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Amongst the sideburns, picket lines and glam-rock bands of the 1970s, the Midlands gave birth to its most famous son.

Peter Runacres was to bring Solihull kicking and screaming out of that grainy, oppressed decade and into the stylish, innovative world of the 1980s. The rest of the UK soon followed with fashion designers and record labels universally seeking the Ron's advice.

Armed with the wardrobe of an angel, a wit and cynicism that Wilde would envy and a collection of records that ranged from sparkling to heart-breaking, Peter set about telling the world to adore him or to f*ck right off.

The 1990s came along and, wholly unimpressed, Peter told them to f*ck right off. "What insolence. I didn't sanction this. And how unimaginative." yawned the Ron. "I shall continue to wear sharp jackets, make nice food - nothing claggy - and play cheap, but immensely enjoyable, arcade games."

Without Peter's guidance, the world suffered. The next 10 years passed as a bland dirge of Britpop, Sky Sports and All Bar Ones. New Labour's plans for the rejuvenation of the UK were left in tatters when Ron decided to emigrate to Australia.

It is rumoured that the EU has tabled an offer to bring him back to England for the sake of good taste. Peter is considering his options.