Train ride to Nirvana, the spa just outside Reading, not the other place...

That recurring nightmare of a train out of control, speeding as fast as it possibly can, the engine screaming as it reaches maximum revs and then exceeds them into the red line area of certain demise. The drive with maniacal eyes and the smile of a man possessed with the cruellest and most demented of all dementors, his blonde hair moving slowly as though caught by the air but reacting in slow motion, almost as though they were blond snakes slowly writhing upon his head. And the gates to which he heads remains firmly locked against his madness, determined to keep this madness locked in. But still he comes, speed increasing, no way of stopping him now.

And next to him in his cab are the team he has assembled, a troupe of fellow inmates determined to be released from the shackles to which they are still firmly locked only now the key is held by the madman to which they have sworn unbending, unswerving allegiance. But they don't care, they are just happy to love their new dear leader, to follow him regardless of where it leads, to head for new nirvana that exists just the other side of the locked gates that have trapped them and kept them down for all these decades. The grass they can see quite clearly, it is most certainly a wonderful and luscious green grass and it is there for the taking, just as their dear leader told them, they can see it and they are going to take it and enjoy it and love it for it is the new green grass for which they have been promised.

The carriages behind are choked full of the passengers, split into carriages of many classes but now these classes are not simply split by the type of house lived in or the school attended or the work undertaken. There are special carriages for the true believers and then less wonderful carriages for the doubters, those that must crash through the gates with everyone else but do not want to. Those that cannot see the green grass on the other side but instead think they can see green grass where there feet already stood before the order to join the train was given and forced upon them. Some still scream, stop the train, but there voices are now drowned out. Their fight was valiant, annoying, well intentioned but futile in extremis.

But behind the engine and before the carriages of the screaming masses are special carriages. Carriages of special guests, of mysterious people who seem always to be in a shadow despite the light of their carriage. The carriage is luxurious in the extreme. Everything that man could ever desire is here for the taking at the nod of the head, it is delivered immediately and without sound. Here the mysterious faceless people start writing contracts, start dealing in souls, not their own, but the souls of the masses that travel behind. There is laughter and mirth as deals are done and souls are traded. Guests from elsewhere look at the speed dial and check out the window to see the gate getting nearer and nearer. And these people know, that on the other side, the grass is no greener but on the grass await their own people, who await to greet the travellers and offer them goods and services that they can no longer refuse because now they will be free so they will be free to choose and free to accept and free to give up their freedom of choice, if they choose, which they do, which they have, and the guests and the faceless shadowy people will enjoy and watch and laugh and trade in souls.

And BoJo presses down on the lever, harder than anybody ever before and the train goes past the maximum speed setting of ten and approaches the mythical speed of eleven. All hail BoJo, because there is no longer any choice.