Where were you when tomorrow took care of itself? Were you standing in digital solidarity with advertiser-friendly grassroots bioleninism, rallying your fake internet friends and making sure they're doing the most up-to-date and inclusive variation of nothing? Were you tuning out any accusation of being a useful idiot from all-powerful anonymous dissidents, who garner such favouritism from the establishment that they can't use their real names?

We were all on a level playing field at one point, some of us just drove nicer cars. Welcome to the pile-up. We on the bottom are still expected to empathise, so my heart goes out to you. Truly, it does. It must be lonely at the top.

Don't go too fast, stay in your lane and be sure to afford curtesy to sociopaths lest ye be pulled over. Traffic cops are on standby to slow the swinging of the pendulum, and none of this is for your benefit. Smile politely, apologise publicly and you might just keep your job.

You pull out in front of a card-carrying member of the Protected Few and an officer does all he can to right the wrong. A short stay in the Baizuo Gulag, five cheerful years of raceplay and sissy hypno before you're back on the streets. It's only fair, you broke the Law.

Your regular commute to the cube farm is obstructed by a colourful parade, the familiar scents of diesel and cum fill the car and you breathe in the heady perfume of culture. You're not allowed to drive past, your pay is as good as docked.

You think back to the Horrorists and laugh at how wrong they were.