This hundred paces, I take it that it's you who walks away (Given that the victim no longer has legs?

I'd like to think so. I was brought up on competitive steroids, but its not personal.

So, we cut to a cartooned street scene in old London, say around the mid 1600s. The camera pans over the name plate beside a side door "Ye Olde Fart Club, Every Second Tuesday", stairs and people ascending. Up to an open window above, there's Samuel Pepys letting off a loud ripper to an amused bewigged assembly.

The camera pans slowly back and round the corner to an adjacent side door "Ye Davely Old Fart Club, Daily". Camera pans into the open window above where we see a motley collection of dusty yet recognisable stalwarts of modern day comedy - a Stephen Fry character guffawing and gesticulating, a bearded David Mitchell with cobwebs, smirking, Alan Davies with crazy perm slouching, shoulders hicupping as he does, all in time to a Michael MacIntyre parade on stage, facial expressions etc.

Followed by what....