As god dangled his skinny legs over a cloud he surveyed with horror the action unfolding beneath his feet. Outside the glorious monument to his name-St Paul’s Cathedral, gathered a group of protesters, holding ridiculous banners and shouting such ludicrous ideas as ‘fair trade’ or ‘a world not run by very-rich, middle aged, balding, white men with short man syndrome’. What were they thinking, he asked himself. They had absolutely no idea just how key rich, middle aged, balding, white men with short man syndrome had been in the development of mankind. He couldn’t do it all himself, the world was a big place.
Now, with amusement he clicked his fingers and watched as the rain started to fall down upon the dissenters, soaking their organic, fairtrade shawls that they had bought from Brighton, and reducing them to bundles of shivers.
Now the rain increased, until it flowed up to their ankles, and then their knees and then their thighs and then their stomachs until they were carried away, left floating on top of the water that was now flowing over the top of most buildings, completely drowning the entirety of London.
And so the capital was purged of guardian readers.