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No. 4: The Enemy

OK, so if you had to weigh up the most terrifying gang of evil-minded swine in the history of history, you'd probably place this trio of youthful indie types somewhere below Dick And Dom In Da Bungalow but above the Care Bears (assuming they haven't finally given up hugging and being nice and gone over to the dark side...the Don't Care Bears). But in a time of national crisis, you have to make do with whatever resources you have been allocated, and not ask too many questions. Besides, if you get a chance, look closely at the singer's teeth...you could get a nasty infection if he bit you. Which is more than you could say about Darth Vader. And if we don't nip this in the bud now, who knows what havoc they could wreak if they were to join forces with others...Evil Lavigne, Dark Ronson, the NME? That's an axis of evil if ever I saw one...

No. 3: Gym Class Heroes

Having fed endless horror stories to the press about the terrible damage these guitar-based indie groups could do to the fabric of society itself, a new state-funded initiative is launched. All young men and women of a certain age are required to attend compulsory fitness sessions at their local health club, with workout music supplied by these specially-created-by-scientists hybrid rap-rockers. The idea is twofold. First, all this exercise will create endorphins (the brain's very own supply of happy) and this will protect our troops from being unduly affected by the enemy's secret weapon, the deadly Emotional Warfare Squad, commonly known as the Snow Patrol. Secondly, in the event of an invasion, we will be able to field an entire army of muscular fake-tanned hotties to throw the invading forces into a state of confused arousal. Should we ever discover that all that stands between us and total defeat is a little mild flirting, well, we'll be well prepared...

No. 2: Groove Armada

So, the land army is primed, ready and greased up. But how will the enemy troops get here in the first place? Over the sea, that's how. What we need at this point is a massive boost to our naval strength. We've got the boats, but a shortage of able seamen (I know! It's STILL funny!) to drive them. Plus I'm not sure 'drive' is the right word for what you do to make a boat go. And 'boat' might not be right either. As you can tell, our sea-based strategy needs a dramatic injection of fresh blood (and some fancy book-learning). So who better to help us in our darkest hour than two dance boffins and their endless supply of reproductive rabbit-people? That's your knowledge and 'man'-power needs covered, plus how brilliant would a 'groove' armada be? All the ships would blast out 24-hour funk music, and be covered in purple and orange velour stripes, and have flared decks, over which would be draped a shiny bling anchor, made of solid platinum. No invading army would stand a chance.

No. 1: The Aftermath: Funeral For A Friend

Once all the fighting is over, and our brave boys (and girls) return from the fray (or indeed the Fray, assuming they're on the other side), a terrible reckoning must take place, and full tribute paid to the brave souls who paid the ultimate price just so that we could all continue to live a free and un-invaded existance. In villages and towns all over the country, war memorials will be erected, full lists of everyone from the local area who fell in the line of duty will be etched into the sides. And in years to come, when all of this just becomes the most boring part of double history on a Friday afternoon, future generations of music lovers will think back to this moment and entirely fail to get their heads around the level of sacrifice given, or what it was all for. War veterans will look upon their incomprehension and scorn and wonder why they bothered. Meanwhile our age-old foes will release their fourth world-beating album of indie-scruff tunes in a row, before buying massive rock star mansions...on the moon. And it's at times like this that the refrain "I've stared into oblivion" really starts to make sense, right? Sleep tight, chickabiddies! TTFN!