RETURN OF THE LIVING GLORIFIER

In the quiet town of Middleford‑on‑Toast, where the most exciting weekly event was the bin collection, disaster struck in the most British way possible: politely, unexpectedly, and with absolutely no contingency plan. A research lab—funded by a government department no one had heard of—accidentally unleashed a mind‑mangling gas meant to “reduce anxiety and promote general chill”. Instead, it triggered something far more terrifying: an epidemic of weaponised fandom.

Within hours, ordinary residents transformed into glassy‑eyed zealots whose only mission was to glorify Michael Jackson with the intensity of a thousand malfunctioning karaoke machines. Streets once filled with dog walkers and people pretending not to see their neighbours now crawled with moonwalking hordes chanting “HE WAS INNOCENT” at volumes capable of stripping paint.

Those unaffected—roughly three people and a confused postman—were forced into hiding, dodging mobs who believed shouting “EDUCATE YOURSELF” counted as a diplomatic negotiation. The infected travelled in packs, armed with laminated YouTube screenshots and a supernatural ability to appear whenever someone said “I’m not really a fan”.

Survivors faced a grim choice: fight back with improvised anti‑stan weaponry (earplugs, logic, and the occasional restraining order) or barricade themselves indoors, praying the Wi‑Fi didn’t go out. Supplies dwindled. Tensions rose. And worst of all, the scientific community—tasked with fixing the mess—had mostly joined the cult and were now too busy arguing about charts from 1993 to help.

But hope flickered. A ragtag band of unaffected misfits—featuring a retired librarian, a teenager who preferred Prince, and a man who simply hated pop music—worked tirelessly to find a cure. After countless failed attempts (including one involving vinegar and a strongly worded podcast), they finally discovered the antidote: concentrated, industrial‑strength common sense.

Administered via loudspeaker announcements such as “CELEBRITIES ARE JUST PEOPLE” and “LIKING MUSIC IS NOT A PERSONALITY”, the cure spread rapidly. The stans recoiled, shrieked, and eventually snapped out of it, blinking in confusion as they realised they’d spent three weeks defending a millionaire they’d never met.

The crisis passed, but the scars remained. Middleford‑on‑Toast would never forget the Great Glorifier Outbreak—the moonwalk marks on the pavements, the endless debates about album sales, the traumatised postman who still twitches at the word “Thriller”.