Revelations

Conquest 

Next morning the papers trumpeted the government's successes.   Hundreds, nay thousands, of arrests had been made and the courts put on special alert to take the vast number of arrestees.   The Loyalist marchers had liberated the docks, though the media did not dwell on the fact that they found the gates to the various docks lying open with the pickets gone and braziers cold - and the ships cats curled up asleep aboard their respective vessels.   

The PM arrived at Lime Grove Studios to deliver his victory speech live to the nation.   He had elected to sit at a heavy oak desk, solid and reliable.   What he got was cobbled together from chipboard and lengths of 4x2, but it looked impressive on camera.   Behind him union flags, quite a lot of union flags, flanked a gilt framed portrait of the sainted Lady Thatcher in sky blue twinset, displaying a winning smile and clutching the legendary handbag.   He had on the dress uniform of a Major-General in the Grenadier Guards with slightly too many medal ribbons - to signify the conquest of the rebellious East End, victory over subversive socialism.   Mr Fluffy sat on his lap, purring and receiving an occasional limp wristed stroke to the head.  

He had read through his speech on the Autocue and supervised the correction of a couple of typographical errors, but would never be comfortable with the mechanics of seeing the words scrolling upwards in front of him.   Make-up had given him a last primp and powdered Mr Fluffy's nose, the cat had sneezed a smallish glob of nasal fluid onto the PM's trousers.   The floor manager was standing next to the camera, counting down with his fingers... 3 - 2 - 1.   

A  red light comes on above the Autocue and the Prime Minister begins to read.

"Yesterday saw a...

Total victory for strong governance;

Triumph for patriotic zeal;

Vindication of righteous indignation,

Forged in the white heat of battle;

Glorious manifestation of the Big Society at work..."

TV crews waited outside the courts for the arrival of the van loads of criminal anarchists... all morning.   No-one came.

It was lunchtime when the first information appeared on Twitter and the first images of arrested anarchists in ski masks flashing their warrant cards and being released were aired on Youtube.   It transpired that all those arrested had been working undercover as agents provocateurs for one agency or another - with the exception of the three Kronstadt sailors, all of whom claimed diplomatic immunity and were escorted to an Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-114 flying out of RAF Northolt for a free trip home and a hero's welcome.  

War 

Ferdy was a long time in the tiny yellow inflatable life raft, paddling furiously for the shore.   Not that it was far, but a breeze was blowing his little boat all over the dock, his plastic paddle was swivelly and badly designed and mostly he was downhearted about his best present ever just sinking like that.   He'd watched the bubbles where it went down, rising and popping, for quite a while.   Then he got cold and decided to be philosophical about the whole day.   Once ashore he managed to catch an omnibus that was not only going onto the Isle of Dogs, but all the way down to Island Gardens.   In fact he alighted at the North Pole... Really.   It is a common alehouse on the corner of Manilla Street.   From here he crossed Millwall Dock at Pepper Street and then struck out cross country.   There was little indication of the fog that was bedevilling the East End and as he approached Mud Chute Farm Ferdy could see the Dragon Rapide, a magnificent scarlet Dragon Rapide, sitting at the end of a rough, grass airstrip. 

The pilot was tinkering with one of the two Gypsy Queen inline engines, but as soon as she spotted Ferdy's flying helmet and goggles she waved and rushed towards him.   She wiped some of the oil off her palm and onto her boiler suit and shook his right wing stub, vigourously.

"Beryl, Beryl Clutterbuck.   And you, I am sure, are Mr Ferdinand Desai."   Beryl was a tall and imposing presence, but Ferdy could not take his eyes of the little red Dragon Rapide.

"Come and have a good look over her.   She's an ex-millitary DH89A Dominie.   Those Gypsy engines produce 200 horse power each and she can fly at 157 miles an hour, on a good day.   I've got a thermos flask of lapsang souchong and a packet of Duchy Originals ginger biscuits in the cockpit.   Do you like ginger biscuits?"

Ferdy wondered if he had died in the crash and gone to dodo heaven. 

Near to the aircraft was a canvas ridge tent with a pair of Lloyd Loom chairs ourside, one pink and the other painted blue.   There was also an ambitious Dutch dove cote on a pole, with a brass bell hanging beneath it.

"It's the communications centre," explained Beryl, "The pigeons are for long range messaging and the bell is to scramble the air crew - that's you and me.   We'll wizz up to The Gun for supper," she was ushering him into a shiny black Morgan V-Twin Super Sport as she chattered.   The little three wheeler shot off towards the inn, situated close by the Poplar dock and West India lock gates, famed as a venue for one or two of Nelson's trysts with young Emma.   Ferdy found the journey to be exhilarating, a bit like flying, but with your bum only twelve inches off the deck.  

Much later they returned to the tent and settled down for the night.   Soon after dawn Ferdy was woken by the brass alarm bell and the smell of cooking.   The breakfast fry-ups were magnificent, rustled up on a primus and washed down by billy-can tea.   But soon it was time for their mission.   Ms Clutterbuck settled herself in the pilot's seat.   In the back with Ferdy were bundles of pamphlets tied up with binding twine.   With a roar and a whirr the Dominie bumped and bounded along the makeshift runway, lifted lightly into the air and headed for West London.   Once in the air Beryl started to laugh, a light hearted tinkling laugh that persisted almost all the time she was airborne.   She had the side windows open and her long blonde hair writhed in the draught.   Once off the ground she was a goddess. 

"We'll start over Hyde Park and the festival and then spiral outwards, make sure we cover as much territory as possible.   Ferdy, you open up the bundles and begin shoving the pamphlets out as soon as were in place."   The young  bird unhinged the cabin door and placed it carefully to one side, then he cut through the twine on the first bundle with the larger of the two blades on his Victorinox Explorer.   As soon as he saw the big wheel and the Steam Fair below he started scattering the flyers.   "Haha, fliers eh?" he shouted to the pilot.

These were not Slasher McGoogs' usual rants.   These were factual and detailed.   The first few bundles revealed the contents of Mr Fluffy's archive, information on the misdeads and indiscretions of the rich, the famous, politicians, law enforcement chiefs and judges.   Anyone who might one day be persuaded to do him a favour, or be suseptible to blackmail or intimmidation.   Next came the photographs - telephoto images of peccadilloes and parties, liaisons, meetings and luxury holidays at exotic resorts, politicians, policemen, spies, media oligarchs, bikini clad Chattes Souterraines, flaumige kätzchen.   Then there were bank statements, payments made and received, false and exaggerated claims, frauds and embezzlements.   Finally the e-mails, so many e-mails - threats and cajolings, cover-ups and conspiracies, self seeking fawnings, advancements, promises and threats.     

Nor were civil servants exempt, nor bank managers, local councillors, traffic wardens, nor swimming pool attendants, anyone who's lust for power had compromised his integrity, smothered any vestige of compassion; all were named and shamed.   There was Mr Fluffy himself - the fantasies and lies, the threats and bribes, and his dealings with Les Chats Souterrains, so tied in with their machinations that he was no more in control of his destiny than any of his victims.   And... evidence against Slasher McGoogs, the catnip scam and so much more; was this his final joke?

At the bottom of each page was the web address where every revelation could be reread, cross referenced, provenances were detailed, sources revealed; all available on line with a link on Facebook.

As the last leaves fluttered down Ferdy fell back, physically exhausted, but also stunned by what he had read.   Was there not one honest man, good and true, anywhere in this blighted world?

Famine 

Whilst gestating the culmination of his machinations the Grey Pimpernel had absorbed William Morris' more radical tracts avidly and with careful attention - When preplanning the revolution, he had read, look first to the needs of the people.   There will be no support if your actions result in famine and deprivation.   Well before contemplating the inauguration of strife, plan for the peace.

In the blackest streets  of Bethnal Green, Poplar, Whitechapel, Canning Town, soup kitchens sprang up - veggie soup, vegan soup, carnivore soup - every conceivable flavour for those who love soup.   And there was crusty bread.   The fish fags and tagareen wives and pleasure kittens had been baking all night and day, every variety of bread that multicultural, multinational sailortown could devise.   It fell biblically from the heavens.   Their aerial propaganda mission done, Ferdy and Beryl took it in turns to pilot the scarlet Dominie over London's East End, laden with bakery produce, tied to little parachutes with string.

For those who craved more than soup and cobs, Brick Lane became a street market of curry stalls and the rival baigel shops threw open their doors.   In Salmon Lane  trestles down the length of the street were laden with decorative bowls of sweet and sour pork, skewered chicken satay, sticky rice, Singapore noodles.   Kelly's Eel and Pie shop in Bow had extra tables, borrowed from neighbouring households, out on the pavement.   M. Bloom (Kosher) and Son Ltd set up a take away stall next to Aldgate station giving out salt beef sandwiches with kosher mustard.   And all over town humble British chippies were frying flat out to keep up with demand.

Absolutely not prearranged was the arrival of a Frisbee shaped aircraft in Victoria Park, the occupants of which set up a marquee advertising Vegan food.   The resulting riot led to the visitors' hasty departure.   It would appear that they eat some very strange things on the planet Vega.

In time Co-operative stores sprang up, general stores, clothing stores, chandlers, butchers and grocers, owned and run by the people, for the people.   Local neighbourhood Co-operative banks became established to oversee a system of IOU chits received for labour and favours which slowly evolved as cash became worthless and mutual aid and support grew to be the norm.   The lending libraries were reopened.

Death

Thus began the slow death of the establishment.   As the only person left in No10 not compromised, hiding, or attempting to flee the country disguised as a washer woman, Larry took charge.

The City, refusing all attempts at reassurance or consolation, collapsed, imploded and disappeared from the socio-political scene.   The pallid, grey streets of the square mile were deserted and silent, traffic lights cycling through their colours without an audience, the regular stomp of the City of London bobby, the only sound.   The only activity, the fluttering of pigeons evading the stooping kestrel.
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, an 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 Douglas DC3 Dakota.

Les Chats Souterrains melted back into their tunnels after first pillaging 430 Kings Road for its punk and leather gear.

A 40W bare bulb hangs above the oilcloth-covered table.

Phoebles is rolling catnip spliffs, deftly, with one paw and depositing them in an old bacci tin.

Ferdy waits for a kettle to boil, a  pot of Russian Caravan tea ready to receive the water.   He has piled a large number of ginger biscuits precariously onto a plate

Ginsbergbear is composing an epic poem about their latest adventure and desperately trying to rhyme 'Tory Prime Minister' with a synonym for 'Capitalist Running Cur'.

Boz is slobbing in a worn and scuffed leather armchair, tufts of horse-hair poking through tears in the cushion.   He has been reading Fields and Factories, 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’s a phone call.   Who’s gonna take it?”

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 had in a tin.”