Welcome to the bluebottle banquet!

The flies of the Hungarian micro-opposition descend on main turd, Fletó.

Like fruit flies drawn to the miasma of John Barleycorn, these minnows of the garden pond, titans of their own mirrors, legends in their own lunchtimes, have lined up behind a rather unlikely lead candidate.

The man at the front of the queue is not yesterday's man, more yesteryear's man.

But, he's a sucker for thinking he's popular, and the people lined up behind him know that very well.

Don't be fooled...this formation will not last: cloaks are being worn, and the daggers beneath those cloaks are equipped with razor-sharp blades.

Still, before the bloodletting begins in earnest, it might be fun to watch a bit of a peacock dance!