Long before mankind had ceased his nomadic wanderings - before towns and villages, and fields and farmsteads - a great and mighty frog kingdom stretched across the world, reaching across Europe, Asia and even taking in parts of Australia and the Americas. And the potentate of this glorious frog nation was a wise and noble and much loved amphibian by the name of Slimy Albert. So highly regarded was Slimy Albert that his subjects would come from far and wide to pay homage, and bring him gifts of precious rocks, expensive tableware and chocolate digestives (which were his favourite). And this was all very nice and splendid, and all the frogs were happy, and hardly anyone ever had to get hurt in cruel and unusual ways.
However, not everyone thought so highly of the Frog King - particularly not the toads, who were lawless and spiteful and had no real appreciation for chocolate digestives or, for that matter, custard creams or fig rolls. They vowed to destroy Slimy Albert's kingdom, tear down his palace and trample all over his biscuits. Their attack, when it came, was vicious and brutal and caught Slimy Albert completely by surprise. Before he had chance to react, they had smashed his armies, destroyed his strongholds and seized control of a number of strategically important ponds.
But Slimy Albert was not about to concede defeat. He rallied his remaining troops and - along with a band of hired newts, and a squadron of dragonflies who were sympathetic to his cause - he marched on the toads' main base of operations, which was to be found beneath a hedge in East Anglia. The toads, however, had been tipped off: they were ready and waiting for the Royalists, and they slit them up a treat. Slimy Albert himself was captured and sentenced to execution. And even today many people are overcome by sadness when they are reminded of his ignoble demise - impaled on the business end of a bicycle pump, surrounded by hundreds of jeering toads waiting expectantly with their fingers in their ears.