It is nine months before Christmas. An innocent and virtuous woman of the Midlands (let's call her Kim) was up to her elbows in solder fumes, trying to connect a B&M e-werk to a NOW TV box, when the Angel Polar Bear appeared, and light shone from his hair.
"Blessed art thou, O Kim", said the angel, "for thou art up the stick. Thou shalt pop out a sprog whose name shalt be called Flatus, and he shalt win audaxes".
Kim was most perplexed by the angel's appearance. "That's a bit unexpected," said she, and put it down to the solder fumes, which had also caused the wallpaper to start breathing and the carpet to talk.
"Focus, Kim", said the angel, "you must go to Long Itch, in the country of Shakespeare, where he shalt be born in a bus shelter."
And, lo, nearly nine months after the angel had spoken, an international space station appeared in the sky and hung over Long Itch. And a message was sent forth from the despotic King Dez that all men, women and goths must return to the place of their last camping, since he wished to register their faces with his panoptical quadcopter.