That Sir is the robe of Stronzetto, redolent with his heady aroma (and several unidentifiable stains incapable of removal even with industrial strength Cillit Bang).
Once donned the wearer is wafted away to a large hadron collider-scope of sensations.
A funzie frenzy of fun, friendship, musical mayhem......and pork products.
Yes, the Mind Garden.
But wait, what's this. What at first appears to be lush verdant grass is in fact insufficiently anchored astroturf.
And worse still, the winds of whimsy are blowing this turf tatami into shapes even Euclidean geometry cannot comprehend, but can best be described as comparable to a Trump combover.
The lightly lubed lathe of reality turns and we crash out of the matrix.
Till the next time, au revoir, mes amis.