Summer is icumen in
Loudly sing cuckoo!
Or some such rubbish…
Since time immemorial (even before I was born), people have been seriously skittish about the summer solstice.
Building bonfires, prancing around in impractical clothing, singing songs, and celebrating the longest day of the year. All of which was perfectly understandable – back in the mists of time when things like the rotation of the earth and other such wholly fascinating science were undiscovered and people seriously thought that prancing around naked with a wreath of mistletoe on your noggin guaranteed health, wealth and happiness. (Of course it didn’t. You were more likely to catch a heavy cold – if you were lucky. Or an STD – if you weren’t.)
This having been said we are now in the twenty-first century. We know that the days stretch and contract, the moon waxes and wanes, the seasons more or less follow a set pattern, and it’s quite likely that time will continue to flow in a linear pattern.
There Is No Excuse for turning up on Salisbury plain (probably in the pissing rain) to listen to some geezer in a nightie exhorting the sun to carry on rising. It will rise and set as it pleases, and our sad little ball of clay will continue its eccentric orbit without the intervention of a man who gets his hair cut at an MoT station. It just doesn’t make sense to burn enormous amounts of fossil fuels in order to get to an event that’s supposed to be about being at one with Mother Earth (who would probably clip you around the earhole if she had hands).
Stop it already.
If you want to greet the rising sun do it in your garden. Or in the beer garden of the Dog and Prolapse. Or in your local park. Just don’t drive there.
Personally, I shall be greeting the sunrise from behind closed eyelids – unless of course Gyp wants out for a piss. In which case I will salute the sun in my own back garden – and I shall be fetchingly attired in a candlewick dressing gown of indeterminate colour and vintage paired with a pair of wellington boots. (The grass in my garden is seriously unkempt because that’s how me and Gyp like it.) Unless of course it’s raining in which case I will remain in the nice dry kitchen giving the sunrise barely a glance as I swear at the fucking dog.
In a nutshell then. There is nothing special about the summer solstice – or the winter one, or the equinoxes. These things just happen. (I blame physics myself, but that’s another whole story.)
So. Just please grow up. Wear normal clothes, or some clothes anyway. Don’t eat odd mushrooms. And please stay the fuck at home; the A303 was never built to cope with Druidic influxes.
Right that’s bloody midsummer dealt with. Me and Gyp are off down the pub. He fancies a Guinness and I’m gagging for a pint of Crop Circle.
Piss off then. Or are you buying the beer?