Professors Arnold Potts-Johnson, Joachim von Hatzendorff and Hiram P Hackenbacker from England, Austria and the United States respectively,  were nearing the end of their allotted task of drawing up the agenda for the forthcoming Anthropological Congress to be held in a couple of weeks time at University College, London.  Most of the work was complete and it only remained to arrange the field trip.  Part of the purpose of the forthcoming Congress was to study  vestigial ancient customs in the developed world, England in particular, since this was the country favoured with the task of hosting this year's event.

Professor Hackenbacker spoke in his rich baritone voice.

"I hear that there is an ancient fair held each year in a place called Little Sprodwell.  This is a festivity which has roots going far back into the pagan and pre Celtic past of this country where each year is re-enacted an ancient pagan sacrifice of a young maiden as an  appeasement of  the fertility gods."

"Bollocks!" said Professor Potts-Johnson in his reedy and querulous tones.  "And the full name of that one-horse arse hole of the universe is Little Sprodwell under Fosse - God help us all!"

"I beg your pardon, Professor, but I have this on the very best authority.  The trouble with you locals is you can't see the wood for the trees.  You are blind to the treasures to be found in your own back yard."

"Bollocks, if you will permit the repetition, Professor!  This particular shindig is as phoney and ersatz as it comes.  Believe me, I know!  The presiding genius is a relative of mine - the black sheep of the family and a total charlatan to boot!  But, what the Hell?  It'll be a nice day out and a goodly display of female flesh can be practically guaranteed if I know anything of the Colonel, the old lecher!"

Professors Johnson and Hackenbacker looked at their silent Teutonic colleague.  This learned and weary Viennese gentleman shrugged his acquiescence - the first indication on his part for some time that he was actually awake.  A visit to the Fete by a coach load of learned anthropologists from the four corners of the globe was duly pencilled in.  The three then happily adjourned to the Lamb public house in Lamb's Conduit Street, Holborn.

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Mr.  Harry Fenton-Jones, travel agent, entrepreneur and sometime jailbird was finalising the arrangements for a party of visitors from various parts of the New World.  He had five Australians, three new Zealanders, four Canadians and twenty Americans to take care of for a week as they visited the land of their ancestors and breathed in the atmosphere of Olde England - or so they fondly believed.  The usual weary round of visits to the Tower of London and Shakespeare's Birthplace and all that old hat had been arranged, but there was still the Saturday to take care of.  Once again, he read the letter from his Aunt Jenkinson in Little Sprodwell.

He spoke to his associate,  a Mr. Lemmy Goldberg.

"Auntie says they have arranged some kind of re-enactment of a virgin sacrifice this year.  Just an excuse to bare a bit of flesh of course.  Apparently it won't be quite as proposed, alas!  They were going to tie this absolutely gorgeous and bare-arsed naked honey - a really exceptionally  lovely chick, by all accounts,  down to a kind of pagan altar with her legs spread out so all could get a good look at her merchandise, but the lady refused point blank in extremely emphatic and even more extremely unladylike terms.  They've still got something pretty good lined up for her, though, even if she doesn't actually know it yet, poor bitch!  Promises to be even more of a sleaze-fest than usual."

"Whatever you say,  my boy!" replied his genial associate.

"Well, I vote we put this on the itinerary again.  Hell's Bells!  They've successfully sold it to a party of so-called learned anthropologists as being the real McCoy!  We should have no trouble fooling a bunch of dumb colonials and their equally dumb blue-rinsed ladies , especially if we get them well tanked up beforehand on whatever ice-cold fizzy poison they consume in their part of the world!  I really think I've found my vocation at last as a shameless fraudster  - God, but it feels so good!"

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Professor the Reverend Canon  Felix Algernon Hurst-Pierpoint-Majors, the Dean and Principal,  was going over with Jimmy Fraser, Captain of the College First Fifteen,  the arrangements for the Harington Theological College's away game with the Jeremiah Bible College at Twickenham a week on Saturday.

"This little village here looks a good place for you all to stop off for a bit of refreshment on the way back, my boy.  I know it so well.  Plenty of good old hostelries.   Somewhere to celebrate thumping the shit out of that nest of  beastly Nonconformists - excuse my language dear boy!  And I believe they have some kind of fair taking place on that day - new thing since my time, but it should be great fun!   Chance for you all to let your hair down!"

"Yes, Sir!  It looks just about the ideal place to break the journey.  I just hope we're not too knocked about to take advantage of the local hospitality.  Pity you can't come with us, Sir!"

"I agree my boy.  I'd love to visit the old place again.  My first Parish, you know.  A heavenly and blessed spot.  I wonder how those lovely  little cherubs are, the ones I christened in my first week there - dear little Julia and Beatrice!  Cousins,  and orphans now, sad to say.  Oh, yes!  I'd dearly love to go there once more!"