A Second Battle in Cable Street

The front ranks of the Nationalist marchers were staring into Hell.   Ahead smoke curled and flames crackled.   Shadowy wraith-like figures scurried across the crimson haze.   A roar of defiance filled the air and chilled the blood.
Boz was on the barricade waiting for the exact moment to signal to Phoebles.   He was proudly wearing his best telnyashka under a flamboyant Makhnovist Cossack, bum-freezer jacket and his little Kronstadt sailor hat was perched on his head.   He felt that he looked pretty good.
Michael Winner was at the head of the advancing column, waving  a large flag of St George,  when the first salvo of bombs hit.   He was floored by a wobbly, water-filled condom and stepped on by a Royal Marine Trombonist.   A wavy, jiggling line of riot police rushed forward, making chuff chuff train noises, and formed a defensive barrier between those who had fallen and the looming presence of the barricade, they banged their shields in time to each other and muttered a deep throated, tuneful 'Whoa-whoooooooo, whooooooooa-ha!   
And then pandemonium errupted.   There was yelling and screaming and clattering and clashing.   Everyone opened up with every weapon they had, at anything they could see.   Firing short accurate bursts with the X Ranger 1075 from the Town Hall roof Ginsbergbear was having a devastating effect on the Nationalists, but down below in the thick of the melée water was flying everywhere, there was the steady pop, pop, pop of Burp® guns and flour and water were combining into a dreadful paste.   Some tear gas had been deployed in the early stages of the conflict, but it had clung to the fog, refusing to spread and lingering in intense isolated pockets.   Hurling their bombs over the heads of the front line combatants the Kronstadt sailors could have no idea of the havoc they wrought, every so often Boz gave them a reassuring thumbs up from his vantage point on the defences. 
For the moment the Women's Institute Anarcha-Feminists were manning (a term that I am sure they would object to) the field hospitals. but they were armed to the teeth and eager to join the fray on the flimsiest of excuses .   The essential tea urns had been set up  on a conveniently located trestle table by two pacifist Quakers and a jewish transvestite named Manny who had not wanted to endanger her expensively manicured nails in battle.   They also serve who only serve the tea.
La Columna were engaging Metropolitan Snatch Squads and a detachment of Eton school boys in nearby side streets.   The boys' Saturator SIG SAUER 556’s and La Columna's STR80-AK47 Aquafires were pretty much equally matched, but experience was to win out and the toffs were soon routed.   One snatch squad was captured and, with no provision for restraining prisoners, was released on a promise that they would go straight home.   Elsewhere the conflict was confused and messy.

Locked in a stale mate at the barricade the Nationalists deployed their secret weapon, two mounted police vans.   The  vans were lashed howdah-like to the backs of elephants, blue lights flashing and sirens 'nee-nawing', but the elephants proved as ineffectual as they were ridiculous.   They quickly faltered under the Kronstadt sailors' artillery bombardment and were rendered skittish by tear gas stinging their eyes and trunks.   At this opportune moment Ferdy arrived on the scene in the Cierva C.19, screaming out of the sky, bonksie-like in a steep dive, to unleash a stick of flour bombs with devastating accuracy.   Jumbo ran amuck, charging back through scattering ranks of riot police.
Sadly, autogyros do not do dive bombing, or if they do, they do it but the once.   Trailing smoke and oil and popping rivets all the way, Ferdy just managed to hold it together long enough to ditch in the chill waters of Shadwell Basin.

Meanwhile, back in Cable Street, the cobbles were drenched and slippery, gutters running with those fluid residues that are the byproduct of armed conflict.   The Anarcho-Surrealists had regrouped and united with the Situationist and were holding their own.   Scary clowns were recklessly hurling pails of confetti.   Boz was just checking the last few magazines for his AK47 Aquafire, water was running low, when Phoebles pointed to a young lad with a severe limp approaching them urgently from the rear.   He was being held up by one of the Anarcha-Feminists.

"Talk to him.   He's gone to a lot of trouble getting here."   She left the lad with Phoebles, picked up an abandoned Burp® gun and clambered onto the barricade.
The youngster had come up from the sewers and was the son of one of the Yorkshire miners.   His Kier Hardie cap was awry and dried blood stained his left cheek.   
"T' Cats Sootrins 'as been guidin' t' Met Snatch Squads through 'tunnels.   We'n bin overrun int' sewers.   Thou's gonna be cut off an' surrounded.   Me da' says I gorra warn yer."
"Good lad." said Boz, "Phoebles, take him to the rear and get him a cupper... make it a mug, strong and sweet.   And tell everyone back there it's time to go; we'll hold on here for a bit longer."  
Phoebles returned just as the howling Snatch Squads and Chats Souterrains emerged from the sewers.   Once on the the surface they assumed a cuneum formation, several wedges in fact, so probably cuneii or something like that... and charged. 
Boz raised one eyebrow. "I meant you to go too."
"I know, but..."
Heavily out numbered now the defenders battled on, periodically releasing small groups from their number to escape through the surrounding, winding alleys and passages.   One catapult crew remained with a fast dwindling supply of bombs.   Whilst unsuccessfully urging others to follow, a ski-masked mob of Anarcho-Syndicalists rushed on to the barricade crying "No retreat - stand firm!"   They planted a Confederación Nacional del Trabajo banner securely into the rubble, "Rally to the flag!"
Ginsbergbear could see the circle of Nationalists tightening on his comrades.   Riot Police were hammering on the doors of the Town Hall.   It was time to go.   He picked up the X Ranger 1075 and headed for the stairs.
Phoebles and Boz were standing back to back, one magazine left in Bozzy's AK47 Aquafire and the last two ping pong balls in Phoebles' Burp® gun.
"Not exactly going to plan, eh, y'old bugger." muttered Phoebles.
"Ah, but you've not heard my Plan B yet, pal." 
Softly the distant, tinkling notes of Die Walküre drifted on the gentle breeze that was just beginning to clear the day long fog.
"That'll be the Plan B where we're unexpectedly rescued at the eleventh hour?"
Headlamps and ice-cream cones flashed as the Vicecream van, with a newly fitted Audi turbocharged V12 diesel engine grumbling under its bonnet, careered westwards along Cable Street and burst in on the scene.
"That's the one!" replied Boz.
With the Kittens of Chaos balanced precariously on the roof-rack lobbing a fusillade of smoking baked potatoes down onto their hapless victims Aunty Stella gunned the Vicecream van through the rear ranks of besiegers and slewed round to halt within inches of the lucky pair.

"More spuds, more spuds We're running low on ammo up here!"
"Get in... Now!"
They piled through the open serving hatch.
Nationalists were all round the van and advancing up the lower levels of the barricade.
"We'll never reach anyone else."


Consuella Starcluster dominated the highest point on the pile.   With bodice bursting to reveal her ample and heaving  breasts and waving a republican flag with a single red star centred on its golden stripe, she was totally surrounded by warring Anarcho-Syndicalists and Metropolitan Riot Police.   And she was screeching defiance...

 "¡Vare a la mierda!"  

"¡A hacer puñetas!"   

"¡A tomar por el culo!"   

"¡Descojonarse, mearse de risa!"   

Turning to look down at the euphonically wagnerian vehicle she produced a fully loaded Saturator STR100 Lightning Strike super hand cannon from under her full skirts and proceeded to carve a swathe thro her would be captors.   Springing gazelle-like down the rubble she reached the vicecream van, vaulted through the hatch and spun round to continue firing on anyone who had been stupid enough to pursue her.   Aunty Stella jabbed the accelerator pedal, wheelied the van through a tyre smoking handbrake turn and was gone.   
For a while the remaining defenders atop the barricade fought on, but they were quickly subdued and bundled into waiting black marias.   

Interesting Times

Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk, probably a little too loud in the earphones of his i-pod - Googleberry was lying on his back on the lawn, legs akimbo, soaking up the rays.   An over excited Strawberry was urgently trying to get through above the pounding strains of Pink Floyd, "We've had a semaphore from Limehousesailortown.   Boz says there's a mood for revolution on the air."
"Googleberries don't do revolution.   Someone feed me a grape."   Someone did.   It tasted unexpectedly fruity and he spat it out.   "Perhaps a fishy-snack-treat would be better... and a glass of sherbet."


Something came between Googleberry and the sun, its shadow growing as it descended.   Gently a shiny new, royal blue Cierva C.19 with a white saltire painted on its tail landed on the grass a safe distance from the sunbathing cats.   It's engine coughed into silence and down clambered a slightly tubby, snub winged bird in leather flying jacket and helmet, goggles, short legged jodphurs and tight fitting lace-up boots.   The autogyro was a gift from the grateful Scottish people and Ferdy wanted to show it off.
"You two coming to the big festival in Hyde Park?   I can squeeze you both into the front seat."
"Norralf!" cried Strawberry, sensing another adventure, "How about you, Googleberry?"
"Too much effort, old man." replied the recumbent feline, "Just leave the cool-bag of ginger beer within my reach, and bring me back an ice-cream."
Strawberry was already scrabbling into the passenger seat as Ferdy kicked the engine into life.   Pulling his goggles down, he engaged the clutch to start the rotor turning.   Opening the throttle and accompanied by a satisfactory roar from the single Armstrong Siddeley Genet Major radial engine they bounced briefly across the lawn and were airborne. Ferdy piloted the little craft high above the M3 into West London and then headed for the patch of green that was Hyde Park.   They dropped down into the gyro park close by the Serpentine.   The festival was vast, a riot of colour and incredibly noisy.   It had been organised by the government to arouse a patriotic fervour in the population at a time of uncertainty and no little hardship.   The newspapers were full of praise for the enterprise; on the television and radio, programme after programme covered the events; and the weather had, so far, been perfect.   There was a steam fairground with flashing lights, competing music from wheezing mechanical organs and squealing teenagers.   A central arena hosted displays by motorcycle teams, police dogs and, currently, stiff, black uniformed soldiers mounting horse drawn field-gun carriages that wove and scissored with thundering hooves and clanking harness to yet more music.   At a safe distance there were ornithopter rides and balloon rides, once round the park for five guineas.   A military marching band in white pith helmets played... marches, in front of a stage from which, periodically, politicians, dignitaries and popular celebrities gave rousing speeches.   Almost everyone in the crowd had a small union flag on a stick which they waved whenever it seemed appropriate.   In fact the national flag was to be seen everywhere, across the stage, flying over marquees and stalls, painted, it seemed, on every flat surface.   Even the hot dog sellers, attracted to this event from all over the European Union, flew union flags above their stands.


Strawberry made a bee-line for the fair, closely followed by Ferdinand.   The Whees, Aahs and Oohs grew in intensity until they swamped the senses and somewhere a steam calliope squeaked out a confused rendition of Jerusalem.   The duo rushed past the big wheel, which was not all that big - a small wheel in fact - and past two garish, guilded carousels with freshly painted and fierce eyed gallopers, past the Wall of Death to the new and experimental steam dodgems - only to find they had been shut down indefinitely since a boiler explosion on one of the cars had led to injury and the threat of litigation.   Ferdy was crestfallen, but Strawberry spotted a Helter-Skelter towering in red and white candy stripes beyond a gently idling showman engine.   Clutching a mat he dashed up the inside and whizzed down the outside, and then he did it again, then went again, and went again, and again, and again, and again...   As he landed at the bottom of the slide, slithering and tumbling for the umpteenth time Ferdy snatched the mat from him.
"Enough!"
"There's the Shamrock, lets go on the Shamrock."   Strawberry pointed towards the Steam Yachts, the ultimate adrenaline ride.   It was rumoured that a steam yacht had killed, more than once, towards the end of the nineteenth century. 
"Lets find Ginsbergbear, he is giving a poetry reading at one of the fringe events."   But on their way they saw that the prime minister was making a speech and stayed to hear it.  It was bland.
"Look," Ferdy nudged Strawberry. "now that's interesting."
Behind the speaker, unobtrusive, yet seated where he would miss nothing, was The Media Oligarch, infamous subject of one of Slasher McGoogs' more colourful broadsides.   He had, in his youth, been the white persian cat playing alongside Donald Pleasence in You Only Live Twice and his real name was rumoured to be Mr Fluffy.   He did not notice the pair (Why would he?), but his chilling, cold eyed smile set the fur and feathers bristling along their spines.


To the east, out beyond the city, a very different form of gathering was taking place.   And this had been the subject of Bozzy's now forgotten warning. 

Death on the Ice

Ferdinand Desai was making good time.   He had crossed the coast some time ago, somewhat north of Craster by his reconing.   He could make out Banborough Castle rising above the snow, way off to starboard.   The air was still, and a watery sun gently illuminated the chill landscape below.   Things were going to plan, and for Ferdy that was near perfection.

...And (as always) this blissful state was not to last.   Apparently without warning, he was in thick and freezing fog.   His windshield froze, the fuselage sparkled, his goggles misted over and his beak tingled with the sudden chill.   He tried to coax his craft upwards above the fog, but the build up of ice was making her heavy.   The engine began to splutter, parts were binding and the fuel turning to mush - the prop ceased to turn.   Slowly the autogyro began it's gentle descent, buoyed by the free running rotor.   Then there was a screech of locked and tortured metal, frozen rotor bearings.   The descent turned into a plummet.

There was a jarring thud, some pings and boings, a pop and a small puther.   Ferdy found himself sitting at the centre of a snow crater surrounded to a distance of ten feet or so in every direction by disassembled and slightly bent aeronautical parts.

Having checked that all HIS bits were in place and full working order, he packed a stash of ginger biscuits into a knapsack and removed the compass from its gimballed mount.   He would continue with Plan A (no-one had appraised him of a Plan B) and follow a line towards Edinburgh.   It would just take a little longer without his airborne transport.   Adjusting his goggles firmly he trudged blindly into the total white-out.

Trudging can be tiring and flying boots are not the best hiking footwear.   After what seemed an age Ferdy halted and partook of two well earned ginger biscuits.   It was whilst resting thus that he noticed a small, indistinct black blob out in the whiteness that enveloped him.   As he watched it grew larger, and blacker, and really large, and distinct, and nose shaped.   It stopped, hovering some way above him, in close formation with a pair of coldly intense eyes.   A large mouth also appeared, and spoke.

"And what exactly are you?"

Peering hard, Ferdy thought he could make out the outline of a massive white bear.

"I am Ferdinand Desai, dodo... on an important rescue mission.   Can I assist you in any way?" he added, politely.

"Not just now," replied the polar bear, "I have already eaten, and at the moment a duck is out of the question."

Tentatively Ferdinand explained his situation, without much hope for a happy solution.   The bear however was feeling untypically sympathetic.

"I could give you a lift as far as the Great North Road.   I probably won't get hungry before then and you might be able to cadge a lift from there."   Not waiting for a reply the great bear scruffed Ferdy by the collar of his flying jacket and set off at a speedy lope.   Dangling, limp limbed from the jaws of a polar bear the dodo did not feel dignified, or comfortable, or particularly safe.   He had just about got used to the gentle swinging when they approached the tops of a bus-stop sign and a row of telegraph poles, peeking above the snow.   The bear dropped him at the bus-stop.

"I can't see an omnibus coming any time soon, but you may be able to hitch a lift on a passing snow-plough.   I'm afraid I'm getting peckish and you are starting to look tasty so I'd best go find a MacDonald's, or a baby seal or summat." ...and without looking back he loped off across the icy wasteland.

Ferdinand sat for a while, then rose and resumed his trudge, 

Meanwhile...

Progress across the sea-ice had been slow for the snowmobiles.   They had picked their way though the jumbled blocks and jagged teeth of ice, forced upwards by the pressure of the surrounding shelf, thawed, weathered, and refrozen, time after time.   They had manhandled the machines over blockages, experienced moments of terror, hours of tedium punctuated intermittently and increasingly annoyingly by, "Take the next turn left." from Ginsbergbear's i-phone.

And, "Recalculating." when they didn't.  

"It will work better when we are on land." announced Ginsbergbear, without undue concern.

Travelling some way into the mouth of a wide, frozen river they eventually found a steep and tortuous route up onto the snow plateau that covered the land.   They sat on their machines astonished.   As far as they could see the snow spread before them, flat and featureless but for the occasional spire, pylon or rocky outcrop pushing above the carpet of snow and ice.   They should make good time over this terrain.

Boz eased the throttle open on his snowmobile and moved off.   From behind there was a, "Waheee!" and Strawberry wheelied his Corgi into a madcap dash, overtook Bozzy's combo and accelerating ahead, disappeared.

"Did you see that?" shouted Phoebles.

Boz stopped, drove slowly forwards and stopped again.   The trio dismounted and walked cautiously towards the black hole that marked the spot where Strawberry and Bert Wold had last been seen.   They peered over the edge.

Someway down the upturned Brockhouse Corgi was jammed between the walls of a seemingly bottomless crevasse.   A large orange fur coat lay spread-eagled across the machine and from beneath the collar a pair of wide eyes, black with terror, peered back at them.

"He's gone." a thin voice quivered, "It just kept falling, the sledge, supplies, Ber...    The atlas has gone, everything's gone... and I don't feel very safe."

"Hang on!" shouted Phoebles.

"That's what I've been doing."

"We need a volunteer to go down to him." said Boz.   He and Phoebles glared at Ginsbergbear.   Ginsbergbear glared back.

"Me... do I look like a volunteer?"

"You must be the lightest - your stuffed with horsehair.   And the vet says me and Boz are erring on the pudgy side." explained Phoebles.   "No time to waste, I'll find a rope."   He produced a stout length of manila from the back of the sledge and a bowline was tied around the bear's middle.   The other end was secured by a round turn and two half hitches to the frame of the skidoo, a means of attachment highly recommended in Phoebles' well thumbed copy of A Boy's Bumper Book of Knots.   

"Prepare to be lowered."  Boz mounted the quietly idling Corgi and as Ginsbergbear hesitated on the edge of the chasm Phoebles gave him a gentle shove.

It was as close to abseiling as dangling at the end of a rope with all limbs thrashing wildly can be.

When he alighted on the upturned machine, close to Strawberry, there was a scraping noise and several chunks of ice detached from the crevasse walls.

"Don't hang about.   Tie the rope round the two of you and wave when your ready."

On Ginsbergbear's signal Phoebles shouted, "Go!" to Boz and the Brockhouse Corgi began to inch forwards.

By the time the pair eventually popped over the edge of the hole and flopped onto terra firma it was hard to judge who was the most traumatised.   Hot, sweet tea was quickly brewed up and Strawberry wrapped in spare blankets and woollens.   He was worryingly subdued.

"I'd quite like to get away from here as quickly as possible." he shivered.

"OK, well press on till dusk before we make camp." declared Boz, "Shame about Bert... and the atlas.   Still, that's life."

They re-stowed the gear on the sledge, mounted their one remaining rig and set off once more, somewhat cautiously.

Next morning Boz put his head out of the tent and noticed something dark protruding from the drifts out to the west of their bivouac.   After a breakfast of sardines on toast they steered towards it.   An hour or so later, as they drew close to the object they could see that it was the tilted bust of a gigantic metal man with something like the wing of an aircraft projecting from its shoulder.

"At the next roundabout, take the third exit." barked the GPS.

Ginsbergbear studied the little map on his i-Phone screen, "I think it wants us to follow the Great North Road."

"And where exactly is that?" asked Phoebles.

"Somewhere below us." suggested Boz, turning the skidoo northwards.