A Wicker Person, its feet encased in two shopping trollies, is pushed out onto the car park. Its chest is emblazoned with the words "Lord Summerisle - RIP". The deep inconsistency of this is relished rather than reconciled or rejected.
The Beaker Folk gather on the Platform of Viewing, and gaze towards the Great Trilithon, shining brilliantly as ultra-violet light is beamed onto its fluorescent pink paintwork.
The Beaker Folk shiver in the heavy, humid and unexpectedly cold air. They sip at celebratory glasses of Pimms.
Archdruid: In but 5 hours, we rise to greet the Solstice Sunrise.
Hnaef: That's a bit early, isn't it?
Charlii: I hear that it's going to be pretty cloudy.
Young Keith: I'm probably going to be sleeping off this Pimms.
All: We've got fields to visit, just got married, etc.
Archdruid: Then run out into the hedgerows and bring in the....
All: We've been out into the fields and lanes and hedgerows. We've found a bloke called Pete on his way home from the pub. But he says he's not getting up early on a Sunday.
Archdruid: Oh blow it. Light the Wicker Person and let's go home.