Beaker Folk assemble in Liturgical Dress [ie two vests, shirt, sweater, waistcoat, suit jacket and raincoat. If it's a warm day.]
Archdruid: Cracking cheese, Grommit!
All: Mmm Wensleydale!
Archdruid: How you all keeping?
All: Bowel's playing up. God moves in mysterious ways.
Archdruid: You've got to remember, Compo, that Cyril's a Tory, and Tories can't stand it if you're filthy and obscene.
All: That's what the Labour Party's for.
Hnaef: Wives never understand. They don't understand the masculine urge to test oneself to the limits in some alien environment.
All: That reminds me. I must go to the post office.
Blamire: It's an open question, life. Anything's possible. I mean, what do we really know about anything?
Clegg: Maybe we're already dead.
Compo: Tha what?
Clegg: Maybe we had to die to get here, from some other place.
Compo: Ah, give us a fag afore I get headache.
Blamire: So this is Heaven then. Or the other place.
Clegg: Well, it can't be the other place.
Blamire: Why not?
Clegg: In Yorkshire? Be further south, wouldn't it?
Beaker Folk file off into the hills, pushing bikes, baths, inflatable swans, motorised salad-strainers and mobile hot drink vending machines.