Usually we start at the top left, and work our way around. This time, we’re starting at the logical place, and the place where logic departed that day for our young hero, Murray Nibs. We start at the bottom left. Yes, Mrs Miller and her Soylent Green Mushroom Hash and Cockle Brownies.

Mrs Miller lived in cottage on the Cornish coast, just outside a little village called Stepney Cowpattesdyke–on-Boot. She was not your typical fox-hunting, cockle-drabbing local. Mrs Miller was not regarded as being local, at all, having moved to the village locals for three miles around simply called “On-Boot” thirty years prior, from the East End of London. She retained her cockney accent and habits she’d picked up in her work as a cosmetic salesperson abroad during the 1390s. Not a typo, though she did spend some time in Berlin in the 1930s, as well.

The On-Boot locals didn’t care that Mrs Miller was a witch; they had no stake in that. They just didn’t think she was Local. Which suited Mrs Miller just fine. More time to knit, commune with demonic forces, and bake in peace.

One day though, Murray Nibs, drawn by whispered tales of the first year Mrs Miller had lived in On-Boot. Murray, being of a scientific bent, wanted to know if it was true she’d donated such infernal brownies to the church fete the vicar had disrobed under their influence, climbed onto the roof of St Swithians and pissed on the villagers gaping up at him. Being of a scientific bent, this meant eating at least one hengehog, as the whispers called them.

Murray found Mrs Miller to be a friendly, knowing type, even if she wasn’t Local, with a left eye like it belonged behind an eyepatch. She was more than happy to offer him the choice first brownie of a batch she’d just made for herself, her black goat, black cat, and seven white hens. Murray ate five. Brownies, that is.

The following five images are what happened next. Clockwise from Mrs Murray: a) The first effects came on, euphoria and the urge to drift across the sands to join a harem. Murray wrapped a sheet off Mrs Miller’s line and wandered off to the nearby beach, following the faint scent of camels. He enjoyed the way his heavy, free breasts rolled in rhythm with the waves. So far, nothing too disturbing. b) Murray wandered up a path and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror of a public toilet, where he’d stopped in to check how he looked. He’d thought he had luscious beach tresses and instead – a French Poodle had been scalped and stuck on top of his head. Nowadays we have “what I think I look like/ what I look like” memes to relate to and prepare us for such shocks. Back then, Murray ran screaming right into

c) ‘Nuff said. Even if it was not a hallucination, but a local lass doing some gardening. d) Murray crashed into the woods and collapsed sobbing on the ground. A … cameltoe butt snout dog thing came up and asked “Will anyone marry me?” e) seventeen hours later this is Murray, still seeing the cameltoe butt snout dog thing, who Murray now called “Tex” and had a variable-sided relationship with, depending on whether Tex had one snout, or seven, and … other things.

Murray was tough. His ancestors had survived wars and plagues and wet tweed underpants. He made it out alive. He used his experience, rich and meaningful as it was, to fuel his career as a Svengali in the music business. All these albums were recorded with Murray masterminding, from 1968-1973. All are the actual artists, recreating the profound time Murray had on the Soylent Green Mushroom Hash and Cockle Brownies. That is the real Mrs Miller, who became quite the darling of swinging London, and likes to claim she was the one who turned Margaret Thatcher on. Who knows, that wink might merely be a perma-squint from when the vicar pissed in her eye.