Imagine yourself, roughly four months from now, behind the curtain with a No. 2 pencil in hand, the empty ovals staring back at you. What are you gonna do? Your symptoms are real. Breathing is difficult, your eyes are sore, you’ve not slept well, you’re constipated, perspiring, when suddenly you’re beset with a constellation of even more symptoms brought on by the names next to those ovals. The world is counting on you to do the right thing. Which is what, really? A lump forms in your throat, the chest pain won’t go away. You feel faint. You’ve never had a nervous breakdown and wonder if this is what it feels like. You flash on what you were taught in high school, in that civics class you couldn’t wait to get out of. Suddenly, two images juxtapose in your mind: The vacuous stare of the old man at the podium paired with the inflatable orange Jesus in the UK sky. It’s down to a Somnambulist versus a False Idol. Seriously, what are you gonna do?