Well, the Wicker Man is ready.
I say "wicker". In fact, in keeping with tradition, it's made from all the pallets we've managed to collect over the last few months, the planks split lengthwise and woven cunningly into an erection that bears more than a passing resemblance to Russell Brand.
The ancient Celts, when they weren't writing slightly stilted, folksy liturgy or wearing hooped green and white shirts, used to burn prisoners-of-war, criminals, career politicians and used car sales people in their Wicker People. The Beaker Folk, being peaceful apart from when slaughtering their neighbours, just used to do it because fires are nice, and the evenings get long at this time of year. And they had no Twitter, so had a lot of time on their hands. So doing a bit of wicker weaving and then dancing around in the ashes after the fire was, in many respects, a bit like the equivalent of making Jobseekers work a fortnight for Tesco.
Whatever. Tonight we walk in the footsteps of the ancestors. We mark another spoke in the great circle of the year. We unite ourselves with the cycles of Mother Earth.
And we bake a load of potatoes.