The most intense, significant event of the past two weeks has been the situationist spectacle groyned high on the roof of some plutocrat's house in Berkshire.
The parents of drinks-cabinet virtuoso and tyro toff Rory McInnes were so relieved that he hadn't hosted a Facebook party or bequeathed their patio to Irish tinkers that they failed to notice the mighty male member he had ordered their Filipino maids to chalk on the ancestral tiles in a mixture of bat guano and the tears of homesickness.
At our McInnes Festschrift down the Tethered Goat, the Dog of Deceit (and Hypocrisy) pointed out that young Rory had revealed his objectively bourgeois origins by omitting the three droplets that ought to arch from the tip of the glans towards infinity. These are the mark of the true proletarian artiste du lavabo, as seen on the walls of gents' toilets throughout these United Kingdoms.
As ever, I wondered how this anarcho-syndicalist indulgence could be put to raising true class consciousness among the workers, scythe-making peasants and progressively-inclinded graphic artists of Britain, once they've come back from entertaining London tourists during the G20 summit this week.
And the reply was soon in coming. The Cymru Rouge has been planning to field candidates in England at the next Westminster elections. We have gradually come to realize that Welsh independence, slate-based autarky and compulsory leek-docking for the English among the Pembrokeshire paddy fields are policies unlikely to put us much further ahead than the Liberal Democrats.
And so I have distilled our entire England manifesto into one, poll-storming pledge:
Yeomen of England!
If you vote Rouge, our government will act swiftly to carve three droplets of finest, hop-green piss flying out of the eye of the Cerne Abbas Giant's morning glory.
This will literally cement Saxon workers' hegemony over the cultural sacra of the Norman feudal elite.
We shall then disband, our work here done. Next week, Scotland.
Ta Moq, Brawd Rhiff Un, etc
You know it makes sense.