All Hands to the Pumps

Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité

A postwar cabinet was planned to be held at the site where the first sparks of Armageddon had been struck, Angel Alley.   An upstairs room above the Freedom Press was procured and all interested parties were invited.
All the -ists were there, the various anarchist and communist sub sects and every shade of socialist, they all wore different hats and button-hole badges shaped like flags and all the flags were different and it did not matter, and no-one got upset.   They were also all noticeably subdued after what they perceived as their poor performance during the incident in Cable Street.   There were ships' cats and dock cats and ratters and The Kittens of Chaos and sailors and stevedores and tagareen men and thespians and jugglers and a man who pretended to be a statue and an ex- Lord Mayor of London called Dick.   Billy Bragg came along to provided the musical entertainment.
Larry spoke, "Around us today we have a traumatised, demoralised nation and it is up to us to step up and restore its spiritual health.   Limehousesailortown, the Land of Green Ginger, all the sailortowns in all the ports in all the world will be a beacon of hope.   Spreading their concepts of freedom, equality and co-operation to all.   The people will see that whenever they are not giving orders or taking orders they are like the sailors and cats and entertainers and crimps of sailortown.   You do not have to be told what to do or have rules about doing what you want when you want.   You work together tirelessly and unconsciously for a society where everyone in sailortown, resident or visitor, consumer or supplier can have the time of their lives.   And we outsiders can have it too, by embracing co-operation and liberty, minimizing constraints, nurturing the vulnerable, setting  happiness and fun on the highest of pedestals and nailing the wizened hearts and brains of the bullies to the doors of their banks and institutions.   Now, let's go out and spread the word.   A new day has dawned."
For the hydrophobic townspeople Sailortown had always been dangerous and scary and perhaps it still was, a little bit.   But winkles were spreading into the suburbs and no-one had the will to stop them.   Limehousesailortown did not change, of course, but the world about did - and people were constantly surprised and pleased and sometimes amazed.   People cooked or hammered or painted or brewed because that was what they enjoyed and were good at and there was always someone who needed a cook or a hammerer.   And if someone did not pull his weight no one minded, much; though they were often much too busy when he wanted something and he had to get used to being introduced as, "This is Tom/Dick/Harry, he's neither use nor ornament."
Larry kept on the policeman at the door of Number 10; the tourists liked him and he could live at Number 11 with his wife and children, which was handy for work.
Phoebles was made editor in chief of the independent, Limehousesailortown based broadsheet 'International Catnip Times' which, drifting away only minimally  from it's 1960's underground roots, promoted the etiquette and socio-political efficacy of catnip consumption -  and, less popularly, the music of the sitar.
Bozzy's catnip franchise spread out of dockland and into a grateful and receptive world at large.
Ginsbergbear won the Man Booker Prize for his writing, because all the other nominees let him.
Ferdy took the Dragon Rapide home to Surrey and gave aerobatic displays at country fairs.
Googleberry got his ice-cream.
And everyone could have lived happily ever after.   Except that the Merovingian Lizard Kings were still in their mountain stronghold, Les Chats Souterrains still occupied the tunnel system that honeycombs the earth's crust and Mr Fluffy still harboured a plan.

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.” 

Mr Fluffy

Although Donald Pleasence shamelessly tried to steal every scene that he shared with Mr Fluffy, and despite  the incredible decision of the film company not to dignify such a central character as Blofeld's white cat with a name nor the feline thespian with a credit, he became a legend.   What no-one knew was that Mr Fluffy was not acting.   He was not, of course, CEO within SPECTRE - SPECTRE is after all a fictional organisation, but he was, even at this early stage, Lotte Lenya's Controller and an embryonic megalomaniac.

Emerging from Pinewood Studios sadder, wiser, yet with pockets filled with sovereigns, Mr Fluffy (He was still known as Young Fluffy back then, but not for long.) bought into the Cleethorpes Gazette which was on the brink of closure.   Specialising in lurid tales of the seedier activities on Cleethorpse's sea-front and searching exposés of corruption amongst local councillors the Gazette was soon outselling every local newspaper in Lincolnshire and, at least in Grimsby, outselling some of the less popular nationals too.   The time was ripe for expansion.

Buying newspapers had merely been a matter of flashing enough cash, television companies could be absorbed or broken with ease, but radio proved a tougher nut to crack.   Even today there were, he suspected, subversive elements operating within the bowels of Broadcasting House.

With practically the whole of the British news media in his hands Mr Fluffy acquired the defunct Black Cat Factory, which was lying derelict amidst the overgrown and neglected communal gardens of Mornington Crescent and, in one dark and thundery night, the air crackling with static and pavements wet with typesetters' tears, abandoned Fleet Street and moved his entire operation under one roof.   The magnificent Art Deco Egyptian Revivalist edifice, temple in equal parts to the cat goddess Bastet and the capitalist god Profit in his most concrete of forms, dominates surrounding Camden and surreptitiously stretches predatory claws out into the neighbouring landscape.   From the camera obscura on the rooftop terrace Mr Fluffy can look out onto the teeming mass of humanity below and know that he owns them all; bought or cowed they all dance when he plucks on their strings.

...over the pathetic corpses of your newborn!   These insufferable strikes and the economic crisis they have wrought, have forced the Government, against its will, to close Libraries, Hospitals and Old Peoples' Homes!   Un-affordable fire-engines and ambulances have had to be offered on e-bay!   This insurgency must not be allowed to continue - who are these unelected enemies of commerce, these self proclaimed assassins of Statehood?   Sign up for action today - crush the subversive pandemic before it overwhelms us all!

"I found this in the Press Tent, next to the Guinness counter." 

The gang were all gathered in Ginsbergbear's bell tent behind the Literary Yurt, observing yet another broadside.   They were seated in campaign chairs at a green baize topped campaign table, intense sunlight through the fabric of the tent cast red stripes across the scene, mugs of half drunk tea cooled neglectedly.   The Great Patriotic Festival was drawing smaller crowds since the strikes had begun to spread out from the East End, though the Steam Fair was still popular and Ginsbergbear's poetry readings had a small, but faithful following.

"And it is being reproduced in all the national newspaper and on the television; I know it is Slasher again.   The lefty stuff he was aiming at the workers has tailed of since the strikes began though."   Phoebles was frowning as his mind wrestled with complex and conflicting thoughts.   

"Word on the street is that he was pivotal in triggering the ship's cat strikes and has been seen in the company of several of Les Chats Souterrains."   Boz had been doing some serious investigating.

Ferdy appeared distracted, "But the Chats Souterrains are real wronguns, he can't be in with them." and Ginsbergbear leaned over to him with a sympathetic gesture, stroking the tip of one wing. 

"What's the matter, old pall?"

"Oh, it's nothing to do with all this.   Aunty Stella is upset.   No-one has seen Googleberry since we left him sunbathing on the lawn and that was a couple of days ago.   It's not like him to miss meal times."

Everyone agreed that Googleberry was not the type to get into any trouble and assured Ferdy that he would soon turn up, but the gentle dodo was not to be comforted.

"Les Chats have also been seen directing rats in the looting of the docks.   There's too much double dealing for my liking.   I can't get my head round what's going on." chipped in Phoebles, returning to the problem in hand.

Strawberry was frowning.   “Is Aunty Stella really worried?   Googleberry’s my friend…”

“OK.” from Boz, “Ferdy, whiz Strawberry home in the Cierva and come straight back.   Strawberry, organize search parties for Googleberry, there’s enough cats back there to be thorough.   But no one goes off alone and try not to lose anyone else.   The rest of us are going to have to corner Slasher and ask him straight out what he’s up to.   The whole situation is getting out of hand.”

“Does anyone else think contacting McGoogs might be a bit dangerous?”

Meanwhile strikes were spreading out from dockland.   The Clarkenwell printers were out over the arrest of one of their own; there was a lock out at Billingsgate which was depriving the local chippies of supplies just when there was a flood of idle, hungry cats into the neighbourhood; and now there was pressure on long dormant socialists and trades' unionists around the country to support the industrial action.   For the baying Press the flying pickets were the last straw.   Not that, for the most part, they did much flying.    One group did have the use, where appropriate, of a Dragon Rapide loaned by a sympathetic pilot from Duxford, but mostly they were utilising a small fleet of  ex- YANKEE COACH LINES INC. GAR WOOD  Model EFI motor coaches, liberated from a stranded container ship in Tilbury Dock and reinforced against police truncheons.

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.