At first the government ignored what was going on around them, then they denounced the perpetrators as terrorists and traitors, ultimately they surrendered to gloomy petulance. Their spin-doctors span, and Mr Fluffy’s papers and news channels screamed for retribution without reporting any of the developments that had triggered their fury. Editors began to resign. The establishment blustered, but its ramparts were crumbling and no one cared to listen. All credibility was lost. The black bottle of deception was uncorked and the lies could not be forced back within its confines. A rising tide of repressed resentment was about to break over the privileged defences of the smug and hypocritical manipulators of power.
Issuing from the basements of Bush House the World Service was reporting the nationwide awakening of which the Fluffy Empire had been so silent. Local radio and newspapers began relaying vox pop reactions to the exposés; editorials speculated about tentative first steps into a bright new world without shabby tyrants.
As the only person left in Number10 not compromised, hiding, or attempting to flee the country disguised as a washerwoman, Larry took charge.
The City, its confidence shredded and refusing all attempts at reassurance or consolation, collapsed, imploded and disappeared from the socio-political scene. The pallid, grey streets of the square mile became deserted and silent, traffic lights cycling through their colours without anyone to see or obey them; the regular stomp of the City of London bobby, the only sound; the only activity, the fluttering of pigeons evading the stooping kestrel. A chilling, lonely draught swirled the street-dust and whipped up a flurry of discarded paperwork.
Within days an Extended Royal family departed from St James’ Park in two customised X Class Super-Zeppelins, almost 700 feet of raw airpower bound for Canada and accompanied by a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III laden with a Roles-Royce Silver Ghost 40/50, two 4887cc Silver Wraiths, a Toyota Land Cruiser, a royal blue Austin Mini Moke and an extensive collection of hat boxes and suit cases filled to bursting with fine jewellery and state regalia. They were closely followed by the entire Cabinet and Mr Fluffy in a commandeered and dangerously overloaded Douglas DC3 Dakota.
Les Chats Souterrains melted back into their tunnels after first pillaging the boutique at 430 Kings Road for its punk and leather gear.
In a Limehousesailortown penthouse bedsit a 40W bare bulb hangs above an oilcloth-covered table.
Phoebles is rolling catnip spliffs, deftly, with one paw and depositing them in an old Players Navy Cut bacci tin.
Ferdy waits for a kettle to boil, a warmed pot of Russian Caravan tea ready to receive the churning water. He has piled a large number of ginger biscuits precariously onto a barely chipped floral plate.
Ginsbergbear is composing an epic poem about their latest adventure and desperately trying to rhyme ‘Tory Prime Minister’ with any synonym for ‘Capitalist Running Cur’.
Boz is slobbing within the depths of a worn and scuffed morocco leather armchair, tufts of horse-hair poking through tears in the cushion. He has been reading a well-thumbed paperback reprint of ‘Fields, Factories and Workshops: or Industry Combined with Agriculture and Brain Work with Manual Work’, flicking through the tedious sections and seeing if it will fall open at the racier bits.
The end credits for Apocalypse Now run through on the old black and white telly, forests burn, music clangs.
Consuella Starcluster comes to the door
“There eez a phone call. Who eez goeeng eet to take?”
Boz clambers out from the belly of his armchair and goes down to the pay phone on the lower landing.
“Hello. It’s Strawberry. Googleberry’s back. Says he got locked in someone’s shed. He has a bit of a limp, but otherwise he’s fine. Working his way through his third portion of smoked salmon and some funny fish egg things he has brought back in a tin.”