Pouring on the Atmosphere

It's a solemn moment, that of the Filling up of Beakers.

In the half-light as the afterglow lingers over Milton Keynes, three saintly, shrouded men* move across the lawn slowly. They enter the Moot House and approach the Worship Focus. The Bearer of Beakers reaches out for the "Filling-up Beaker". Being the clumsy get that he is, he knocks assorted tea lights, doilies, scented chandlerware and a pyramid of apples all over the parquet floor.

Shoving everything roughly back on the table, they move to the Fountain of Sam Macey's. The Beaker Bearer dips the Filling-up Beaker into the well. The First and Second Plebs kneel and hold their (empty) beakers for filling.

The Beaker Bearer pours out the well-water into the empty beakers. Since Beaker tradition demands this is done from shoulder height, and since he has all the grace and accuracy of an Emile Heskey chip over a goalkeeper, the Plebs, the floor and most of the assembled Beaker People are drenched. The Dry Ice is enabled and the Laser-effect Lasers are switched on.

Second Pleb: I'm wet.

First Pleb: I've gone blind.

Second Pleb: Now I've gone blind.

First Pleb: Now I'm wet.

 This may go on for sometime, while the assembled Beaker Multitude grumble about their wet feet, the dark, the occasional searing agony of getting laser-light in your eye, and the fact that it's time for tea.

Archdruid: Now the Beakers are Filled. The loving goodness of the gentle night may pour out its beneficence on the Beakers we have blessed.

All: Does anyone know what this is all about?

All may exit in silence or, as local custom demands, whistling the Coldplay tune "Yellow".

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* The word "men" here strictly refers to men. The masculine emphatically does not include the feminine. Not even old Lorna "Two Left Feet" Lovemoon. Even she causes less trouble than the blokes in the group.