Picture the scene: a political Royal Rumble. For years, the ring has been dominated by two tired, lumbering heavyweights, Labour and the Conservatives, whose moves are predictable and whose passion is long gone. The crowd is bored. Restless. Angry. Sensing weakness, a new tag team has stormed the ring: Nigel Farage on the microphone, the master promoter, and Tommy Robinson as his street-fighting enforcer. They’ve got a simple, brutal story the crowd can chant along to. The old champions look lost. Then, just as the match seems to be slipping away, two new contenders jump the ropes, ready to fight. And they have a game plan.

First in the ring is Gary Stevenson, the brawler from East London. He’s not here for the fancy stuff. His finishing move is The Truth, and he delivers it with the force of a powerhouse. He steps up to the mic and hammers home one relentless, uncomfortable fact: this country is being bled dry. A billion pounds, untaxed, generates a million pounds a week in passive income. It’s a runaway train, and your life is on the tracks. He doesn’t need a script; his authenticity is his weapon. The crowd believes him because he is them. But a brawler, no matter how powerful, needs a strategist in his corner.

That’s where Zack Polanski comes in. He’s the high-flyer, the tactician. He sees the whole ring, understands how the ropes of the climate crisis are connected to the turnbuckles of social inequality. He’s not just here for one match; he’s building a political stable—a revitalised Green Party—to fight for the championship belt. He sees the anger in the crowd and knows it’s the energy source that can power a real movement, transforming boos and cheers into a political force that can’t be ignored. But what’s their strategy against the current, failing champions?

Let’s be blunt: the reigning champions, Labour, are finished. They look the part, but they’re slow, complacent, and fighting the last war. They’re “in hock” to their corporate sponsors, their billionaire donors. They’re deaf to the roar of the crowd. Stevenson tells how he tried to hand them the playbook for victory, a plan for a wealth tax the public is crying out for, but they weren’t interested. They’re about to make a rookie mistake—a disastrous November budget that will leave them wide open. And that’s when the real villains of this story will make their move.

Because the most dangerous force in the ring isn’t the tired champion; it’s the perfectly executed heel tag team of Farage and Robinson. This is Stevenson’s crucial insight. Their success comes from a “WWF-style multiplicity of voices.” Farage, the slick promoter, works the media, cutting promos that blame every problem on the outsider. Robinson, the enforcer, takes that same message to the streets, creating chaos and viral clips. Together, they create a constant wall of noise that feels bigger than it is, making their fringe ideas feel like the mainstream. They have filled the void left by the champions.

So here’s the game plan. You don’t beat a tag team like that one-on-one. You build a better stable. A bigger one. The strategy is to turn the entire crowd into a new faction, a multiplicity of voices for fairness and hope. It needs ordinary people telling their own stories, becoming the third, fourth, and fifth person in the ring. It needs political leverage, with the Greens winning seats and making a wealth tax the non-negotiable price of power. The choice is now a straight one: a championship victory for a Britain of shared prosperity, or a permanent win for the promoters of hate and a future of slums for the 90%. The bell is about to ring.