Sunday, 31 August 2025

Meteorological Last Day of Summer

 Obviously, it's not the last day of summer. That happens on the eve of the Autumnal Equinox. But the trouble is, that's a fairly moveable feast and doesn't happen on the last day of a month. And weather forecasters are rubbish at spreadsheets, so like to make their lives easy. So they say today is the last day. 

But to be fair, nights are drawing in and it will soon be Christmas. So a timely reminder.

Lovely sunset.


If you have a woodwose, werewolf, killer badger, or other uncanny beast living in your garden, make sure you lock it in the shed at night. It saves a lot of unnecessary innocent deaths. And terrifies the life out of burglars.

Thursday, 28 August 2025

Celebrating Saint Augustine the Hippo

 Today we in the Beaker Folk commemorate St Augustine the Hippo.

Augustine's mother Monica the Hippo was very concerned about him as a young hippo.  She worried that he spent too much time wallowing in the hollow flirting with female hippopotamuses*, and not enough time in church. 

And Augustine himself was aware of his failings.  After a particularly close encounter with a marine predator in the Nile, he said "God make me chased. But not yet.**" 

But Augustine's hippopotamizing came to an end after Pope Attenborough saw some English slaves in the market in Rome. Someone remarked that, with their leathery backs and big mouths and teeth, it was all very monotonous. To which the Pope wittily replied, "Non monotoni sed Hippopotami.***"

Augustine the Hippo was summonsed to Rome, from where Pope Attenborough despatched him to England. Making Augustine fairly downcast. As there were much more direct flights from Alexandria than from Rome. In the event, he could only get an Easyjet. Which instead of taking him to London, which he was supposed to be going to, landed him at London Canterbury International.

Realising that the bus wasn't going to be around for another 1500 years, and that in any case he'd have trouble squeezing through the doors, Augustine settled in Canterbury, from where he evangelised the people of Kent and Essex, and preached many sermons on the dangers to our souls of stilettoes and white socks. 

It was while in Canterbury that Augustine wrote his great and famous works, "Submersio" and "City of Mud." And left his lasting influence on the English people.


*Yes.  Look it up.

** In Latin: "Numquam crocodilo arrideas." 

*** Don't blame me. I never had the Latin.  That's why I never became a judge.

Wednesday, 27 August 2025

Re-envisioning the Midsomer Benefice

Reverend Barnaby Barnaby is a lucky man. He has a benefice he likes, with a nice rectory. And his brother is the local murder squad Detective Inspector - so he knows if he ever wants to have a family reunion, he just has to go down to one of his churches and shuffle the hymnbooks, and his brother will arrive.

Of course, this means someone has been murdered in bizarre circumstances at the local doily festival. But you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.

Barnaby has three parish churches in the lovely county of Midsomer, and he works hard to ensure the life of all of them. 
Three churches (block pics) and a Rectory


And getting round three on a Sunday morning, while doable, takes a bit of planning. But he does it. Promising himself a couple of pints at the "Drowned Kindle" when he's reached Sunday lunchtime.
Same, but with the service times and the rector's route around them on Sunday morning

And, of course, people from the villages go to the churches. They're ageing a bit, and occasionally thin on numbers on cold mornings. But nevertheless, they go.



Same, but with the journeys of people to their parish churches on Sunday

But people don't only go to church in their own parish. There are people who prefer the 8am BCP at Midsomer Elvis, as that leaves them the rest of the day free. And some of them like the beauty of the language. Some like the 9.15 at Badger's Bottom, as they have real coffee after the service. And parents tend to go to the 11 am at Midsomer Slaughter, which is more all-age-friendly.

Same again, but with the journeys of people going to churches in other parishes

So Revd Barnaby has been keeping everything ticking over, offering a bit of everything for everybody. And the benefice pays its Parish Share. So everything is good.
Sometimes, as he heads from Badger's Bottom to Midsomer Slaughter, Barnaby realises so are quite a few of his congregation. And it may be a bit odd to have people driving in all directions, but it seems to work.

But then Barnaby retires. And the "presentation is suspended", oh dreadful phrase.

And the bishop has great ideas of rationalising the diocese. 

And has appointed a Deanery Operations Lead for 50 grand per annum. Whose job is to re-envision the Midsomer Deanery. 

And now Barnaby's little flock has become part of the Greater Cawston Deanery Benefice. With a Team Rector, a Team Vicar, and Barnaby himself as a retired priest with permission to officiate. And the ministry rota, the mission planning, and the allocation of priests to Occasional Offices have now been rationalised.  And the Rectory has been sold, so that's going to pay for the Deanery Operations Lead for five years.

Loads of churches, with Barnaby's benefice now shrunk and in the top left corner

And obviously, with the new structure, there's no way the new team can support all those churches. So Badger's Bottom keeps its weekly service. Midsomer Elvis is a "Festival Church". So the parish still has to find the money to maintain it, but there are far fewer services. And Midsomer Slaughter got lucky and has received permission to be converted into a Museum of Local Murders. 



Back to three churches, but now only one has a service time or anyone going to it. The other two say "Xmas" and "Easter"
As he drives thirty miles across the county to take an 8am for his service fee, Revd Barnaby thinks he should have stuck around a few more years. 

Surely there'd have been another exciting strategy along eventually.


Tuesday, 26 August 2025

Woke Mind Virus Update

An email has come in from a friend in Kettering, worried about all the Woke blowing around after the Greenbelt festival. She asks what she can do to avoid catching the Woke Mind Virus (MVS), which she believes is a disease passed on in the air or by 5G transmitters.

I told her there's good news. Researchers at Oxford University have developed a new Woke vaccine which works against the virus. 

It's a new mRNA vaccine. A vast improvement on the old attenuated vaccine, which used a carrier that had formerly been actively woke, but had been deactivated. They generally used the opinion columns of the Guardian.

My friend reacted strongly.  Said she wasn't going to take a bioweapon designed to make her sterile. I pointed out to her that she's 67, and her husband has a bad back. But she says it's the principle.

So she says she's going to build up her resistance to the disease by eating organic and wholemeal foods, and getting lots of sunshine.

She says she's enabling her body to fight back.

But now I'm wondering if she's just starting to show the first symptoms.

Monday, 25 August 2025

Woke Litter Blights Greenbelt

As the happy campers of the Greenbelt festival depart to the routine of their quotidian lives, the cleansing agents of North Northamptonshire move onto the Boughton Hall grounds to deal with the terrible litter left behind. 

Now, the Greenbelt organizers are very happy with the state the campsite is left in. Nobody could be prouder of the way the vegan burger wrappers, cruelty-free popcorn boxes and organically-grown tent pegs have been swept away into either the bins, or the back of the fleet of the Fiat Fairtrades with which the pilgrims will return to their vicarages and mews houses in London's trendy Marylebone.

But you can't see the real menace. The one lurking invisibly across the grounds of the old stately home. Blowing in the Northants winds and heaped up against the Northants hedgerows and blowing down the old A43 towards Corby.

Great piles of Woke.

"It could be a real disaster," said Councillor Syd Nasty of the 'Send them Back to Wellingborough' Party. "They think this Woke stuff is just a laugh, like setting off Chinese lanterns or letting your dog have a run around the sheep field. But in fact it's really dangerous. If a squirrel eats this stuff it could end up using pronouns. And squirrels only speak their own squirrely language - so where's that gonna end?
"Or it could run down the Ise, into the Northants water supply, and where will we be? Camden, that's where. Drowning in hand-woven friendship bracelets. If people start respecting other people's rights to live their lives without giving them a good tar-and-feathering, our English civilization could go to pot.
"We've not built this country on 200 years of slavery and oppression of the Working Classes so a bunch of hippies and Christians can try and turn us all nice," he said, painting a St George Cross onto the nearest manhole cover, and showing me the brochure for the hotel he's going to spend his holiday protesting outside.

A field with a track and a tree
Woke as far as the eye can see

And so the hazmat-suited outsourced Woke cleansers go about their business. Sweeping up the Woke to be buried in an ironstone mine - the depth of rock meaning the Woke radiation can be kept safely confined underground. Where there is too great a deposit of Woke to be managed by hand - for instance where Mx Fabulosa Bradley's Tofutorium was trading - they hose the place down with vitriol before taking away the grass, to ensure the cows don't graze on it. Woke cows might start demanding to stay out of burgers, said Councillor Syd, and if they start forming cow communes, milk quality is going to suffer.

It has been suggested that gathering so much Woke into one place in the centre of the country may be asking for a natural disaster. Syd Nasty, stranded waist-deep in a Wokedrift, looks across the fields, and shudders, as he considers the danger of a Critical Mass of Woke. Northants couldn't cope with that many genders. Why can't they just take their Woke home with them?

Saturday, 16 August 2025

A Riteless Passage

I'm going to have to rethink the Beaker unattended cremations service.

Seemed a good idea at the time, to cash in on the direct cremations fashion.

But now I keep getting people coming to say, look we know Aunt Ethel asked for it, having seen a low-paid actor in an ad, wittering on about the sausage rolls at the wake. She was convinced it was better to save her family money, and trust they would have their own, cheaper yet more personal ceremony at the pub or in a nice restaurant. 

But they've been left with a vague feeling of nothing. Instead of getting together with friends and family members, going through a shared ritual, getting into a drunken fight, and restructuring the family roles - which is what funerals are at least partly for - there's nothing. The pub has been closed and left to rot while the management company tries to get planning permission to build a care home on the site. Nobody can agree whether to go for Chinese, Indian, or a Toby carvery. And Ethel is - probably much to her surprise - still upstairs at Cousin Eric's in the spare bedroom, surprising visitors when they wonder what lovely gift has been left for them for their stay, and peer into the folksy hessian bag.

Woman with wacky scarf and red glasses pointing
"Forget the red suit.
Let's save the money and stay home"
So now, instead of the lovely get-together the woman with the red glasses on the other ad was looking forward to, there's a void. A ritual lacuna, if you will.

So they come to see me and we agree to say some prayers.

And while this doesn't necessarily replace the ceremony they feel they should have, it does give a sense they've done something. A death is a passage, and now the passage has been given a rite.

And on Aunt Ethel's birthday, when Facebook pops up the suggestion that they might want to send her best wishes - they'll remember to put "heavenly" in the greeting, rather than assuming she's still in that bungalow in Cleethorpes. No, she's next to the ashes of Eric's pet iguana instead.


In Memory of Ethel
4 June 1938 - 16 August 2025




No opening music

No Eulogy

No Favourite Hymn

No Reading

Not even "Death is Nothing at All", which is ironic, given she actually is in the next room

No Commendation

Commital at Some Unspecified Time when Eric Moves House

No Closing Music

No donations are requested to any charity

No flowers

The family do not look forward to welcoming you to any wake location

Delivery in 10-14 days.  Click here to track your parcel.

Friday, 15 August 2025

No time for Jephthah

 "I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson and Jephthah, about David and Samuel and the prophets" (Heb 11:32b) 

Well I'm not surprised the author to Hebrews didn't have time to tell about Samson, and - most especially - Jephthah. What on earth were they thinking about even to list them, let alone tell about them?

The author has just mentioned Rahab. Awkward character, what with her technically being a traitor to her own people. Or maybe not so much. Rahab is presumably living on the fringes of her society. Maybe she's seen a way out of her exploitation. She goes on to be the many-greats-grandmother of David. And David and Samuel and Gideon - you could say they show mixed results, because we are all fallible people. But they often did their best. Barak's an interesting choice - a good bloke, but aware of his own limitations. So he let Deborah (whose name never suited her) do the fighting for him, and Jael strike a blow for women's liberation.

But Jephthah? Who would include him in a list of heroes of the faith?

Jephthah, you may remember, was elected to be the wartime judge of Israel. Up to then he had been a vagabond gang-leader. And though he received the Spirit of God, which was the qualification for being a good judge, nevertheless he bargained with God - tried to be an equal - offered to sacrifice the first thing he met when he came home if God gave him the victory. And all the sheep and chickens wisely hid under a hedge when he came back, I presume. So he first met his daughter. And his vow was invalid, and he had a way out of it in the Law. But he sacrificed his daughter anyway. Having first blamed her for the problem. Because his word was his bond. And because he was an idiot.

And yet there he is alongside David and Gideon. An exemplar of faith.

I could conclude that I've misread Judges completely, and killing his daughter as a result of an illegal vow was in fact proof that Jepthah was a selfless and pious man of strong character. In the modern MAGA world, maybe that's arguable. And indeed - some have argued it. Even on a children's Bible website

A young woman looking, to say the least, pensive in a white / gold dress
The Daughter of Jephthah - Alexandre Cabanel

Maybe I'm just too post-modern? But I could conclude something else.

I have to conclude that this isn't about Jephthah's rather wild, badly-conceived faith. And it's actually about God's faithfulness. The reason that Hebrews contains a rather mixed bag of heroes of the faith is because being on the list doesn't depend on them. It depends on God. And it was God who was faithful in raising up Rahab to be the ancestor of Jesus. It was God who was faithful in saving his people through the useless Jephthah and the unreliable and not remotely religious Samson. It was God who was faithful in making Jesus the son of David, that adulterer and effectively murderer. It was God who acted through history in preserving his people Israel. And God who is faithful to us.

Which is good news. If God's faithfulness can get even Jephthah into a hall of fame of the faithful, then Jesus's love can do the same for us. God's faithfulness is the light that reflects in our own faith - however dim. And God's faithfulness is true and firm and eternal. Even for Samson. Even for David. Even for us.


Thursday, 14 August 2025

The All Modern Pilgrim Destination

Latest news  Burton's fenland pilgrimage has taken him to Walsingam on the Eve of the Assumption. He has been Whatsapping images of his day, mostly consisting of an chap in a biretta that Burton was quite taken with. But he now appears to be as high as a kite on Aspall cider and Rosa Mistica. Burton, that is, not the priest. I told him to avoid the Pilgrim Shop, but they lure him in with offers for cut-price icons, and then he runs amock buying incense.

Still, he's given me some ideas to upgrade the Beaker experience here ready for the next pilgrimage season. First up - why just go down some steps to get sprinkled with holy water at a well? I've set our Keith to plumbing St Bogwulf's Holy Well straight into the hot tub. Float your sins away in our sanctified jacuzzi. You can enjoy the experience of soaking in warm bubbling holy water, even in the depths of winter. If you put a shilling in the meter.

And we've been able to put our "Let it Be Machine" into action straight away. If you visit our AI BVM statue, you can hear Mother Mary speaking words of wisdom just like St Paul McCartney said. We weren't sure which voice might be most calming but also wise and Mother Maryish. But eventually settled on Dame Maggie Smith for the voice simulator. The AI does need a little more training, however. The real Blessed Virgin never encouraged people to invade Luton, I know that. But if she can encourage people they need to buy more tea lights and doilies, we'll be good.

Then we'll have Keith's Bunco Booth Game, where you bet on which piece of wood is a fragment of the True Cross. You can't win, of course, as none of them are.

Then finally, remembering we're world-affirming, tree-hugging kind of Forest Church pioneers, the Mystic Forest encounter. This is the one that's going to take the work. But by next May Day, it should be possible to pay a tenner a head for an hour's encounter with a sentient forest. The trees will creak and whisper secrets. The Mystic River will rise up to your waist when you least expect it. And the holographic dryads will dance with Herne the Hunter and Great Pan, just as they did when the world was young. A terrifying and yet numinous experience for all the family. You'll leave changed, refreshed, haunted, and soaked. Like visiting Manchester in the autumn, but without the despair.

Wednesday, 13 August 2025

On the Wings of a Dove

Dear brethren (and sisters). What a shock it was today.

I was having my "quiet time" between 6 am and noon as usual. About halfway through, Marjorie came running into the Manse study, screaming that Marston Moretaine was being "raptured".

Well, naturally I wondered. Marston is an amiable if dim chap, but a member of the Beaker Folk rather than one of my godly fellowship here in the Funambulist Baptist Chapel. So while my redeemed bottom was still firmly in my Quiet Time Chair, how was it that Marston was being called into heaven like the godly who will shine like stars? I know God's grace is imputed and not earned. But still, this seemed a bit much.

Begging God's pardon for leaving him, as it were, in listening mode, I left Manse Cottage and ran out into the street. And there was Marston.

Lying on the ground.

Being attacked by the Archdruid's pet eagles, which she uses to punish the incalcitrant.

Raptored.

I wished him well, and went back to the Manse to pray for him.

Tuesday, 12 August 2025

21 Things to do with an Unwanted Church Piano

Burton Dasset is currently away on a mountain-climbing tour of the Lincolnshire Fens. But it's nice to know he remembers me. He's sent back this advert he saw in a local church, having remembered our post last week about refusing unwanted gifts. But I've removed the contact details. Otherwise you'd be flooding the inbox of the vicar, trying to take advantage of this offer. Admit it, you would.

"Free to collect" - a picture of a piano "In need of repair"

An old church piano that needs a repair. There's a backstory of course to this plague of pianos needing a good home. And it goes back to round about the 1950s.

In that brave post-war world, with a little more money, many aspiring working class families decided that little Tommy needed to acquire a bit of culture. So an upright piano was purchased - probably on Hire Purchase - lessons procured, and the next thing you knew young Tommy, with a repertoire of "Chopsticks" and "Strangers in the Night", had grown up and moved out, leaving the piano behind.

Then as time went by, mum and dad downsized from their three bed council semi to a bungalow. The piano had to go. But conveniently mum was in the church quire. And one day, during a vacancy, the piano appeared in the vestry.

Where it's been ever since. All over the country. Hundreds and thousands of them, their off-white teeth grinning at whoever lifts the lid for a quiet nostalgic tinkle of the keys. And thousands of church ministers, jealous of the space for a new chasuble chest, PA system, or baroque new font, wonder how to remove them. But nobody wants them. Especially when in need of some repair. They occupy space. They weigh a ton. They gather dust. But someone's granny gave that piano, and it's not going unless to a good home.

What might a church try doing with a piano in some need of repair that is more likely to be successful than hoping for a collection, I wonder? Bearing in mind that the one thing you can't do is flog any ivory off separately.

Edit: I was asked why only 21. So now there's a couple more. This may not stop any time soon.

  1. Sponsored Explosion.
  2. Piano soap-box derby.
  3. Sneak out one key, string, or splinter at a time hidden down your trouser legs.
  4. Enter the local raft race.
  5. Paint it green and claim it's the verger.
  6. Add a wheel and make it a driving simulator.
  7. Kindling £3 a bundle for the spire fund.
  8. Hide inside it to terrify champers in the middle of the night.
  9. Very small outside loo.
  10. Get Elon Musk to make it the first piano on Mars.
  11. Convert it into a pew. Then remove all the pews.
  12. Swift boxes with keys for perches.
  13. Fuel for "Musical Bonfire Night". Hear the twang of those strings!
  14. Every time you see the keys, sob loudly and annoyingly for the fate of the elephant that gave its life so a quire that disbanded in 1979 could practice without using the organ.
  15. Chicken coop.
  16. Casing for a "retro" 64-inch old-fashioned flat screen TV.
  17. Turn it into an unwanted church bookcase for unwanted donated books.
  18. Push it over and use it as a coffee table.
  19. Drop it from a crane to test Galileo's theory of falling objects.
  20. Sponsored push to a secret destination (the tip).
  21. Coffin for a thin, square person.
  22. Bury it, arguing it's a very delayed funeral for the elephant. Declare a month of mourning so nobody feels like they can complain.
  23. Rebuild it as a glider and fly it to the tip from the tower.

Sunday, 10 August 2025

Citizens of Somewhere Else

 "But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one." (Heb 11:16a)

Here's an odd thing. Or several odd things. Those people who dislike people of other religions or nationalities than themselves. They quite often call themselves "Christian". Or "Cultural Christians". Or "Judeo-Christian" has become quite popular these days. But they criticise other people - people originating from other countries, or of different colours, or, quite often, Muslims - by saying they don't have their primary allegiance to this country. 

Norman Tebbit recently died. He showed remarkable resilience and courage when his wife was terribly injured in the 1984 attack on the Grand Hotel in Brighton. But, being a man of snappy phrases, he's probably mostly remembered for his comment that those who needed work should get on their bikes, and also for his "cricket test". He said if people didn't support England at cricket, they weren't sufficiently British. I think there are probably Scottish people who wouldn't think much of that, quite apart from anything else.

Many years later, he said the "cricket test" wasn't needed any more. But still it sticks. What happens if we apply it to Heaven? 

Imagine a field. In the mid to late 1st Century.  Somewhere in the Celtic town, now colonised by the Romans, of Londinium. A field called "Dominorum". A Brythonic warrior is bowling the head of a fallen enemy at a doughty native of Lactodorum, from the not-yet-county of Northamptonshire. And, in a scene that will recur for the next two millennia, the Northants team's middle order collapses. If the Cockney Celt bowler hits the stumps three times in succession, he gets a hat to put on the head of his "ball" when he gets home. But we have no idea what they called it when that happened.

But the author to the Hebrews had never heard of cricket. He was a long way from that far-off patch of Empire. The idea of rain stopping play - rain generally being a blessing in the Med - would not hold the terror (or, at least, mild frustration) it does on the western fringes of the Eurasian continent. 

But still, he (or she) spelt it out. If there was a game of cricket between England and Heaven - and why not, because in Heaven "all in white shall wait around" - then English Christians should be supporting Heaven. They have another country. Another city. (Obviously, if England did play Heaven at cricket, King David would constantly be no-balled for slinging.)

Abram set out from Ur. But if we consider Abram's faith in the light of what it says in Genesis - he's not the faith super-hero he often gets depicted as.  He hasn't boldly gone into the unknown on his own, leaving his birthplace.  He actually left with his dad, who took him from Ur to Harran. Abram only  left Harran under his own steam. But Abram carried on and became the example of the faithful of all times, because he was heading for the New Jerusalem. 

Not the Jerusalem of the time. That was ruled by a Jebusite priest-king called Melchizedek, and was actually just three cottages and an outside loo. And not even the Jerusalem that David built, or that Herod re-embellished with a new Temple it didn't actually need. All those Jerusalems were provisional, temporary. And certainly not the current one, which rains down death from the skies on its enemies. That one, too, will pass.

Abram was looking for a new Jerusalem. A place of peace where there is no war, no sickness, and the presence of God is as real as it was in the dark when the torch passed through his sacrifice in the Valley of Shaveh. His heavenly Father's home. Not Ur, the place where his earthly parents came from. Not Harran, where his earthly father had remained. He roamed across the known world. He was a stranger in the land he was promised. But he did it because he was looking for somewhere else. He wasn't a citizen of Ur, of Harran, or even of his Promised Land. He was a citizen of Somewhere Else.

And that's who you are, when you become a follower of the God of Abraham. You are a citizen of Somewhere Else. A country whose priorities aren't defence and immigration and building new railways - but peace and love for everybody. You can give thanks for this world. Care for it and all the people made in God's image. Work to make it a better place. But you know it's temporary. You are a citizen of Somewhere Else. You want to be home - in the place where the God who made you knows you. You want to be with him, and like him. And that longing to be with God, and that knowing you belong somewhere else - that you are called for more, because Jesus came to find you, and meets you in his death- that's faith.

You are a citizen of Somewhere Else.

Saturday, 9 August 2025

Nun the Wiser

I'd like to apologise to Sister Distributia, our visiting speaker last night.

It turns out that she is a leading member of a discalced order. That is, they don't wear shoes.

She is not the prioress of a disgraced order. 

Easy mistake to make.

Friday, 8 August 2025

Guide to Accepting Second Hand "Gifts" In Church

 You know how it is. 

Mabel has just bought herself an exciting new toaster/set of dining chairs/kettle/vacuum cleaner. And she's wondering what to do with the old one. Which was old enough that she needed a new one. But not so old that she really wants to throw it away. Or, indeed, arrange for the council to collect it.

But then she remembers that what the church really needs is a second hand toaster/set of dining chairs/kettle/vacuum cleaner! And comes to you as pastor/vicar/minister/steward/churchwarden to ask if you would like the second hand item as a gift.

The first thing you should do is remember that, if it's electrical, it will be out of warranty. And the cost and effort of disposal when it breaks in the first week will be yours.

The second thing you should do is remind Mabel of Malachi 1:8. And suggest that, if Mabel thinks the church needs a toaster/set of dining chairs/kettle/vacuum cleaner, she could keep the old one and give the new one.

But that may sound like too much scripture to be quoting - and, let's face it, as liberal Anglican that is a lot, a whole verse. While for some evangelicals it's a bit suss quoting the Hebrew Scriptures/Old Testament like that. So you may find a use for this helpful flowchart.




A flowchart giving examples of various items, all of which you should refuse to accept. And the advice that, if they appear anyway, you should burn them

Friday, 1 August 2025

Liturgy for Yorkshire Day

The Greeting

Archdruid: Peace be with you.

All: And with tha spirit.

Archdruid: where hast tha been since I saw thee?

All: On Ilkla Moor baht 'at.

Archdruid: Today we celebrate all the things that make the Yorkshire character great.

All: Misery, resentment, and rhubarb?

Archdruid: I was actually thinking of doggedness, determination...

All: And rhubarb?

Archdruid: Oh ay, rhubarb. And we remember those great moments in Yorkshire history... Those great Yorkshire folk like Richard III...

All: Born in Northamptonshire.

Archdruid: Peter Sallis?

All: Born in London.

Archdruid: And Sean Bean.

All: Oh yeah. Sean Bean. His nephew's got a chip shop in Sheffield.

Archdruid: Gradely. I did offer him a part in our "Passion Play", but he guessed he'd be playing Judas.

All: Can we push the Oldest Man downhill in a bathtub now?

Oldest Man: No!

Archdruid: Oh, ay.

The Oldest Man is pushed downhill in a bathtub. Terrifying assorted badgers, Hern the Hunter, and an adulterous couple out for an "innocent bike ride". Old women in pinnies and headscarves make a guard of honour, sticks of rhubarb aloft.

The Dismissal 

All:  Ear all, see all, say nowt; Eat all, sup all, pay nowt; And if ivver tha does owt fer nowt – Allus do it fer thissen.