When London’s underground network first opened back in 1863 its drivers were the Victorian equivalent of a young Gail Porter in a bikini – Hot stuff, with an uppercase ‘H’. During the days of the industrial revolution these underground chauffeurs were the lauded gentry of the transport world.

Fast forward 146 years and the situation is altogether different. Tube drivers are now forced to work below the caviar-marinated bread-line earning a piddly fifty-small-ones a year, only employees who live outside of zone three are entitled to a second home allowance, and Gail Porter is now bald.

So, in search of a return to the ‘good old days’ tube workers in the RMT (Rail, Maritime, and Transport) union, decided to begin industrial action at the unavoidable expense of annoying absolutely everybody, irrespective of colour, means of transport to work, or creed.

At 1900 GMT on Tuesday the trade unionising trade unionists brought the sleepy riverbank town of London to its knees, through the only means by which they knew how – by closing the entrances to all London Underground stations until such time that Queen Victoria was placed back upon the thrown, bringing with her the former glories of the ‘golden age’ of tube driving.

And of course, we have our neighbors across the smaller pond to thank for providing the blueprint for the industrial action;”We freedom-kiss the French for their political dissent, like – mmwwah,” explained one glorified button-pushing neanderthal driver.

In the lead-up to the strike action, speculation was rife among the national press surrounding the motivation behind RMT’s potentially never-ending strike. Theories ranged from a government attempt to get the trans-fatties, and backpack carrying terrorists, exercising along the payments once again; to making the capital easier to understand for confused Lonely Planet reading tourists donning box fresh Oxford University Hoodies; and every Jewish related world conspiracy inbetween.

So, unless someone can find Queen Victoria – who was last seen at her own state funeral in January 1901, and can do so quickly – the strikes could go on indefinitely. This leaves London’s overground transport systems over-stretched, and the roads littered with a harem of novice ‘Sunday cyclists’, sporting blindingly yellow ‘Don’t fucking tread on us’ type jackets.

Safe in the knowledge that he did his best to avert the strikes, Major Boris Johnson tried to brush of his own failings and help disgruntled Londoners get back on with their miserable little lives by sounding the boyish war-cry of: “Last one to the office is a rotten egg.” Go on, run along now.