Externally no-one would imagine there was a stfcon going on, no beanies, zap guns (or water pistols) in fact no fun at all.

Every promise that thou therein dost utter, / Is as sure as it were sealed with butter, / Or a mouse tyed with a threed. Every good thing / Thou lettest even slip, like a waghalter slipstring.

The Secrets, truth; and art so mad to dare (In glory of thy fortunes) to approue, That rich-crownd Venus, mixt with thee in loue; Ioue (fir’d with my aspersion, so dispred) Will, with a wreakefull lightning, dart thee dead.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot / And never brought to mind? / Should auld acquaintance be forgot, / And auld lang syne! / [Chorus] For auld lang syne my jo, / For auld lang syne, / We'll tak a cup of o' kindness yet for auld lang syne.