The ritual is this. 

One sleeps soundly for ten hours. If one can’t sleep peacefully through the night, one has already failed. The Jankus—as the ritualee is traditionally called—awakes to an international radio alarm clock, tuned the night previously to BBC Radio 6.

On getting immediately out of bed, the radio unsnoozed, the Jankus dresses in red plaid shorts and a Kelly-green hoodie. No undergarments of any sort. They leave the bedroom and locate their shoe rack, from which they retrieve a pair of straw sandals. 

Having donned their shoes, the Jankus leaves their place of residence for the nearest convenience store, whether a petrol station, a pharmacy, or what have you. 

In the store they browse the dairy section for more than two minutes, but less than three, and during this time they select a litre of semi-skimmed milk. Of their choice. 

The Jankus has then only a single task left to accomplish, though invariably this is where all but the elite falter. 

On presenting the milk to the store assistant, the Jankus may engage in any pleasantry of small talk that suits their whims. When or if, however, the store assistant asks them whether they would like a bag—and this is of paramount importance; without it one can never complete the ritual—the Jankus must gaze deeply into the store assistant’s eyes, adopt an earnest tone of voice, and loudly say, for all those in the shop to hear: ‘No, you sicko—I’ve told you a million times I don’t want to see your frigging toenail collection . . .’

Thereafter the Jankus pays for the milk, with cash or card, typically in silence, while the store assistant, red-faced and confused, processes the transaction. 

No one is quite sure why a handful of people each year try to perform the Jankonian ritual. There’s no prize for it. No esteem nor acclaim. Nothing of tangible worth. Nonetheless, it’s for this reason that most Jankuses are banned from every convenience store in their respective hometowns.