Ghost of a flea

A blasted heath on the edge of a backlit forest. Low clouds of mist lap around a natural arena. A figure strides over a hillock into view. It is IAN MCKELLEN. He is wearing a very silly helmet and matching cape. He is in possession of a KNIGHTHOOD and an enormous cheque.

IAN MCKELLEN: Patrick! I know you’re in there. This isn’t a soliloquy, you know. I’ve come to kick some luvvie arse and it’s your surprisingly-toned-for-their-age buttocks I intend to apply my built-up supervillain boots to.