"C'mon, best hurry if we want to get to The Hispaniola before reveille," said Sir Pompus MacFarlane to his table companions and it was with a remarkable display of alacrity on the parts of Natalie Rhombus and Digby Doubleday, that the three reached that Piano Bar in less than fifteen minutes after leaving Floozies; here, they were greeted by a cheer from a group of fellow members of the European Rugger Group – not in fact a sporting association, but rather, a dyed-in-the-wool collection of Patriotic anti-European Conservatives, determined to tear Britain away from it's forty-year membership of the European Union, which they hated with a passion for it's lack of Englishness, of love for Saint George, and preference for Snails and Frogs'-legs over Fish-and-Chips and Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding! there was a jar on the bar counter for donations to the ERG funds, and it was stuffed to bursting with wads of fifty pound notes and leaning against the bar beside it, Jacob Yule-Logg MP was deep in conversation with Dame Joan Hunter-Dunn MP (the ERG's Pin-Up Girl) his hands describing with exquisite delicacy the Group's parabolic rise in popularity, carefully returning them to his pockets before they might be thought to be indicative of it's consequent decline; "we don't," he spoke in single words, or two-at-a-pinch, "want, to be, identified, as a, party, within a, party, which might be, considered, subversive!" this last word spoken with such distaste as to convey much more to Dame Joan than the word itself: "but nor," he had resumed, and his hands were once again moving in a rather snake-like manner which reminded Dame Joan of Sir Hiss in the Disney version of Robin Hood, "do we, wish to be, viewed as, monocarpic . . . . ." it was the spray of champagne when Dame Joan burst out laughing uncontrollably which cut him off in mid-sentence and gave him an appropriately carp-like look as his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.