You'll all have to swear loyalty to the Great Pixie of Belligerence who rules by the Divine Right of The Lord of the Ancient Order of the False Dawn.

Meanwhile, on the margins the resistance quietly gathers and draw their plans against the establishment headed by The Infallible Shaw of the Unsublime Opinion and his Three Pet Musket Monkey's (Speak shite, Speak Shite and Speak Shite).

Meanwhile, the Bash Street Kids invade an egg box that has been discarded by the voice of reason on a motorway cutting somewhere near Cherwell Valley services. Marx spins in his grave, making a noise like a hum (but quite different in reality) and in a large, faceless conurbation near a phone mast the last known wild peasant walks into a Poundland and buys pair of 1.25 reading specs and later, in the local park where the hydrocarbon lake fizzes and pops and releases a reek, lies down with a bundle of post-it notes on which are written words and more words with meanings and eventually falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.