I saw him recently. It was in Epping Forest at 3am, on a cold June night. He was stark naked, blood dripping from his newly christened axe (“the redeemer”), and he was panting heavily. Before him lay the corpses of 162 grey squirrels and a druidic stone glowed faintly in the background as if it was enamored by his sacrificial offering. We supped on wolf milk that night, and as the blood moon rose, made sweet love to the calming dulcet notes of Calvin Harris’s It was acceptable in the 80s sung by motley crew of green paraquets. He left at dawn, clenching that bloodied axe between his teeth as he sprinted north, no doubt in pursuit of that elusive “uptime” he’d kept muttering between every agonizing thrust.