It is 382 years ago, give or take an hour or two. Mr Fawkes and his best pal Mr Catesby are out for a nice stroll by the Houses Of Parliament. Another busload of Japanese tourists pulls up at the kerb. "Tell me," says Fawkes, carefully avoiding the snapping invaders, "how can I get a really big explosion?" Catesby stores out across Westminster Bridge and tuts aloud at the stock-still traffic jam. "Maybe we could ignite some carbon monoxide?" he muses. "Concentrate, Catesby!" implores the early 17th century Yorkshire catholic. Catesby grins: "Concentrate Catesby. Hmm, good name for our band." Fawkes cheers up. "No, I'm torn between The Renaissance Greengrocers and The Brain-Dead Bimbos. Are you voting in the Making Music poll?" Catesby ignores him, frowning as they pass a hot dog van. "I think we need an 18k rig with about 30 bass bins and a couple of dozen mid-highs," he says, "then well put on that tape of Ritchie Blackmore and wait for the place to come tumbling down. A doddle, Fawkes." At that moment a loveable London Bobby strolls up to the two conspirators and executes them on the spot. What a senseless waste of human life.