I went for a walk on my lunch, I happened to pass a small meadow with trees dotted around, while the sun cast a blue tinted shadow over the glade.

While basking in the sunshine, I heard someone sobbing. I thought I was imagining it but there it was again – weeping almost…

I set off in the direction of the sound and as I approached the source I saw a small ragged fellow, covered in shaggy hair and an awful beard. He was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt with a red neckerchief tied loosely round his withered neck and a Labour badge rosette pinned to the lapel of his skinny-fit blazer.

I tried to ask him if he was alright but all I got out of him was unintelligible whimpering such as “muh oppression”. “muh NHS”, “muh revolution” , “muh inner-city youth projects”.

Puzzled by who this man could be I tried to get a closer look at his face while he cried a stream of tears onto his skinny jeans crotch where a number of other inseparable fluids coexisted. I waded through a collection of needles and portraits of David Cameron with horns drawn on, while the stench emanating from the mysterious creature increased tenfold.

Upon closer inspection I saw he was holding a picture of Ed Milliband (photo-shopped to have a halo) in one hand and a spliff in the other and immediately realized the identity of this poor gentleman.

“Russel Brand?” I asked.

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