Unwedding Ceremony

Or: the order for the blessing of the relationship of a couple whose marriage cannot yet be blessed on account of the divorce has been unfortunately delayed.

Archdruid: We come together together today to join together.... er, to accept as a fait accompli the fact that this man and this woman (or as it may be this man and this man, etc) have joined themselves together, before the legal ceremony of joining them together, on account of one of them is still legally joined to somebody else so we can't.  Or something.

Living out of wedlock is an estate that we'll just have to accept on this occasion.  We don't like it, but let's face it, it's an imperfect world.  

Second marriages are an estate ordained of the Government and tolerated by the Church, for the giving of second chances and providing an environment in which several people's children may be nurtured.  And frankly we'll all be feeling a lot more comfortable when we get them as far as the second marriage.

M and N are about to continue in their state of unwed cohabitation.  They have already given consent to one another, and in token of this we'll just move on swiftly.

Archdruid:  Now does anyone have any reason why this man and this woman should not be joining themselves together in holy out-of-wedlock?

Traditionalist: (from the back): How about because it's still adultery?

Archdruid: Oooh.  Hadn't thought of that.  I don't think we are in any place to pass judgement.  Who among us could throw the first stone?

Traditionalist: Hang on - I'll nip off and get one... 

Archdruid: Who giveth this woman?

P (First Husband): I will, just as soon as the decree absolute comes through.  It'll be my pleasure.

Archdruid: N, do you take M  to be your unlawfully appointed other half, to complain he's still down the boozer, point out that the eldest kid that causes all the trouble is his, and complain that R, his former wife, still has way too much control over him and gets too much money for the youngest one?

N: I do.

Archdruid: M, will you take N to be your equally unofficial "partner", do your best to drink the money that P  sends her for their kids, and do your best to avoid being finally roped into official marriage, as long as ye both shall live?

M: I will.

Archdruid: Q, despite being the child of neither M nor N, yet you unaccountably live in their house.  How do you explain it?

Q: Dunno. Did I get left over somewhere?

Archdruid: OK. I now pronounce you... man and somebody else's wife.  

You may kiss... well, whoever...

Outbreak of the traditional punch-up.

Wicca Man

So we forgot the Wicker Man, easy to do with all the excitement at Solstice.  I mean, it's easy to miss, is a 90 foot man made out of pallets, lurking in the garden.  And with a solstice New moon, it was even darker than normal.  So it was nice to let it go off this evening.  And what a sight.  The passing resemblance to Andy Murray was a nice touch as well,  although the way the first set went we were starting to think that there was something in sympathetic magic after all.

OK, the traffic jam on the M1 as the smoke drifted across Junction 13 was an unforseen side-effect.  And the appearance of the Fire Brigade was as unexpected as it was unneccessary.  On the whole I think it was a great celebration of the Summer Solstice.  Even if it was a week late.

Jackson Tributes

Sad news today.  The Druidic Council had planned to hold a celebration of Michael Jackson's life, but Archdruid Eileen slipped while trying to moonwalk and twisted her ankle.  She says they're not holding the service until the entire Druidic Procession can moonwalk up to the Worship Focus.

An odd occurrence today.  While walking to the White Horse for a lunchtime snifter, I found a glove laying in School Lane.  Just the one glove, quite a lacy one - perhaps the sort of thing one of Hnaef's posh friends might wear to events at the Abbey.  Being always happy to help one's fellow humans, I picked the glove up and draped it over the branch of a tree, where it could be seen.

Leaving the White Horse a few hours later, I was surprised to find twelve bunches of flowers had been lain around the tree, together with a number of poetic tributes such as "Keep on Rockin, Robin".  I wonder what it could all mean?

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"The Middle Aged Man from another Country I knew" - interview with someone you don't know

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A Midsummer Night's Doom

St John's Eve!  A traditional olde English time to be rampaging round the English countryside, engaging in traditional olde English pursuits.

In days gone by, on St John's Eve, olde English people of a certain age would sit around in the church hatch waiting to see whose ghosts were going into the church - and which would come out.  Which would lead to a certain thoughtfulness of a St John's Day for some.  Meanwhile the unmarried young people of the village, hamlet or other rural settlement would tear out into the woods in a ritual that has been faithfully reproduced by our own Beaker Fertility Folk since time immemorial, or at least 2004.  

This year's festivities will be slightly dampened by the sad loss of Private Sponge from Dad's Army.  His passing will be mourned by all those whose role in life it is to hang around at the back looking like a spare part and wishing we were one of the lead players.  Or most of us, in other words.  In honour of Private Sponge's passing, we would like to include a liturgy incorporating his catchphrase, but we're not sure he actually had one.

Anyone going out after 10pm, please ensure you wear hi-viz.  The late-night traffic on the Woburn road seems to increasingly dangerous these days and walking back along it from the White Horse is never sensible.  As my old dad used to say, before he so tragically succumbed to that incident with the baler, "do you think that's wise?"

LIturgy for the Solstice Sunrise, 2009

Beaker People, resplendent in their special midsummer pink hi-viz, stumble out across the car park to the Solar Hillock.

Archdruid: We stand here as the dawn glow gathers, waiting for the rising Sun.

All: Can you get a move on?  We want to go back to bed.

Archdruid: That's really down to the Sun, not me...

All: Whatever.  On with the spiel, Eileen.

Archdruid: We stand here at the fulcrum of the year.  The heart of the Summer, enjoying its warmth....

Voice from Back (which may be German, or possibly, South African...): Get a grip, Archdruid, it's freezing!

Archdruid: We stand here freezing in the heart of Summer.  We bless the sun for its light-giving rays.

All: Wherever it is.  

Archdruid: It will be up in its own time. We are not the ones to dictate to the heavenly objects above us.

Burton: Isn't it peeking out behind that cloud over there?

Archdruid: Oh yeah. Well, looks like it's been risen a while. Shall we sing the song?

All: If we must.

Beaker People sing "Here comes the Sun", with Young Keith totally fouling up the clever guitar bit after "it's alright".

Snorkmaiden washes her face in the dew, while all the relatively sane Beaker Folk head off to bed.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn appears through the early-morning mist, realises he's hopelessly late, and heads off towards Aspley Guise.

The Beaker Collection

By popular demand, why not try one of our wide range of hi-viz clothing suitable for freezing in a car park at 4am while watching the sun rise? 

For those unable to make it to Husborne Crawley, why not find you hi-viz and other Personal Protective Equipment here - at the home of power tools.  Buy lots for free delivery!

With a hi-viz fleece under your hi-viz bomber jacket, you will be warm and visible in all weather conditions and phases of the moon.

Solstitial Suspense

It's still two sleeps until the Solstice, so can I request that you all calm down? 

Especially those planning to stay up all night.  It's the shortest night of the year, but even so you need your beauty sleep.

The Solstice Watch this year will take place in the Watching Field.  We can stand on that little hillock again.  But please don't do that same rotten pun as last year - it took weeks for Burton's bruises to fade. 

The Wicker Man is now forty foot high and towering over the landscape.  Who would have thought that Young Keith could have found such a good supply of pallets?  And thank you to those dedicated souls who have spent the last week splitting the pallets into really thin strips.  I'm sure you will think the splinters are worth it.

Depressive Poets' Society

I wouldn't like anyone to think I'm distancing myself from Hnaef's new scheme.  Goodness knows we're thoroughly in favour of anyone coming up with alternative ways to express spirituality.  And poetry enlightens the soul in a way little else does, while offering alternative views of God and Humanity.  So poetry, qua poetry, I'm all in favour of.

But Hnaef's come up with this latest idea that reading depressing poetry, by the less cheerful poets, will unleash the Right Hemispheres of our brain, putting us in touch with out primeval  Self.  Sounds like pure eyewash to me, but as I say we respect creative views, no matter how barmy.

So today's programme included readings from Thomas Hardy, John Clare, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen and  Baldrick.

The vast majority of the Beaker People are now hiding under the tables in the Refectory, sobbing helplessly.  Some of the stronger of us have settled into watching the whole first four series of "Friends" in the hope that will give them some comfort.  Young Keith and his pals are off down the White Horse, but I don't think they're turning to drink so much as turned a long time ago.

Tomorrow's reading of "The Wasteland" is cancelled.  Turns out June is the cruellest month.

Beaker Brother

I'm pleased to announce that after weeks of viewing video auditions, interviews and psychological profiling, we've decided upon the 10 people who will go in the Beaker Brother house.  We've chosen the most aggressive, the most self-regarding and biggest wannabes.  We're not going to be putting any cameras in the Beaker Brother house, and we're not going to be doing any evictions.  We're just gonna leave the doors locked until we're in danger of them being listed as Missing Persons.

Which Wicker is Wych?

No! No! No!

Some of you have totally misunderstood about the wicker man.

It was lovely to meet Lemonbalm today. He is a gentle and charming man, albeit somewhat bemused. I'm not totally sure whether that's his normal state, or whether it was the result of five of you grabbing him in the Stones and Shells stall in CMK shopping centre and dragging him here in the back of a Transit Van.
Lemonbalm is into Wicca. That's Wicca as in a largely made-up combination of misunderstood folklore, pseudo-feminism, vague spiritual longings and wishful thinking. He's not a Wicker man. I realise that this may have confused the post-literate among you but I hope the large stick with which Hnaef is currently laying about the persons of several community members may help with their understanding.
Lemonbalm tells me he got into Wicca in the hope that he might meet some women. I advised him that if he wants to join a religious movement where he'll be outnumbered 10:1 by women he might be best off joining the Methodists.
Now can somebody please take him back? He keeps offering to make people love potions, and the community is starting to stink of amaretto and fennel.