Just as the first light of morning was starting to creep stealthily across the dark sky, Mike finally rose from the sofa and made his way to bed. As usual, he reckoned he had solved the problems of his housemates, but he needed to do one last thing to make sure his solution was absolutely foolproof – treat it like his mattress and sleep on it. Within minutes of his changing into height-of-fashion pink pyjamas, turning out the roller skating lion tamer and snuggling down in between two (plastic) chicks, he was fast asleep and dreaming.

Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams …

Mike swung his feet up onto his desk and leant back on his chair, engaged in lighting a cigar that was almost as big as him. He'd only just prevented setting light to himself when there was a knock at the large oak door that opened onto his office.

"Mr. Oil-Tycoon-Richest-Man-In-The-World-Cool-Person-President-Sir?" A woman's voice inquired from the other side. Mike smiled to himself around his cigar and lazily swung his feet down onto the floor, pressing the security button that would allow the door to gracefully swing open.

"Call me Mike," he entreated the pretty young woman who entered. "Or if you prefer, you could call me later on and we'll have breakfast together."

"Thank you, Mr. Call-Me-Later-And-We'll-Have-Breakfast-Together."

There was just no pleasing some people. Mike threw his cigar out of the window behind him, ignoring the angry yowl of pain that followed the smashing of glass.

"I don't know how to tell you this… but there's some bad news."

"Well, no news is good news so why don't you come on over here and we'll talk about something else." Oh yes, he was unstoppable today, the king of smooth, as well as owner of every single oil company and president of the world.

"I'm afraid it's about your son."

Mike's good humour suddenly plummeted. His illegitimate son was a chip off the old block, as power hungry and ruthless as his father. Mike had hoped to combat this with sending the boy to live with a poor family of oil-mining hippies where Junior would acquire a taste for the simple life. He hoped fervently that the news was something to do with a certain someone falling down a certain oil well.

"He wants to have a business meeting with you this afternoon. He's bought one of your companies off of E-Mike."

"But he's illiterate!"

The woman shrugged uneasily and played with the sleeve of her blouse.

"And I don't even have any of my companies up for sale." Mike blinked in a bemused sort of way, pulling out an enormous folder containing all his business conquests and leafing through it for clues. But not even Scooby Doo would be able to help him out of this one; he could feel it deep inside. "I can handle this," he muttered, closing the folder with some effort and standing up. "Get my private helicopter ready, I'm going to the meeting."

An hour and a half later he was seated in one of the chain of coffee shops he owned, wondering how anything with soapy washing up water renamed cream dumped on top of it could possibly be sold to anyone except idiots. Without warning, a diminutive man with enormous sunglasses perched on the end of his nose sat down opposite him.

"Junior." Mike nodded coolly. "Coffee?"

"No thanks, Dad. I can't stay long, just have to put you out of business and then I have a new oil field to open."

"But I own all the oil fields." Mike protested. In answer, Junior slipped a computer print-out across the table. It showed the confirmation of a purchase on E-Mike – Mike Inc. Businesses sold for 50 new Mike-pence.

"This is a forgery." He picked it up and bit it, it turned to mush beneath his teeth. "A forgery!"

Junior shrugged and stood up, wheedling the piece of paper out from between his father's teeth. "It will stand up in a court of law."

"Paper can't do that, not unless you prop it up with something."

"See you in the dole queue, Dad." And with that cruel, heartless parting shot, Junior was gone and Mike was left alone to hasty thoughts of revenge. Unfortunately, there was no time for even hasty thoughts, as by the time Mike got back to his office his portrait had been replaced by one of Junior and he couldn't get in past security. The whole world was now under the tyrannical rule of his son and apparently there was nothing he could do about it.

"I can't handle this."

It had all shattered so quickly there was no time to grab hold of any of the pieces. Mike was left homeless, penniless and jobless. As he wandered the cold, lonely streets, clutching a brown paper-bagged bottle to his chest, he allowed himself to be transported in his mind back to simpler times. Times when he'd had an army of lecturers, deans and students at his every beck and call. He remembered especially fondly his punk bodyguard and dogsbody hippy and anarchist, so willing to accept him as house leader and let him win any impromptu games of hide and seek. If only he had them with him now, he would claw his way back to the top and make sure that ungrateful son of his got well and truly Punk'd, but he was alone.