Giant Rik Mayall

I am riding around on the shoulder of a giant Rik Mayall, shooting a Beano style catapult at assorted monsters that had come for us. I fall from his shoulders and land in the Swamp of James Bond, a grey slop bubbling with sphincter-like geysers. As I run across the mud to escape the chaos it glows like nebulae, and the horizon lights up with cultural epicycles.