idea that reading depressing poetry, by the less cheerful poets, will unleash the Right Hemispheres of our brain, putting us in touch with out primeval  Self.  Sounds like pure eyewash to me, but as I say we respect creative views, no matter how barmy.

So today's programme included readings from Thomas Hardy, John Clare, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen and  Baldrick.

The vast majority of the Beaker People are now hiding under the tables in the Refectory, sobbing helplessly.  Some of the stronger of us have settled into watching the whole first four series of "Friends" in the hope that will give them some comfort.  Young Keith and his pals are off down the White Horse, but I don't think they're turning to drink so much as turned a long time ago.

Tomorrow's reading of "The Wasteland" is cancelled.  Turns out June is the cruellest month.

Beaker Brother

I'm pleased to announce that after weeks of viewing video auditions, interviews and psychological profiling, we've decided upon the 10 people who will go in the Beaker Brother house.  We've chosen the most aggressive, the most self-regarding and biggest wannabes.  We're not going to be putting any cameras in the Beaker Brother house, and we're not going to be doing any evictions.  We're just gonna leave the doors locked until we're in danger of them being listed as Missing Persons.

Which Wicker is Wych?

No! No! No!

Some of you have totally misunderstood about the wicker man.

It was lovely to meet Lemonbalm today. He is a gentle and charming man, albeit somewhat bemused. I'm not totally sure whether that's his normal state, or whether it was the result of five of you grabbing him in the Stones and Shells stall in CMK shopping centre and dragging him here in the back of a Transit Van.
Lemonbalm is into Wicca. That's Wicca as in a largely made-up combination of misunderstood folklore, pseudo-feminism, vague spiritual longings and wishful thinking. He's not a Wicker man. I realise that this may have confused the post-literate among you but I hope the large stick with which Hnaef is currently laying about the persons of several community members may help with their understanding.
Lemonbalm tells me he got into Wicca in the hope that he might meet some women. I advised him that if he wants to join a religious movement where he'll be outnumbered 10:1 by women he might be best off joining the Methodists.
Now can somebody please take him back? He keeps offering to make people love potions, and the community is starting to stink of amaretto and fennel.

Wicker Man

The ancient Celts would build a giant wicker man at the solstice, and burn within it sacrifices of prisoners, chickens, Edward Woodward and anyone else they could lay their hands on.  Worth considering next time someone suggests a Celtic revival.

However we quite like the wicker man idea.  Maybe with something a little more friendly to sacrifice - baked potatoes perhaps, which we could eat afterwards?  And some marshmallows might be nice.  Please can everyone pitch in. 

In the bunker

I'm pleased to announce that I am up and feeling better.  The neck strain has released itself now, and I am feeling well enough to use the JCB that you may have noticed aound the grounds.

In answer to the many questions I have seen people mouthing as I dig away, I am digging a "dark space".  This is a place in which one can commune with the Earth without the distraction of the sun, the elements, the animals and the people who wander around the community insisting on trying out new spiritual experiences when they should be banging the holes out of doilies to contribute to community funds.

It is not a bunker.  I would like to make that clear.  And the recent purchase of the Community cat, "Blondie", is just a co-incidence.

Now I must away to direct my tank regiments.  The Hazel Blears division seems to have become stranded in the Ardennes and I need them in Silesia urgently.

A slight ailment

Beaker Folk have been asking where the Archdruid is today.  Please rest assured that she's not suffering from anything too serious.

But the recent reshuffle and her constant fear that someone is out to stab her in the back has been aggravated by her recent addiction to playing online Diplomacy.  With the result that she has spent so much time looking over her shoulder that she has cricked her neck. The resultant trapped nerve has meant that whenever she tries to smile she looks like she is gurning.

The doctor has recommended that she have a lie down in a dark room.  For about a week.

Druidic Reshuffle

I'm pleased to announce the reshuffle of the Druidic team.  As you know, we have a fantastic and talented team of lesser druids, who unfortunately have a habit of resigning and blaming me for it.  But in this planned and carefully calculated reshuffle, without a hint of panic or short-termism, I am pleased to announce the following:

Hnaef, formerly Executive Assistant to the Archdruid, is now First High Lord of the Holly Bush and President of the Most Holy Gorsedd.  His duties remain unchanged, as do the contents of that photo album he occasionally allows me to glimpse.

Drayton Parslow is an oily troublemaker and back-stabbing thief, toe-rag and all-round bully boy. In order to ensure his loyalty I am pleased to announce his promotion to the role of Nuncio to the Stewartby Guinea Pig People, Inter-Faith Facilitator and Second High Lord of the Holly Bush.

Burton Dassett was formerly Treasurer.  In view of his incompetence, strange demeanour and eyebrows, I am going to demote him to Treasurer.

Simplon Tunnel was previously Education Druid.  He had been hoping to be Treasurer, and has all the skills for the job - devious, aggressive, a bloke.  However in view of Burton's demotion to this role, Simplon's just gonna have to stick to showing people how to identify mistletoe and foretell the future from the insides of a Tesco's Oven Ready Chicken.

Cybil Squirrel's role as Keeper of the Entrails was to have been taken over by Dogbreth. Unfortunately Dogbreth resigned from this role even as I was announcing it.  Thus saving me from sacking him, as I had planned to do all along.  I am glad to announce that the new Keeper of the  Entrails is some bloke who arrived to clean the windows while I was planning the reshuffle. We'll annouce his name once we've caught up with his van.

I hope you can see that the new Gorsedd is completely different from the old one, refreshed rejuvenated and in no way filled by placemen, passing strangers, and retired Welsh people.  I look forward to this Gorsedd of None of the Talents being changed again when I next have a long-planned emergency reshuffle.

Big old yellow moon

A beautiful full moon, like a nice round yellow cheese, peeking in and out of the clouds - reflecting off the dozens of broken Enya CDs that lie around where Young Keith's Mini Metro ground them into pieces.  The multiple reflections of the moon, shattered and splintered into a thousand shards, are maybe reflections of our personalities - split into pieces, and yet between them revealing a deep and mysterious whole.  

The Beaker Folk are spending the evening flicking Enya CDs like frisbies up into the sky, watching the moon glittering off them as they fall to earth.  It's pointless and three or four people have sustained some nasty injuries, but it's still better than watching the BNP racking up 9% of the vote.

"I twitter like a sparrow" (Isa 38:14, JB)

Thanks to our friends from the University of Unlikely Research we have found what appears to be a trace of Tweets from the 10th to 6th centuries BC carved into a Judean rock.  Further proof that the ancient world had technology of which we know little.

Amos is very angry.  

Isaiah is suddenly aware of his shortcomings.  

Jeremiah  It's dark and damp here in the well.

Jonah @ Jeremiah  You think you've got problems?  

2Isaiah Comfort, comfort my people.  

Isaiah @ 2Isaiah So just who exactly are you?  

Joel  has a bit of a locust problem.    

Jeremiah  It's really, really dark and uncomfortable.  I didn't really want to be a prophet....  

Amos @ Jeremiah  I'm not even a prophet.  Just a fig keeper.  

Malachi call that a sacrifical lamb?  

Daniel  Bored with vegetables now.  Can I have some nice chicken soup?

Jonah has a generally bad feeling about what's coming up.  

Obadiah  Finished my book!  68 chapters!  That's going to show Isaiah!

Hosea  You'll never believe what she's gone and done now. My mum told me I was making a mistake.

Elisha  Getting concerned about my hair-loss problem.

3Isaiah Heaven is my home, and earth is my footstool.  

 

Isaiah @ 3Isaiah  Are you having a laugh or what?  

Joel  has a really bad locust problem.    

StillSmallVoice  @Elijah     What are you doing here?

Angel  @Abram     You're going to have a baby.

Sarai @Angel  lol!    

Ezekiel  has been doing a lot of measuring.    

Obadiah Just found out about the word limit.  Need some heavy editing...    

Habbakuk @Obadiah Word limit? I've written 85 chapters lol!

Joel  really does wish somebody would invent "Raid".    

Baruch Feeling a bit left out.    

Daniel  think it's the all-vegetable diet.  I keep having these really weird dreams.    

Ezekiel  has been doing a lot of measuring.    

Amos is still very angry.  

Enya Meets the East Riding Yeomanry

A sad and surprising end to the Enyathon. I had naturally assumed that the playing of Enya's music at loud volume would continue until everyone had lost interest or was so thoroughly chilled that they forgot to change the CD.

Instead, there was an awful mix-up with the D-Day re-enactment. This year Young Keith chose to recreate the landing of the East Riding Yeomanry on Sword Beach. You may be aware that the East Riding Yeomanry, part of the Armoured Division, had a penchant for the more unconventional forms of armoured transport. Which may explain why Young Keith went for waterproofing an old Mini Metro to serve as a tank. Unfortunately, what with it being about the only Metro still in existence, and given that model's propensity to rust, he only got halfway across the duckpond before it started to fill with water. Shoving it into First, he got enough purchase to rev up and out of the pond, at the side where the Enyathon was entering its 112th glorious hour. The Metro went through the PA and crashed into the Enya-ettes, who fled screaming. There is no mention in the annals of D-Day of a group of fifty-year-old women dressed in tie-dyed kaftans running around in a panic, so in this respect I fell that Young Keith may have lacked authenticity. The Community's collection of Enya CDs has been totally trashed, but since it turns out that just about everyone seems to have their own, this is not necessarily a disaster.
Next year Keith is threatening to re-enact the fall of Caen. He tells me for this he will need "a medium-sized town with plentiful surface water". I just hope Bedford knows what's going to hit it.

The Principle of Entitlement

I've never been a great one for New Labour, which consists entirely, it seems, of Celts. We Beaker People have memories that go back a long way.
However one cannot help but admire Gordon Brown's new technique of ennobling people he wants to appoint as ministers. Now there appear to be more ministers in the Lords than in the Commons. Not one of them we have voted for. All he has to do now is appoint himself Lord Gordon of Kirkcaldy, and he will himself be immune to election (even more so than he is now), and presumably will be able to rule indefinitely. Much like my own position in the Beaker Folk...

Election Fever

So I realise that many of you were quite surprised this morning, to find out when you queued up at the Husborne Crawley polling booth that you were unable to vote. The explanation is quite simple. I filled in postal votes for you all.
I felt it was my democratic duty to ensure that you all voted for the right candidate. There were two options to achieve this aim - one to give you all an in-depth training in who I consider the right candidate is, together with an exhaustive breakdown of the aims, strengths and weaknesses of the different parties. The other was simply to go through all your postal ballots, putting ticks against those candidates to whom I am related.
I think you can see that this was carried out with the best intentions of saving you the effort of thinking, always important in a community of this kind. Now get out there and enjoy the Enyathon - in its second day and still soothing.

"You was a good man, and did good things" (the Woodlanders) - The Nativity of Thomas Hardy (OM)

What kind of day was today for Hardy's birthday? Brilliant sunshine, blue skies, birds singing, warmth and delight and even the odd bluebell left over. The only sense of the kind of doom and foreboding was in the Top Field, where we could see Moonbeam and her mates setting up the PA for tomorrow's Enyathon. Goodness knows that that's going to be like, but we reckon loud but ethereal may well just about describe it.

The festive Wandering Around in Smocks went as well as ever, and the Beaker Fertility Folk enjoyed the re-enactment of the St John's Eve scene from The Woodlanders, consisting as it did of legging it off into the woods at the first opportunity. Not really that different than any other day for the Fertility Folk when you think of it.

While needless to say the Beaker Quire, complete with fiddle, banjo and authentic bass flugelhorn, were quite happy to spend the day getting hammered on cider in the traditional way. Unfortunately it did cause a few of them to speak their minds when the Mummers came round, and after a frank exchange of words a few teeth were lost. On the bright side they stopped singing for a while as they received treatment, but the singing of "The Foggy Foggy Dew" doesn't half suffer from that lisp the singers seem to have developed since the fracas."

As the light now slips away in these days nigh unto the solstice, we see the shadowy shape of the Ooser, as he heads off down School Lane to frighten any passing yokels. It almost makes you wish you lived in Dorset. Till you remember the house prices.

God Bless, Tommy H. And we hope you were wrong about the whole God thing. For your own sake if nothing else...

NB - speaking of the Solstice, the "Build Your Own Stonehenge" kit was delivered this morning. Can all Beaker Folk please assemble in the car park tomorrow morning to help us put it up. Even as we speak Hnaef is out in the Orchard checking the location of True North, but using a map of Abyssynia isn't going to be much help to him in my opinion.

Festival of Pebbles

To celebrate our day trip to Hunstanton we thought it would be nice to conclude the day with a celebration of pebbles.

Each of you were asked to collect one pebble from the beach.  At the appropriate time in the service this evening, you are to bring your pebble to the Wishing Chair, present it to the Executive Assistan Archdruid with Special Responsibility for Pebbles (Peter Mandelson - will he ever stop picking up these titles?) and receive the following benison:
If you have collected a piece of Carr Stone, a brand new, shiny, vanilla-scented tea light for you to use to illuminate our gathering.

For a lump of flint, you will receive the Holy Water poured over the stone as it lies in your hands, symbolising the blessings of the sea.

For a worn down piece of brick, a whack round the head with a lump of driftwood.

For a piece of sea glass, you will be condemned to walk around the Community boundaries for 24 hours and a minute, wearing a Jeremy Clarkson mask, for not knowing the difference between glass and pebbles.

At the end of the celebration, we will pour a light mortar mixture over the stones, setting them into a physical representation of our community.  Except the brick.  We'll chuck that outside - it's just rubbish, after all.

Beaker Jobs for Beaker People

We are most concerned by the leaflet put out by a political party campaigning in the European elections.

First of all, anyone with experience in the building industry would have to be concerned that the builders in this photo may well scratch their hands on a nasty rough brick, or struggle to lift a standard-sized lintel.  Who knows, they might even be allergic to cement, builders' sand or brick dust.  One can already say that, without any of them wearing safety gloves, none of them is equipped for serious handling of heavy building materials.  Indeed, one of them appears to be wearing a Mickey Mouse watch.

And let's be honest, the one on the right is not going to go far, trying to climb scaffold, is he?

While the one on the left appears to have his hard hat on back to front.  Indeed, the general impression is that these are the finalists in an audition for a Village People tribute band.

In summary - are these real builders?  Look at their lilywhite hands.  We doubt it.

BUT

let's take the photo as it is.  The hi-viz, worn so gleefully on men who are clearly not builders, can only tell us one thing - they are clearly Beaker Folk.  This gives the message of this political party an even more dubious impact.  For if they want to repatriate from these shores everyone who is not a Beaker Person, who will be left?  Not the Celts, who so cruelly displaced the Beaker Folk to Cornwall, Ireland and Husborne Crawley.  Not the Romans, who demonstrated the prototypical Italian approach to conflict by putting all gears in reverse in their 5th century scarper to their underfloor-heated homes.  Not the Johnny-Come-Lately Anglo-Saxons, Norse or Normans - hardly been here two millenia.  No, it will just be Hnaef, Young Keith, Drayton, Burton, and a group of namby-pamby builders.  I've seen the future and it doesn't work.  Or, at any rate, it doesn't lay bricks.

Friday's Programme

We put it to the vote which event to celebrate today - the options being Norgay and Hillary climbing Everest (we prefer not to say "conquering" - has imperialist, militaristic overtones) and Charles II's return from exile as king of England, Scotland, Ireland and (he claimed) France.  Needles to say the Fertility Folk voted for Charley Boy, while the rest went for Everest.  So in the interests of community harmony, we went for both.

8am - Clambering up mountain of cardboard boxes representing Everest

10 am - Liniments and Embrocations

12 noon - The wearing of wigs, frilly sleeves and lots of lace (NB - several folk of the Community were confused with hard-line Forward in Faith members.  We think they'll all back from Benediction now, but we'll have a full Community count at 8pm to make sure).

2 pm - Recreating of climbing Nell Gwynne (optional activity for the Fertility Folk).

4 pm - Sending of telegram to the Queen

6 pm - Recreation of the exhumation of Cromwell and Ireton (using a couple of tailor's dummies we picked up cheap at the Officers' Club closing-down sale).  Followed by dragging the dummies around the village behind a 4x4 until Young Keith's uncle the policeman stops us.

8 pm - The beheading of the tailors' dummies and their ceremonial burning on the cardboard Everest, will bring together the twin threads of today's activities and bring the formal part of the day to an end. 

Save The MPs

After the success of BUGFAW we weren't expecting to start a new charity so soon, but in the circumstances we felt we had no choice.  So we are starting our new movement, STaMP (Save The MPs).

All over the country, a group of people incapable of living in the modern world are being asked to come to terms with living without the financial support to which they are accustomed.  Mostly they are incapable of doing any kind of normal "work", having no experience of business or management and certainly no chance of doing any manual work or customer service.   Cushioned from making any decisions by a massive Labour majority, Europe, the Civil Service and an over-mighty executive, they have spent their time up to now deciding which of their sixteen sets of sheets to put on their beds, what colour to paint the front rooms of their "second homes" and shuffling through lobbies guided by their minders, or "whips".

Now they have to fend for themselves.  With no discernible useful skills, dumped onto a competitive labour market with only £30,000 of parachute payments, they suffer the indignity and terror of wondering whether they will be Esther Rantzen's next target.

Just 95p will buy a sacked Home Secretary a bathplug.

£1,600 will buy a gothic floating mansion for a bunch of ducks.

£30,000 will build an extension for their unemployed siblings.

£20,000 will cure dry rot in a completely different part of the country.

A couple of quid will buy them a road map of the country so they can find out where their constituencies are supposed to be and maybe buy houses there. 

£300,000 will buy a second home and the trees to plant around the boundaries of the garden.

Can you help?  The good news is that, even if they are admitting they got it wrong now, they don't need our help until next year, when they step down in their own good time.  Unless HMRC gets there first. 

Holy Well

Now I know I said that the Moot House had to be precisely where it was because it was on the intersection of two ley lines - one the "Woburn Ley" from the lion enclosure to Cranfield Airport, the other the "Icknieldley" from Ivinghoe Beacon to Walsingham. I know we resolved precisely where it should be using a plumb line, dowsing rods and a 1974 Ordnance Survey map of Bedford.
But. This week's events have caused me to revisit those decisions. The sudden transformation of the Moot House into a forty-foot wide circular pond has massively increased donations and visits from pilgrims coming to see the miraculous "holy well". Well-dressing looks like being one of the most popular and cost-effective forms of fund raising (and spiritual activity, with deep traditional roots, needless to say) that we have ever initiated. Good grief, the faithful are already throwing money in. Feldred swears blind she saw a Naiad yesterday, and it's these little details that count. If the Moot House was already on a ley intersection, then surely the Holy Well of Husborne Crawley is the crowning glory of the ley.
Digging for the new Moot House, aligned between the Holy Well and the Great Trilithon in the car park, will commence at 8am Thursday. I hope the cries of "oh no not again" will be drowned out by the spontaneous enthusiasm of people keen to create another spot of holiness and reflection in this sacred landscape.

Rain stopped play

Thanks to ongoing sunburn problems I'm pleased to say that I missed out on last night's culminating New Moon ceremonies.  The people at the Watching Post got absolutely drenched last night.  Turns out that it had also been re-thatched with Twiglets.  There seems no chance of them seeing the first glint of the New Moon for weeks at this rate.  Still, what would a religion be without rules?  They're just going to have to stay out there.

Interesting developments on the Moot House front.  In accordance with tradition, the Moot House is dug four feet below the level of the surrounding land, allowing us to rise up - as from the dead - to greet the rising sun, and to descend to the depths with it as it sinks.  However with all this rain it and the lack of a roof it is now full of rainwater.  It is therefore with a heavy heart that I once again announce that all Moot House-based ceremonies will take place in the Dining Hall of the Great House.  In the meantime the Moot House is being used by six frustrated male mallards and a bunch of over-enthusiastic anabaptists.  I wouldn't go too close -you could end up unexpectedly falling into a new religion.

New Moon

In the current state of the New Moon it is a delight to observe the stars, especially on a night such as tonight when the sky is utterly clear.  

I'm afraid Eggwyn is in a bit of a state.  She looked up at the stars, pondered the vast distances between them and considered the emptiness of space.  She looked at herself - just a tiny, short-lived, apparently random collection of carbon, hydrogen and nitrogen, clinging to a dying rock.  And she felt a bit down.  Then she remembered that she works for RBS and got positively hysterical.

In any case, feel free to go out there and marvel at the magic of the universe, the glimmer of the stars and the glow from the M1.  Bear in mind that the dew's falling like a ton of bricks under these clear skies.  I've a lovely range of hi-viz waterproof jackets you can go out in (only £9.99 each).

Personally I'll be staying in this evening.  In honour of Wesley Day we had a three-hour singing and preaching session at lunchtime in the orchard (it was only one song, but the original of "And can it be" is pretty well three hours long on its own).  At the end I felt strangely warmed, but it turned out that this was due to sunburn and now I can barely move without losing layers of skin.  I tried various herbal remedies - camomile, lavendar, tea tree, lemon balm - but frankly they're all rubbish.  Looks like it's back to the calomine lotion.

The World's Biggest Tealight

Full marks to Young Keith this time. 

As part of his penance for the Moot House roof, he spent all day yesterday searching out every half-lit tealight that has been discarded round the premises in the last year or so.  You may remember that last time we managed to melt them down to create a life-size replica of Anthea Turner.

On this occasion Keith actually collected enough to make one giant tealight, which by an odd coincidence is the size and shape of the interior of a Land Rover Freelander.  We lit it last night and as of this morning it's still burning well.  Keith put a whole bucket of essential oils in molten wax, and apparently even the people in the traffic jam at Junction 13 are feeling a whole lot calmer as a result.

Happy Birthday, Morrissey

The antidote to Iona.

Wind Chimes

"Can we have some wind chimes, Archdruid?" they asked me.  Why of course, I replied.  What could be more chiming than a little aeolian auditory alliteration, I thought.  The gentle tinkle of wind chimes as the spirit moves them, the silent movement of the breeze which blows where it will turned into a music to soothe the wounded spirit and feed the hunger of love.  Play on, said I.

I suspect that it was Young Keith's intention to make up for the fiasco of the Twiglet wattle and daub.  Maybe that was why he decided to go for it in a big way.  But using scaffold poles as wind chimes was possibly a bit much.  I mean, I didn't want a crane parked in the Community car park.  It's occupying a load of space that we need for parking 4x4s.  On the other hand, you can hear their soothing tones from Woburn .

Melting Moot

It was rather a shock this morning at the Sunrise Awakening.  Gathering in the Moot House to huddle for warmth around a tea light before we started, we were surprised to feel the rain falling on our heads.  

Close investigation revealed the awful truth.  Parts of the roof appeared to have melted away.  Now, wattle and daub is a traditional and ancient building material.  We never dreamed it could disappear.  But after a brief investigation, a confession was forthcoming from Young Keith.  We all know his uncle, the police officer, without whom far fewer Beaker People would be at liberty than is currently the case.  But it was from his cousin, the Cash and Carry operator, that we purchased the wattle.  Not that we realised at the time that he was a Cash and Carry operator.  No, Young Keith had told us he was a builders' merchant.  There was no way, in the dark of late autumn, racing to roof the Moot House before the snows came, that we could have noticed that our wattle was in fact Twiglets.  OK, a few of us commented on the yeasty smell, but we put it down to an easterly wind carrying the scent of Charles Wells across from Bedford.

Young Keith will be spending the next few months walking around the community with a clown face on, and wearing a pointed hat.  This is not to punish him by humiliation - no, we Beaker Folk believe in education.  This is to teach him not to do it again.

Now we have to work out what to do with the roof.  Anyone got any wicker?

Anniversary of Helen Sharman going into space

Since we couldn't think of anything else to celebrate today, but were feeling in deadly need of cheering up after the Eurovision Song Contest, we thought we'd celebrate the 18th anniversary of Helen Sharman being the first English person (we shun "British", as it has echoes of the hated Celts) into space.

The little gadget that Hnaef put together was supposed to be capable of launching people three or four feet into the air, so they could fall gently onto the big pile of hi-viz we laid down.  After three or four people had been launched for their short flight, I felt it was safe for my archdruidic flight. However. Whether through malice or accident, I could not say.  But the "extra strong" setting seems to have been applied when I sat in the Launch Arm Chair.  Ending up halfway down the Meadow, with the chair still attached to my rear end, was remarkably painful.

I am typing today's missive with a pencil that I am holding between my teeth.  Apparently no bones are broken, just a large degree of bruising.  Apparently the compost heap I landed in helped to break my fall.  I hope to be up and about some time tomorrow.

More on expenses

Thanks to Drayton Parslow, yet more information has been dragged into the public domain that can only disturb those of uncertain faith and ready cheque books.
Drayton has been asking how I can have claimed expenses for the payment of the mortgage on the Great House, pointing out that my family has lived here since the seventeenth century. I would like to point out that the mortgage was not to pay for the house itself, but rather it has been paying for the building of the Moot House. All that wattle and daub didn't cut itself down and dig itself out of the bed of the brook. We had to pay the finest traditional Beaker craftspeople in the country to carry out this important and sacred act. Likewise, the planting of the new Avenue. Those cedars aren't cheap to import , but without them our ritual pathways would not be complete.
Rumours that I'm planning to completely re-landscape the grounds of the Great House, then liquidate the Beaker Folk and retire in comfort, are completely untrue. As is the suggestion that the Sensory Deprivation Tank I claimed for on expenses was in any way a selfish indulgence. Rather it is where I dream dreams and see visions for the future of our Community.

As is apparently necessary in these hysterical times, I would like to point out that I am in no way guilty of any wrongdoing. Everything I paid for and claimed from Community funds was within the rules. It is the System that has failed. I am sorry.
I hope this is all now at an end.

Expenses update

There has been a certain amount of disquiet over the expense claims which Drayton Parslow has discovered, photocopied and posted on telegraph poles all over Husborne Crawley.  My claims for a helicopter flight to the Druidic Gorsedd on Environmental Sustainability at Glastonbury, and Hnaef's elocution lessons, have all been subject to scrutiny.

We had every right to claim these expenses, which are all in the rules that Hnaef and I drew up when we first realised there were people gullible enough to give their trust and money to this community.  However we are aware that it may look like we have our snouts down and are troughing till it hurts.  Therefore we are happy to repay the sum of £576.56, which is the full amount that Drayton has managed to pin  on us.  I hope this matter is now at an end.