The Wivenhoe Stupid Society held their annual pilgrimage to Ferry Marshes on New Year’s Eve to celebrate another “cosmic unfurling through the pages of time”.
As tradition dictates, members of the society dress up in clothes made from wild animals that they have killed themselves with their own bare hands. They congregate nervously in small packs along the Wivenhoe trail and as the hours pass they slowly make their way onto the marshes.
After three of four hours have passed they form into a single mass of flesh, bone and wild unkempt hair smelling mysteriously like Rothmans. Here they remain, wandering around and muttering vaguely under their breath until the sun rises heralding a new awakening in their mental mind units.
For them it is now the year of our Lord 1987, and joyously the mass rise up in a frenzy of delirious excitement. Peasants and dignitaries join hands to dance around a Maypole that’s been hastily crafted from meat product, chant traditional incantations and belch in excited anticipation of 1990.
After three hours of chanting and plodding aimlessly around the pole, the revelers fall hungrily upon it, feasting like dogs on flecks of crisps off a cushion, before tearing their clothes off and running towards the cool, calming waters of the drainage ditch.
Here they tit around a bit before realising just how cold it is and getting out of the water. Confused, they grab together their things into a damp bundle before wandering off home to watch Howard’s Way or something.
One onlooker described the scenes as “vaguely disturbing”, while another observed that this happens most weekends and usually involves everyone from the mayor and chief of police to post mistress Mrs. Goggins.