YMBDTG #5: Lactose, Meet Intolerance

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This is part 5 of a weekly interactive story, links to earlier parts can be found below:

Part 1: A beginning is a very (very) delicate time
Part 2: Up for the craic at dawn.
Part 3: You can’t make an omelette without a violent uprising against the eggs.
Part 4: This revolution will definitely be televised

The most popular choice for continuing the story was to tweet out:

An image of Milo next to a white splattered image of the Prime Minister and several leading cabinet figures. The image is labelled MILO SAY MILKSHAKE THE GIEVRNMENT. The accompanied tweet says “Lactose > Intolerance #GIEVRNMENT #MILO”

Part 5: Lactose, Meet Intolerance

No one on the breakfast TV can quite hide their excitement. At the surprisingly well attended opening of a new wing of the imperial war museum last night, the Prime Minister was pelted with what the press is describing as ‘at least two hundred milk-based beverages’. By the time that the police and security managed to gain control of the scene and whisk the sodden premier away, images of the leader of Her Majesty’s government looking like some sort of tragic, slimy ghost, atop a small mountain of plastic and cardboard cups.

Video and images of the whole incident have spread around the globe. #BorisBukkake is the biggest social media trend in the entire world, not just the UK, second is #MiloMilkshake and third is #LaughingPoliceman – due to one of the PM’s close protection officers being pictured looking most amused by the whole scene while his fellow officers were waving their guns at the crowd.

The presenters on GMTV are doing a great job of managing not to laugh as they endlessly replay footage and garner reaction from across the political and cultural spectrum. They are less successful at feigning naive innocence at exactly what ‘Bukkake’ means.

By 7.45 am more reports are coming in of government ministers being milkshaked while out on their morning runs or commuting. Michael Gove suffers an especially enthusiastic chocolate dousing from a gang of gleeful pensioners.

At 8.05am someone uses a small fleet of drones to bomb the frontage of 10 Downing Street with gallons of pink, sticky, strawberry lactose goodness.

At 8.10 the metropolitan police use extraordinary powers granted to them under anti-terror legislation to ban the sale of milkshakes, frappuccinos and any yoghurt-based drinks anywhere within greater London.

By 8.15 the stock market has dropped eight points as the UK becomes even more of an international laughing stock as Europe wakes up to the image of #BukkakeBoris.

Throughout the morning, more and more Tory MPs are pictured getting milkshaked across the country. You post up the occasional picture of Milo superimposed over the resulting photos with marks out of ten and style comments. “8/10 Good coverage”, Milo notes from the corner of an image of Priti Patel covered in what looks like something minty from Starbucks. “6/10 Could do better”, he remarks on a video still of Matt Hancock taking a McDonalds chocolate milkshake mostly on the shoulder.

As fun as this all is, you should still go and do your afternoon shift at the bookshop. Until you can figure out a way to ethically monetise this whole revolution, you still need to pay the rent.

You head outside into the blustery late morning and begin the walk into town. As you are turning at the end of the street, you have a sudden panic that you’ve left your wallet in the house, you turn back quickly to dash back for it, only to find that it is in your coat pocket after all. In turning back you notice a very shiny, rather sinister looking Range Rover driving slowly and almost silently down the road behind you. As you look at it, the car stops, what looks like a camera lens quickly slips inside and a tinted window rolls up.

Trying to pretend that you haven’t seen anything untoward, you turn and continue back on your course to turn onto the main road into town.

The sensible part of your brain is telling you not to panic, at worst this might be some journalists who have found out where you live. The non-sensible part of your brain (which is the vast majority of it) is screaming at you that you may well have caused the start of an embarrassingly messy political upheaval and are very possibly a target for some sort of extraordinary rendition.

Your heart is beating far too hard as you attempt to saunter carelessly down the pavement. This could be getting a bit serious now.

(So far you have bought down 0.03% of the government. There have been a couple of junior ministerial ‘resignations’ from the home office after the milky chaos of the last 18 hours)

What are you going to do?


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