Argleton was a "phantom" settlement that appeared on Google Maps and Google Earth but does not actually exist. The supposed location of Argleton was just off the A59 road within the civil parish of Aughton in West Lancashire, England, which in reality is nothing more than empty fields.

“Doesn’t exist. Doesn’t exist. I’m so fucking tired of being told Argleton doesn’t exist.” Landon shook with rage.

There he stood, once again, in front of a newsstand; the marquee quire clearly stating that Argleton did not, in fact, exist.

Choosing to do something with his rage rather than let it simmer into a carcinogenic stress ball as usual, Lando stormed to the Argy Bargy – the pub whose name was a fun play on the local’s nickname for their beloved town, “Argy”.

The thock of a pre-thrown dart hitting the board echoed though the sparsely-populated pub as the hulking mass of Lando hulked through the saloon room, rage-crumpled copy of The Daily Mail in hand. The quiet din of the pub quietened further to a hum of whispers.

Lando hulk sauntered to the bar and assumed his usual preach position in front of the draught taps. “Are we gonna,” Lando started, his boom finally muffling the remaining hum, “sit around and take this?” He thrust the paper in the air to punctuate the point. Due to his tense grip over the masthead, the headline now read, ‘Tow    xist’.

Roy, stationed on what was affectionately known as Roy’s booze stool to regulars, looked up from his pint glass and muttered in the manner that only a British drunk could, “There’s no point getting a bee in your bonnet again, youngin.”

The pub hushed and turned its attention to Lando for a rebuttal. The tension was palpable.

“No point?” Lando yelled, exasperated. “No POINT?” He yelled louder, defiantly. “There are people out there saying that we are nothing. That we don’t contribute. That we aren’t even worth including. And you have the gall to sit there and tell me it’s not anything to get worked up about? Have you no PRIDE?” Lando’s pride was indicated by his arms opening in the vague direction of enveloping the town in a loving proud hug.

Roy didn’t flinch. “I’m as Argletonian as peppered tea,” he fired back, referring to a local delicacy. “But even you can surely admit they have a point?”

Lando crossed his arms, brought his feet together and with his expression completed a stance that body language experts would aptly describe as ‘engaged’. Go on, his body language said. Now, his eyebrows and slight nod demanded.

“You know as well as the next man that we don’t exist,” Roy flatly informed everyone listening of their inexistence.

Body language experts further defined the resulting lean from Lando towards Roy as engaged and pissed and probably about to throw a punch.

“I have no doubt you feel real,” Roy said, sensing diffusion was necessary to subvert a fist-face connection. “That is, after all, part of the trick. Part of the illusion.”

Lando, arms still crossed, pinched himself underneath his folded arms to confirm the validity of his existence.