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Sunday, 1 February 2015

Nativity of Peter Sallis (1921)

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.

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