Dave works a job he hates, has no real plans for an escape out of lower middle management monotony beyond weekly betting slips, an acca and two lucky dips, knows he's in his socially-disadvantaged tax bracket terminally, whinging about what Britain's become but somehow always fine with how it's run.

Down the polling station joined-up thought, self-preservation and logic all stop. Like a battered wife, just has to give them one more go, feels safer with self-serving old money calling the shots. So that's what we've got.

Our Dave loves to berate public services: 'have you seen the fucking state those schools and hospitals and roads are in?'. Knows first-hand how fucked things are but blames foreigners, not spending cuts by rich old cunts who, when they need a few quid, gladly put the squeeze on him as their family coffers get fat via questionable defence contracts and a little electoral fraud to help prevent an office that might not consent to leave any convenient loopholes in corporation tax.

Down the polling station joined-up thought, self-preservation and logic all stop. Like a battered wife, just has to give them one more go, feels safer with self-serving old money calling the shots. So that's what we've got.

He's all loyalty and not mistrust; aspiring reverence and not disgust. Arsefucked at every opportunity, backs the same horse unswervingly, just another happy turkey voting for Christmas.