Commemoration of the Battle of Stamfordbridge (1066)

Just in time we've had an unexpected influx of weekend pilgrims. It turns out that Mr Jovanovich had been running his "Traditional Serbian Spirituality" workshops in the Moot House, and "forgot" to cancel them when Young Keith moved him on. Mr Jovanovich didn't offer any refunds, it turns out, so we're not picking up any accommodation fees (just as well, as there is no bedding and the swatches are only just starting to arrive).  But we're making do by cross-selling doilies, Russian dolls and Serbian ikons to the pilgrims. And naturally we don't speak any Serbian, but then neither do any of the pilgrims. So Hnaef is deploying his Anglo-Saxon to best use and the pilgrims know no better.


So today we commemorate the battle that finally settled the hash of the Vikings, in traditional Serbian Anglo-Saxon Beaker way, with a pitched apple-fight in the Orchard.  Hnaef is today representing Harold Godwinson. We consider him the only person able adequately to do so, as (a) he's a man (b) he has an Anglo-Saxon name and (c) He's got the Beowulf book.


Introit: Stamford Bridge is falling down (poor old Chelsea) (Kendrick)


Hnaef:  Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.


Vikings: You're going home in a Chelsea ambulance!


Hnaef: Wæs se grimma gæst Grendel haten mære mearcstapa, se þe moras heold,fen ond fæsten; fifelcynnes eard wonsæli wer weardode hwile,siþðan him scyppend forscrifen hæfde.


Vikings chorus: "I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air,
They fly so high, up in the sky,
But like West Ham they fade and die,
Tottenham always running,
Arsenal running too,
We are the Chelsea blue boys and we're running after you." 

Eileen: OK, enough with the Anglo-Saxon already. Let the blue-noses have it.


The Anglo-Saxon slingers fire a volley of Granny Smiths down the orchard.  The Vikings scatter and hide behind trees.


Vikings: Sling when your're winning, you only sling when you're winning.


Saxons: Angle-Land, Angle-Land, Angle-Land!


Vikings: Super, super Harald,
Super, super Harald,
Super, super Harald,
Super Harald Hadrada."

A second volley of apples flies down the orchard. The Vikings respond with a hail of mouldy plums.  This time the Saxons run for cover.

Vikings: You're not slinging anymore, you're not slinging any more.

Saxons:  If it wasn't for the Danish you'd be Swedes, if it wasn't for the Danish you'd be Swedes.

The air is thick with a blizzard of apples, plums and walnuts thrown from all directions as the two armies come to grips. Fruit explodes until the air is a fine mist of pomace and nutshell. The Saxons claim the victory, as the Vikings run off towards Mr Ogrizovic's Traditional Serbian Hot-dog Stand.

Hnaef:  Ac hie hæfdon gefrunen þæt hie ær to fela micles in þæm winsele wældeað fornam, Denigea leode.

All:  And also with you.