Since its inception perhaps a million years ago, Pinewood has been part of an insidious travesty. A cardinal sin, no less — a perpetual crisis. But all it takes is one cursory glance at the lunch menu to reveal to the reader the nature of such a disaster.

“A Taste of Italy.” “American BBQ Series.” “Global Adventure.” A myriad of options at the witless Pinewoodian’s fingertips. But the Man has deceived you. Bamboozled you. Pulled a damp rag over your eyes and danced the macarena. Given you an endoscopy with a cracked camera lens.

For, dear reader, it is true. Amidst these so-called “cuisines” peddled by Big Food (which is irrevocably linked with Big Farms which can be misspelled to Big Pharms for comedic effect, which is an industry term for Big Pharma!), the noble monarch is nowhere to be found. Exiled by a tyrannical junta. Given the ol’ do-si-do slip ‘n slide.

Now is the time to ask: as the blood of the elders begins to boil and injustice blinks dumbly, roused from its stupor to the fresh taste of resistance, the inquiry shall finally be made: what of British cuisine?

Yes, my friends; trifle over nothing with your slack-jawed shock and skip to the intolerance and rage. This is the cuisine that gave you toad-in-the-hole (if you’re lucky, it will contain no real toad), Lancashire hotpot, pie and mash, and, yes, even jellied eels (if you’re lucky, it will contain many eels). And this same cuisine, the ambrosia of Zeus’s teeming ashet, has been slighted. Deemed too lowly. Done 80 reps with a 12-stone barbell. Given an endoscopy without a camera.

But, my friends, hope is in sight. Democracy proves to be the only viable route of recourse. It is with cautious optimism that I introduce a petition: beans on toast every day for a month.

Few dishes are as emblematic of British cuisine as beans on toast. Although it is deceptively simple in its three-ingredient setup — “beans,” “toast,” and “on,” (and the optional fourth ingredient, world peace) — the feeling imbued within maker and consumer is where the muse seizes control. Indeed, throughout history, society’s greatest minds have been so moved by the sheer brilliance of the dish that it now carries allegorical significance: think Odysseus’s voyage to Ithaca, Krishna’s primordial struggle against Arjuna, or the secret limited-edition version of Shrek 2, also known as Shrek 2: Donkey’s Rage Shall No Longer Be Contained.

“A cheesy beano brings me right back to trivia night at the local — The Merrymaking Sow if anyone’s interested — by the Farm in Tottenham,” petition signee and bean enjoyer Courteney Spence said, gesticulating wildly with his hands, his eyes gleaming.

He pauses as he reminisces on the dish’s larger significance in his life.

“Me and the mandem fam from the Wood Green endz would get gassed and tube back home to the flat for a speedy beany,” Spence said, gesticulating even more wildly, his eyes contorted to the shape of a glistening haricot bean.

Few dishes can foster such robust and delicate sentiment; certainly, no cuisines other than that of Britain can emanate such warmth. Yet for the last billion years, scores of unsuspecting children have been trampled on by an authority gone rogue, frothing at the mouth to the thought of its own disgusting power.

But there is no shortage of hope. We have made this matter public. Now, the bourgeoisie and their “spaghetti bolognese,” “beef and broccoli,” and “free-range chicken tenders” will have no choice but to heed our word. The masses have stirred, and there is no lulling us into a trance again. Consider your options.

And mark me this, fair peoples of what is right and just: the Man shall make good on our word, lest we unleash the kicker on him — Glasgow classic, the deep-fat-fried Mars Bar.