The vomiting starts just a few minutes later. Taking position over the cracked ceramic of our national pride, Britain’s frenzied heaving soon yields the most poisonous of fruits as the crippling pangs of diphtheria begin to take hold. “Make it stop!”, he cries, sweat streaming from every pore and stinging his desperate eyelids, but no-one is listening. They’re all too far away now, merrily ensconsed upon a continent forever banished to some distant horizon. Blarghing in perpetuity to God on the great white telephone, he pleads for absolution. No-one answers.
So swallow the one that makes you ill..."