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Sunday 27 May 2018

A new plan, again, Day 28:

We are a divided nation. We have never been so divided, except for that time in the 17th Century when we literally had a war with ourselves. But apart from that we have never been so divided.

Thankfully the day has come where we may put our differences aside and come together to celebrate our shared heritage and to remember what makes our country better than all the other countries stacked on top of each other wishing they were our country, because our country is the best. For today and for the next two days it is BANK HOLIDAY.

Yes, all of our nice British banks have gone on holiday to visit their relations the Swiss and Caymen Islands banks, and without our banks' stern, implacable visages peering down at us from every street corner and online account-management app the population is free to descend into a Purge-style weekend of debauchery, catharsis and borderline criminal activity.

Round up your friends and enablers and try your luck at a traditional Bank Holiday game of "Pin the Nationality on the Taxi Driver" or "Whose Vomit Is It Anyway?", or take part in one of many popular feats of strength, such as "Throw the Nerdy Mate's Bag on the Roof", or "Punching".

But don't be late for the parade, for at noon all must gather on the boulevards and high streets to march to the Bank Holiday Anthem, which is Wonderwall. Today is gonna be the... Come on, you know it. That they're gonna throw it back to... That's it, drawl every lyric at the top of your voice and cheer, as if Oasis were actually here, listening, and as if they cared.

And then, if you're feeling mysterious, fellas, while the women are bobbing for fruits in the gin globes, why not try a spot of Bank Holiday fortune-telling, wherein you pay bartenders to hand you pint glasses, the shape of which glasses tell you subconscious truths about your sexuality? Have you been given a glass that is straight and wide and hefty? Phew, you're a normal, correct man, who has earned the right to burp in public and go first in fights and peek up ladies' dresses as they ascend the stairs ahead of you. But what's this? The bartender has handed you a shapely curvaceous glass with a slender stem and an alluring lip? Uh oh, looks like you're a nancy bummer-boy who cries when Leonardo DiCaprio slides into the ice in Titanic and surreptitiously dreams of feeling the soft touch of silk panties brushing against your inner thighs at night. It's as if they're performing palmistry upon your soul. Using only the shape of one glass. That's Bank Holiday Magic!

Later, as the sun goes down, take a sojourn to the festive food tents and sample one of the celebratory meals prepared specially for the occasion, such as: kebabs, barbecue meats, and discounted sandwiches from Sainsbury's. Mmm, and isn't that flavour just complimented perfectly by the sound of distant sirens?

Then, finally, all will gather for the holiday's culmination, the Watching of the Football, where an enormous cage in the shape of a football is lowered from the sky and two lycra-clad challengers, whittled down from a pool of thousands via an audience-voting stage presided over by Bank Holiday mascots Ant and Dec, must do battle within the ball's iron interior, throwing bottles of urine at each other and wrestling until the loser is torn asunder and the winner is crowned Lord of the Ball and earns the honour of becoming the sacrificial offering criticised for the next two months on Twitter until they self-immolate and their flickering corpse is employed to light the opening beacon for the next glorious three-day weekend.

The Bank Holiday is dead! Long live the Bank Holiday!

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