Archdruid: We light this candle in honour of the Old Yorkshire God, EarnshawAll: You sure that isn't a bit pagan?
Archdruid: We're Beaker People. We like to be eclectic.
Drayton Parslow: Syncretistic Heretics! You will burn at the Day of... why are you strapping me into this bath?
Archdruid: And so, in memory of Bill Owen, who proved that nobody is so Cockerney that they can't aspire to Yorkshireness, we offer up this sacrifice to the other Great Yorkshire God, Sam.
Drayton Parslow: Oh no! It's the Wicker Man all over again!
Archdruid: OK guys, push him.
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| Adequately socially distanced |
Drayton races downhill towards the conveniently-placed hedge. At an inopportune moment, a giant balloon in the shape of a woman flies into him, knocking him into the path of an elderly man on a bike. With hilarious consequences.
An angry woman with a yard brush appears
Nora: If you don't want a taste o' this brush, you'll stay at least 2m away from my steps.
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| "Omeroyd? My uncle Perce suffered from them for years." |
Kboingggg
Hnaef: Woaaaah!
Burton: How long have I got to hang from this tree in a pigeon outfit?
Archdruid: It's religious ritual. Could be another fortnight.
Norman Clegg: Oh well, happen I'll get some sausage for me tea.
Socially distanced coffee to be drunk at Sid's Cafe. When they re-open.
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