Superman may have died at the end of the recent film, but he only became Dr. Who. In fact Superman had been too supernatural and angelic to be sustained as a breakfast cereal. As an ambulanceman he stirs again from the engine of a Ford Cortina, setting pedals into movement and taking on the memory of modern Sherlock Holmes. He is dressed like Ali G on his day off in a beanie with an entourage of gardening renovators who are set to renovate Stone Henge in time for a Glastonbury concert. He’s rather like Freddie Mercury this morning, and he hums to his side kick terrier who came out of The Plague Dogs by Douglas Adams. The entourage each display in terms of characters from entertainment, their order is to assimilate life as forms of poetic accomplishment. John Lennon is a bright yellow traffic warden with a microphone for reading out platform times for platform 9 and ¾ which is at the depot where the Ford Cortinas are all parked up as worrying celebrities of fiction, all given resurrection within the context of a crumbling world. The ethos of pathos ignite smuggles into being cast as super heroes with amusing results, considering they are witness to reading metamorphoses. John Lennon clamps his favourite cars and becomes a chauffeur to The Galaxy where David Brent is struggling to come to terms with being a laughing stock. All of fiction is a laughing stock, considering it coordinates actors with inhibiting beams. However much there is for Superman to do, the NHS is crumbling under the weight of privatisation so the school of supermen in training needs to increase the rate of conversion from real resource to inspired intercourse. Naturally this means cooking.
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