Ah, splendid! Picture this, you bumbling oaf. There I am, Jacob bloody Rees-Mogg, usually poised and proper like a Victorian spectre, now tearing it up at a rave near my estate. I’ve just had a snort of ketamine, so everything's going a bit wonky, but let's dive into the chaos, shall we?

First off, the music! What the absolute Dickens is this cacophony? It’s pounding through my aristocratic veins like the march of a thousand angry peasants. My monocle's fogged up, my top hat’s at an angle most improper, and my cravat's gone AWOL. But bugger it all, I’m moving to the beat! My limbs are flailing about like a puppet on strings, but in my mind, I’m the epitome of grace.

The ravers, bless their common little hearts, are absolutely gobsmacked to see me. They’re used to me droning on about Brexit and tradition, not dropping some Etonian dance moves. But tonight, I’m not the Honourable Member for North East Somerset; I’m the Honourable Headbanger of the dance floor.

Ketamine, let me tell you, is a rather curious substance. It's like being transported into an alternate dimension where the House of Commons is a nightclub and the Speaker’s gavel is a bloody bass drop. Everything’s wobbly, time’s a bit squiffy, and reality’s taken a leave of absence. But there’s a strange clarity in the madness, a liberating detachment from the rigid bollocks of everyday decorum.

So here I am, amidst the neon lights and thumping beats, mingling with the proletariat, and feeling rather splendid. It’s all very... democratic, in a way. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a glow stick that needs twirling and a beat that needs dropping. Tally-ho, you magnificent bastards!