The majesty of Britain’s most beloved program, “Elevenses Television”.

It starts, as stories of this magnitude often do, on a balmy summer evening in mid September. The wound is still fresh and oozing a kind of thick blood-jam like many of the cakes and bread things of the monolithic sun-up jitterbug “Elevenses Television”.

Picture the scene. A well oiled crane effortlessly glides a fearless englishman, equally greased to the nines, across an open field until we halt rather suddenly on a picturesque tent adorned with Great British bunting. Without actually having been there this is as close as any man or woman will get to experiencing the awe and majesty of the fearless advance across the beaches of Normandy, defiantly spitting in God’s face as a terror but also a sense of true purpose grips your British heart like a worn sponge. Two angels shimmering with an almost alien luminescence guide you in through the gently parting flaps as you are greeted by what can only ring true as the very hallowed halls of Valhalla itself… Only with like a shit ton of cake.

There another two ancient sages revel in your cosmic arrival. One swathed in the most elegant of dresses, as if she were moulded from Athena’s very clay, her lips eternally pursed so that only the faintest shimmer of light can ever be glimpsed escaping the human costume encasing her near unlimited Bread-energy or ‘Breadergy’. The other approaches comically hunched, as Igor to a Frankenstein, a shock of white hair adorning the jellied mass atop his shoulders. It calls itself Hollywood. Perhaps it even is. You don’t really care enough to find out. It’s weird. This whole thing is weird. Ew.

An energy from between dimensions grips you like a lover and effortlessly fandango’s you to a long empty table upon which is draped a crisp, white cloth save for the occasional dried globule of honey or mayhaps meringue? Equally delicious. The time is now.

With a thunderous clatter you are laid bare across the divine parchment, a pressure already building upon your forehead akin to the boulder of Sisyphus, as the two now lurid golem’s in this harsh light tighten the straps you not-quite-quickly enough notice at your wrists and ankles.

“IT’S NOT QUITE ELEVENSES MUM” Crackles the Hollywood.

“ELEVENSES ENOUGH FOR SOME” Answers purse head in kind.

Your eyes dart back and forth but all has become a blinding white. You’re not sure if this is heaven or hell. You scream. There is no sound. Just the deafening silence. Everything becomes wet. Everything becomes warm and then…

Darkness.

The slick crane pulls back from the tent. Today a new cake will be unveiled.

And it is full of jam.

All par for the course with “Elevenses Television”.