All around the country, pagan-identifying types are tuning bare-breasted towards their nearest haul of ancient stones. The ground around Stone Henge will creak under the weight of flashers and dogging enthusiasts expunging ritual joy at the altar of the saggy boob and wonky dong. The Waitrose at Fleet Service station - positioned perniciously before turning into the tailbacks of the A303 - will see a year’s worth of trade between here and Glastonbury and back again. Pull up the effigies! Burn Farage! Burn BoJO! Just don’t forget the mini Molten Mowbray pork pies.

…

Out with the old and in with the new. The Spring equinox always feels somewhat cleansing; just as winter’s drawn on that little bit too long and the festive season is a vanquishing speck on an expandingly-bleak horizon. Suddenly, day matches night and the weight lifts a touch. It’s only going one way from here.

Long light, parklife, heady basement nights