Cranee Historical Society

Founded in -183, the Cranee Historical Society is now so old that it spends much of its time researching itself. The ancient hamlet of Cranee plays host to the society, and is situated directly between the Evesque Valley and Folktown: 25 sugro-nanits from the former (201,168 nanits or 132k paces), and 18 sugro-nanits from the latter (144841 nanits or 95k paces). The emblematical signalia used by the society is a bull's pizzle surrounded by Fefferberry trees, perhaps due to the resemblance in smell between rotting Fefferberries and rotting bull's pizzles.

Cranee's residents, numbering roughly a hundred and seventy all told, are mainly involved in the society in some way, which meets not in a building but on the green of the village, over which a marquee is erected in the rainy-assed seasons. Man, it's been that way for a month or more already. The society holds official Moonbeam Meetings whenever the two moons of Ghyll, Pinky and Perky, are both full, in which pies are baked, Andelphracian Lights are hung from the trees surrounding the green, and serious historical work is conducted amongst the laughs of the members. Everyone in the village, regardless of age, is encouraged to get involved in some way--even if just to scare away the wildlife that usually frequents the green of a night.

Pretty much every Moonbeam Meeting sees in the election of a new president of the society through the most ingenious election method: the previous ten presidents are put in a circle, a Bindlet Ball thrown over them, and the first to catch it is given over to being president. When a member or president says "right, screw this malarkey, I'm farking off out o'it" (the official resignation proclamation), successors are chosen by a shout off: candidatial hopefuls are given a Bindlet Ball to scream at and insult, and the one who makes the ball cry first is most winnerful.

And good grief the members of the Cranee Historical Society certainly know how to go a-wassailing! They get their ciders and their what-have-yous and they toast those trees all night long. It's so damn great. Of course, when the honourable president gets a bit out of it (as he always does) and starts retelling the old sea-chantey "I'm Ready For A Brooming", the meeting is usually called to a close and everybody leaves the clearing up of the Moonbeam Meeting (yes, I'm still talking about that) to the little Village Green Clearance Elves. I suppose they're a bit like Wombles, except that they don't exist--they're merely overactive wassailers' imagination products. Of a morning, the people come and, oh!, how the rend their clothes and whatnot because the spoils are not yet cleared. Okay actually they don't get quite that pissed off about it, but you know, dramatic license and all that. Actually, you probably have to apply for dramatic licenses from the Amphitheatre Aristocracy, so I guess I'll have to call it *ramatic license or somesuch bollocks.

Where was I? Oh right, Moonbeam Meeting over, ready for the next one. Between meetings the honourable members of the Cranee Historical Society tend to go on enthralling archaeological digs in far-flung fear-inducing places such as Alezan or whatever it's called. I'd like to meet the dipweasel who named that place... Anyway, they tend to find stuff and write it up in the next Moonbeam Meeting. But you guessed that already, right? FINE, YOU WRITE THIS ENTRY THEN IF YOU KNOW SO DAMN MUCH. Heheh (blammo), I'm just kidding. I don't mind leading you through the nuances and intrigues set up by this incredible society, though as this waffle demonstrates there's actually not all that much to write about. You gots yer Moonbeam Meetings, and you gots yer research and wassailing and archaeological digs. The bit about the presidents I made up. Sorry.

Citations: Andelphracian Lights, Fefferberry, Nanit.

--Sean B. Palmer 03:22, 18 Sep 2004 (EDT)