"I"m bored with television," announced Widow Twankey from her easy chair in the Empyrean, switching off The Late Show and adjusting his/her falsies inside her outrageous red bustier. "I will descend again to Pantoland!"

In Pantoland,

Everything is grand.

Well, lets not exaggerate -- grandish. Not like what it used to be but, then, what is. Even so, all still brightly coloured -- garish, in fact, all your primaries, red, yellow, blue. And all excessive, so that your castle has more turrets than a regular castle, your forest is considerably more impenetrable than the average forest and, not infrequently, your cow has more than its natural share of teats and udders. Were talking multiple projections, here, spikes, sprouts, boobs, bums. Its a bristling world, in Pantoland, either phallic or else demonically, aggressively female and theres something archaic behind it all, archaic in the worst sense. Something positively filthy.

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