The Morning After the "Supermoon" Before

I've been having some thoughts about the term "Supermoon", as applied by some astronomers and excitable pseudoscience journalists to the full moon nearest the moon's closest approach to earth. (If I've got this right - it's always tricky to decode journalist science and scientific journalism).

So it strikes me we need a better word than "Supermoon" to describe this marginally large and indistinguishably brighter moon. I'd suggest "moon". Or, if you want to get all over-excited, "full moon".

I guess to the dwellers of the Cities on the Plain, with their neon and their sodium light pollution, a full moon is "dramatic". But out here in the sticks - even with the M1 one side and the glow of Milton Keynes off to the North-west - it's pretty obvious that the full moon is, relatively speaking and ironically, quite a dull thing.

The full moon is too bright - almost mercilessly so. In a dark sky it's almost dazzling. The physical features are almost washed out.

Now a first crescent is exciting, with its promise of things to come. But best for me is a moon at first or third quarter. With the sun's light sweeping across the face, the craters and mountains shed long shadows and the edges are accentuated. That's the time to grab your bins and point them skywards. It's a time of dark rumours and fuzzy borders, not just the happy, smiling man in the moon - and yet a time of definition and clarity. That's what the moon is for. To remind us that life is mysterious, and some truth can only be found in shadows.

So I'll keep the crescent. You can have the whole of the moon.

Feast of Transferred Festivals

To allow us to focus on my sermon series, "What is the Song of Solomon about?" next week, we celebrate today the Feast of Transferred Festivals. We're taking Lammas Day and the New Moon, the Nativity of Fred Quimby, the birth of the emperor Claudius and of Herman Melville and Lionel Bart and we're celebrating them all at once to get them out the way.

To be honest, this is also at least partly because of the "Lammas" problem. We know it's got to do with bread, it's traditional and it's very important. But once we've made and baked the Giant Loaf, carried it around ceremonially and sung theme from "Bread", what else is there to with it? Other than make toast.
So today instead we have two Beaker people dressed as Tom and Jerry to act as loafifers. Charlii will of course be introduced as Jerry's pal, the visiting red squirrel.

As the loaf is carried to its place as the Worship Focus, the Whale Choir will sing "Food, Glorious Food". Then the Palace Guard will announce that Nero is dead and Claudius will announce, in a stunning piece of historical inaccuracy, that we need Bread and Circuses.

Thankfully, given we have a team of people dressed as cats, dogs, whales and a squirrel, the Circus will be easy enough to arrange. After which we will carry the Great Loaf up to the paddock, to the strains of the Largo from Dvorak's "New World Symphony". From there on in, the liturgy is to be conducted in fake northern accents (clue - pronouncing "the" as "t" and "grass" as "gr-ass" will make you sound convincingly Yorkshire).

We will close the Ceremony by eating the Giant Loaf. When all that's left is the crumbs, we will join in the Lammas New Moon Declaration: "The Loaf is gone - just like the moon". At this point the Moon Gibbon Folk will run screaming into the woods.

Obviously, given the deep spiritual significance and degree of technical excellence required today, spontaneity is strictly forbidden. We don't want to take any chances.

Also, can Beaker People please note that, to liven up the Children's Area / Holding Pen, someone has filled it with coloured plastic balls, and added a spiral slide and climbing frame. This has made the whole concept of a Children's Area more interesting. But has shifted the effect from being a place where parents dump their kids so they can go off and worship, to that of a place to dump your kids while you go off to have a drink. Afraid this whole "children's activities" concept is still very much a work in progress. We may have to get Charlii the Red Squirrel more involved in this whole area.

Running barefoot to celebrate the Crescent Moon

 A quiet evening after the cloud and rain of this morning.

Out in the Orchard for our evening Filling up of Beakers, we saw the beautiful crescent moon peeking in and out through the trees. It's an awesome and eerie sight, is a crescent moon.

We'd thought it would be suitably romantic, in view of the youth of the season, to take part in the service in bare feet. And so we ran barefoot across the lawn to the Assembly. And lovely it was, to feel the earth beneath your feet. The sort of thing our ancient ancestors, close to nature and the secrets of the Earth, would have done. Until they discovered shoes.  However, the evening drew in as the service progressed.  And stumbling back through the trees in the twylight, Gwennifer trod on that hedgehog.

Well, I've not heard such language since Drayton's wife Marjorie caught him succumbing to temptation with that pack of wine gums. We've sent Gwennifer off to get some jabs to be on the safe side. And we've checked the hedgehog out. Physically it seems fine. Psychologically we're not so sure, but then how do you know if a hedgehog's suffering from psychological trauma? It's wandering around on the grass looking confused, but I suspect that's just normal for a hedgehog.

One for all you geeks out there

I'm glad to say I think we've got Norville sorted out now. Mind you, we had to put in an all-nighter before the moon reached first-quarter.

One of the problems with being a lunar-based group is that we tend to attract lycanthropes, and it can be a real problem dealing with them. Norville being a fairly typical case. He was originally a warehouseman  in Marston Gate, but found all those night shifts affected his metabolism, and he turned into a werewolf. Must have been quite nerve-wracking for his colleagues, working in a plumbing warehouse in the middle of the night and wondering where the howling was coming from.

We originally thought we'd managed to re-balance him by an intensive course of the music of Bob Seger^*. But as a result he lost the desire to work in warehouses. Fortunately he got himself a new job - as Bjorn in an Abba tribute band. But he had always been a poor speller, and referred to himself as "Beorn". So it was no wonder he regressed again, and it was so embarrassing him constantly turning into a bear during "Waterloo". Made it very hard to play the guitar, as well, those great paws of his.

So this time we've assessed him properly and concluded that his problem was inefficient data storage. To rectify this we've eliminated duplicate data, created separate tables for each logical group of related data, identified each row with a unique key, and removed columns from each table that were not dependent on the primary key.

After all this hard work, we're ready to send him out again - this time as an insurance broker. We're fairly sure he'll be stable this time. After all, it's his third normal form.

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* Think about it...

New Moon Watch

They can't actually see it yet, but out there somewhere the first glimmer of the first quarter of the moon is shining.
This has been the easiest Moon Watch in months.  Barely a frost either night, no snow, no rain, no howling gales.
So I've just sent Hnaef and Keith down with a bucket of iced water each to throw over the Watchers.  It would be a shame if the Watchers had no spiritual benefits from their efforts.

Where every prospect pleases

The Blue Moon New Year do last night went very well.  Although the 3-hour performance of "Out of the Blue" was quite enough for anyone.  But halfway through an interminable rendition of "Turn to Stone", I wandered outside and gazed up at the moon.  Beautiful, ducking in and out between the clouds, on such a hard, dry, cold New Year's Night.  A mute reminder of the goodness of all creation - "Though every prospect pleases, and only man is vile."  The poet, of course, was writing before the days when it was realised that you can't go using "man" like that to mean the whole human race.  What he meant was "Though every prospect pleases, and only men are vile."

I'm sure we can all agree with that.  Especially in the light of yet another of Young Keith's dangerous inventions.  His Mobile Roman Candle Launcher was absolutely terrifying.  Especially for Young Keith.  A load of pyrotechnics in a shopping trolley, welded onto the front of his mountain bike.  I mean, full marks for a fantastic display - moving in more ways than one.  But it was a close-run thing whether he was going to end up at MK General again.  Thankfully he emerged unscathed, which is more than can be said for the Doily shed.  Although every cloud... the bottom has well and truly fallen out of the doily market, and the insurance will come in very handy.  What with that and the money for the Moot House, and now having St Bogwulf's Chapel available for worship, we're laughing all the way to the Fine Wine shop.  Although we do have plans to get Messrs Astraseal in to put a glass roof on St Bogwulf's.

The New Year Blue Moon Liturgy / Watchnight / Party

Introit: Still got the Blues

Archdruid:  Peace be with blue.
All:  And also with blue.

Archdruid:  Hey there, Mr Blue
All:  We're so pleased to be with you.

The Archdruid (or it may be a member of the Chelsea Supporters' Club): Blue is the Colour
All:  The future's light blue, the future's Man City

Notices
Archdruid: Just the one.  The local Methodist minister was hoping to join us tonight, in lieu of a Wesleyan watchnight service.  But unfortunately he broke a tooth on a hymn sandwich.  Nasty.

Hymn: Blue Moon

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Reading: Numbers 15:38.  

All: So why don't the Evos insist on that as well, then?

The New Year Easter Sermon

Statement of Blue Belief

All:  

We believe in Blue
Colour of the heavens, 
the sea and also of smurfs.
lying in the spectrum at approximately 470nm.
And also in Turquoise
Calming colour of the spirit
suitable for tracksuits and loonies alike.
And we believe in Cobalt
Atomic number 27
So useful in magnetic devices and high-strength alloys.
And also in blue ceramic tiles.
It burns with the brightest of blue.

Hymn: Don't it make my brown eyes blue

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Archdruid: Still ages till the Big Moment.  Any ideas?

The Beaker Band perform their tribute to ELO's Out of the Blue.  For three hours.

All:  Thank goodness that's over with.

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The Liturgy of Midnight

We wait for the bells of Big Ben.  Then realise there is no radio or TV in St Bogwulf's chapel, so it's not going to happen.  Nor will the authentic Beaker sundial that Hnaef has brought with him be of any use.

Archdruid: OK, it's five to by my watch, five past by Young Keith's, exactly midnight by Burton's and 1662 according to the Prayer Book Society.

All: Let's rock and roll! 

The singing of Auld Lang Syne

Rapid swapping of hi-viz from blue to red for the New Year.

Recessional - New Year's Day.   (appropriate as we wake up under blood-red eyes.) 


By Episcopal decree, the toilet cleaners for this year's Watchnight Party were Bloo.
And for those of you watching in black and white, the blue ball is the one behind the green.

Under a blue-moon sky

Much excitement as we realised that the full moon this Thursday night is in fact going to be a Blue Moon.
Followed by a certain amount of sadness for our Australian cousins, as we realised that theirs won't be.  Astronomy is funny like that.    Or maybe Australia is.  But then they have nice weather, apparently, which must be a great comfort as you are treated after being bitten by one of their many dangerous reptiles and insects.

It can honestly be said that a Blue Moon on New Year's Eve actually happens much less often than once in a blue moon.  And I'm glad to hear that we are heading towards a blue moon.  I thought my recent run of depressing bulletins regarding thermodynamics and New Year's Eve were just down to post-Christmas/Solstice ennui and the stresses of dealing with a bunch of stroppy numpties in the Choir.  But now, with our plans in place to deal with the Choir, and knowing that it is the moon that is blue and not I, I am looking forward to the New Year's Eve Watch night Service / Party with real vigour.

The party will now have a blue theme.  Beaker Folk are invited to wear blue, the colour of heaven and spirit.  Woad will of course be compulsory.  Drinks will be WKD blue, Blueberry Pear Cider and blueberry wine.  And Blue Nun, if you must.
Beaker People are invited to refer to each other as "Blue" at all times during the service / party.  I must needs work out the liturgy, but the word "blue" is liable to occur quite a lot.
Until then - may Peace be with blue  (I think you can see where we'll be going with this...)

The Great Pumpkin Fight

Now that the fall-out from last night's events has diminished let us consider the things that have come to pass among us.

The Harvest Moon Celebration was to have been a moment of great spiritual significance - the entrance of the White Pumpkins, representing the full moon,  causing the carrying-out of the large Yellow Pumpkins, representing the sun.

Trouble broke out as Morbit walked into the ceremony carrying one of the white pumpkins.  Morbit is a keen gardener, and was very gracious in supplying us with the whites, and a selection of the yellows.  But it was as Morbit moved forwards towards the Focus Table, he saw that the central pumpkin was the  200lb "Prizewinner" he's been growing for the Horticultural Society Competition.  Hollowed out, and with a tealight glowing through the traditional runic shapes cut in the side.

Forgetting that his role as cucurbitafer required grace and solemnity, Morbit ran towards Young Keith, whose role should have been to carry the large pumpkin out through the North-East door, throwing white pumpkins.  One missed Keith by a large margin and plugged Burton Dasset, while the second ricocheted off Keith's left ear and hit Burdwit in the stomach.  At this point, the joint erupted.  Pumpkins, butternut and other related squashes and  - for reasons we have yet to get to the bottom of - onions started flying around the place.

In the confusion, and with the air becoming thicker with squash flesh by the moment, somebody dumped the "Prizewinner" over Morbit's head.  He could not take the pumpkin off his head because he had his hands round Keith's throat.  Confused by the sudden lack of visibility and the sounds of battle, he blundered out through the Summer Sunrise door and into School Lane.

Now, it's little known that there is still an ancient by-law in Husborne Crawley that means that anyone trick-or-treating out of season is to be regarded as an outlaw, the punishment for which is to be rounded up by men with pointy sticks.  The locals were happy to revive a tradition that has not been enacted in several decades, and the next thing Mobit knew he was having to use Keith as a human shield to try to fend off some of the fiercer pokes.  Eventually Young Keith's uncle the police constable turned up and settled the situation down.

Not so in the Moot House, where by this time somebody had decided to avail themselves of the fire extinguishers.  We can't tell who the miscreants were, because they were already so covered in pumpkin, but unleashing the foam at short-range on the acolytes only added to the mess in which we were by now knee-deep.

Some people have complained that I may have been heavy-handed in bringing the ceremony to an end at  this point.  But surrounded by fifty people all throwing autumn vegetables at each other, what was I supposed to do?  Pronounce a blessing?  I'm just glad that I still had a couple of canisters of Mace, a present from a curate in East Anglia, in my handbag.  Suprising how quickly things came to an end after that.

All ceremonies are cancelled unil Thursday.  First we're all going to have to clean out the Moot House, and after that we're going to have to wait until the smell of pumpkins dies down.

In other news, we are contacting the Guinness Book of Records to see if "largest squash-related fight in a neo-spiritual coenobitic community" is a valid category.

Praying with Pumpkins

Now that the universe is still here, we can look forward to tonight's Harvest Moon Pumpkin Ritual.

Symbol is very important to the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley.  In Symbol we can come close to touching the divine.  And the great thing about the use of Symbol is that it means we can avoid all that tedious reading and studying books that so many other religions such as Christianity, Islam and Dawkinism are into.  

Symbols have the benefit of being both powerful and ambiguous.  So if we spend half an hour looking at, for example, a sea-shell or a collection of rose-hips, or if we are feeling particularly post-modern and meditate on that burnt-out speed camera that Drogin brought back from the A5 last week, or if we are feeling particularly worshipful and use a nice big picture of Stephen Fry - then our meditations are our own.  We don't have to waste weeks in late-night, Diamond White-fuelled discussion-forum abuse with other like-minded obsessives, rowing about whether that last semi-colon in Isaiah was inspired by God, or whether we were designed by hyper-intelligent aliens.  No, instead we get what we need from our worship and then we head off to the pub, or the woods in the case of the Fertility Folk, or a spot of late-night moon-gazing if it's clear, and get on with our lives.

Among the powerful symbols of our faith, the Pumpkin is important.  Although the Pumpkin is generally regarded as an American import, we believe that they were grown in England in Beaker times, but were ritually smashed by the so-called "Celtic" invaders as the Bronze turned to the Iron age.  In celebration of which, most Celtic races seem to be ritually smashed most days of the week.  That there is no evidence of this Beaker Pumpkin culture does not prove anything.  Pumpkins are edible and rot easily.  Where would you look for this evidence?  Inside a beaker?  Precisely.

Pumpkins as a symbol of the sun are a central point to this time of year. As we watch the dying sun sink earlier and more to the south each day - fleeing to the warm regions - we light our tea-lights inside our hollowed-out pumpkins to encourage him to return.  Glowing warmly on our Worship Focus Table in the Moot House tonight, our pumpkins will remind us that, though the wind may blow over Husborne Crawley, the warm days will return, bringing times of hay-making, harvesting, fruit-picking and other things that we subsidise the farmers to do for us.

The nice and oh-so trendy white pumpkins, representing the moon, will be brought into the Moot House tonight, as we remember that it is the time of full moon.  Not just any moon, either, but Harvest Moon.  But at this time of month and year, when the moon rises as the sun sets, we will remove the orange pumpkins as the whites enter.  It's gonna be so moving, I can't wait.

New Harvest Moon

The New before the Harvest Moon is upon us.  Please can all Beaker Folk appear in appropriate ceremonial smocks at  6am tomorrow morning, ready to call on the Lunar Sprites to revive the lost moon.  Gibbon Moon folk are excused as they are already running around the Orchard gibbering, and will probably do so for the next two or three days.

Doilies

As our service of Moon Watch has now started, please can all Beaker Folk who are still mooching around the Great Hall moaning about the rain please come out into the Orchard to join us.

It's no good complaining that you can't see the moon because it's cloudy. You also can't see the moon because it's daylight and it's New Moon. But the service is the service. You'll just have to get wet and shiver with the rest of us. Just pity the poor souls on the Night Watch.

Oh yes - and please bring a doily.

Blue Moon

Sadly Wednesday night's moonrise was a damp squib. The skies over Husborne Crawley were heavy and overcast, and a light drizzle fell as we stood waiting for Hnaef's electronic Druidic Moon and Sun rise Forecasting Clock, Eclipse Predictor and Personal Organiser to beep to indicate the precise moment of moonrise.

We stood there for a few hours, gradually getting colder, until Hnaef realised it had stopped. At this point we pushed him off the platform and headed into the Great Hall.

Last night, by contrest, was a beutaiful event. The moon looked like a giant Pringle as it rose over Aspley Heath. But, to be honest - it was a bit samey? I mean, the precise point and time of moonrise may change from day to day and season to season, but - do we really care? I was going to ask the Archdruid if she ever felt like this, but my new friend Drayton Parslow suggested it might be best to let it drop. Besides, last night was the last Moon Watchnight of the Lunar Month.

This morning's early strat - 3.30 am - was a bit of a shock, particularly since Moanwatch had only finished a couple of hours earlier. However, we stood and watched the Solsticial Sun as it rose. Due to the timing issues that the Archdruid has mentioned previously, we're going to have to do it all again tomorrow morning. Not to mention lighting the Solstice Flame at one minute to 1am first.

I was hopping to get a bit of slepe today, to be honest, but as it turns out I've been assigned to Doily Duty again. Just another 6 hours of banging the holes out of doilies, and then it'll be time for "Emptying out of Beakers".

Feleing quiet tried nwo, actullay. I've notced once or twice I've mdea hte odd spilling mistake. But not too many, I hape.

Burton's first Moot

Dear Readers, how could one describe one's joy at one's first Moot? This first evening of the full moon (which one of the Extreeme Primitive Fertility Folk described as the "Tupping Moon", whatever that may mean) I was invited to the Moot, or - as the Beaker People say - "drawn Moot" to receive my Beaker Name. Along with Arthur and Maud Beesley, I went and stood before Archdruid Eileen - resplendent in her fake vegetarian roe deer horns - to be named. Arthur was very keen on being called Cymbeline, but Eileen thought this a bit Shakespearian, and called him Gruntothrix. Likewise Maud wanted to be called Boadicea. However the Archdruid pointed out that this was a nasty Roman transliteration and, history being written by the victors, gave her the name "Orville". I'm not sure if this was a traditional Beaker name, but she put up with it.

For myself, Eileen seemed quite taken with my given name anyway - "it sounds like a small village with a very large bypass in Oxfordshire", she remarked - and so I retain the name of Burton. It's distinctly Angle, rather than Beaker, but - do you know what - I think I may grow to like it.