I was watching TV and there was live footage of riots in China. One of those coves implicated in the Chinese milk scandal was being transported to court in a cage, on a cart, pulled by a horse. The rioters swamped the horse and cart, there were so many of them you couldn't see what happened next but things weren't looking good for the fella in the cage.
Then the camera panned to the prison where the other Milk Scandal Felons were being held. It wasn't much of a prison, more like a modest two story house, with a low pointed metal fence around it. The rioters soon stormed it, and again in wasn't looking good for their victims, but we were spared the full details by dint of massed throngs.
Sudenly noise of riots could be heard outside my house. I didn't panic, because I knew I wasn't implicated in the milk scandal & my obviously western features would convince the rioters of this. But I thought it might be best to get the feck out of Dodge so I left the premises and headed towards Groomsport at a light jog.
It was a lovely summers day. Sure enough, some of the rioters caught up with me but they pretty much left me alone after some light jostling.
I kept jogging. The street was much longer than real life. The noise of rioting faded away and I became calm. At the end of the street, Philip Schofield was parked up in a nice red convertible mustang. Only he wasn't the Phil Scofield off the telly, he was a cool, snakeskin, hepcat Phil Schofield. He opened the boot (trunk) of the Mustang and a sassy, pretty 1950s woman came out of a house. She seemed to know Schofield and was wary of him. They flirted in a Tennesse Williams fashion. The conversation seemed to be about the mystery object in the trunk. They ignored me.
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