Sometimes I dream of revolution, a bloody coup d'etat by the second rank--troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men--I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister's Humber--comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges-- --and--march-- --an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-handmen--storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet--stand-ins of the world stand up!--