Almighty Cod created the universe and all that is in
it. It created cats and men
and tortoises. It anointed
kings to enforce its laws and appointed bishops to interpret its words. And all was right with the world.
This
proved very lucrative if you happened to be a bishop or a king, but was not
necessarily regarded as a good thing by everyone else. Then after eons of
malcontent, the ‘English Civil War and Almost Revolution’ happened and the
world turned upside down.
The scum on top of the placid lake that was the class system within this sceptred realm lost cohesion, began to break up and loosen its grip. And out of the silt at the bottom
rose up every kind of fanatical crank and loony demanding equality,
emancipation, universal suffrage.
Pacifists and feminists, naturists, atheists and suffragists felt
empowered to speak out; compelled to cry from atop soapboxes and from the backs
of carts the length and breadth of the country. Out of this turmoil emerged The Ranters. Almighty Cod, they asserted, was
not an omnipotent being somewhere out there. A little piece of Cod (a piece of Cod that passeth
understanding) existed, in equal part, in every living thing. They reasoned, on the strength of
this revelation, that no individual had more claim to represent the laws of Cod
or man than any other. Every
man, woman, cat or carrot had an equal right to rule, and therefore no right
over others at all. Every
man, woman, cat and carrot had sovereignty over its own existence and
wellbeing, unfettered self-determination.
Over
the intervening centuries The Tamworth Ranters came to believe that the Piece
of Cod was not a thing in itself; it was a metaphor, it was the spark of Life. All living things were free and
equal. They also embraced
the golden rule of philosophers and prophets to do to others what they would
have done to themselves, and to love one another as they loved them selves,
enthusiastically and often.
They tended to throw a good party.
June had been damp and dreary. Not that this was noted to any degree by the people of
Tamworth. In Tamworth June
was almost always damp and dreary.
However, on this festive day the sky was clear and the morning sun was already
warming the recreation ground, though the overnight drizzle still puddled on
the tarmac of the vehicle park, reflecting silver-cerulean against the dark grey
clinker. Boz glanced back as
the gang strode out across the disused landing strip. Several airships swung gently at their pylons. Lady Æthelflæda, freshly painted, was dwarfed next to the
looming black vastness of Rotskagg Blenkinsopp’s brutal Queen Anne’s Bounty. The corsair’s flag ship bristled
with quick-fire cannon, rocket launchers and Gatlings, her canopy emblazoned with
the crimson, crowned skull (crowned with a papal coronet) that was the
Blenkinsopp sigil. It even
had a hangar and launch port for its complement of armed ornithopters.
“The
pirate king’s here then,” he said to the others, “wonder who he’s brought with
him.”
“I
noticed Larry’s dirigible back there too,” replied Phoebles.
“I
reckon we’ve missed the parade,” chipped in Ferdy, pushing his goggles up over
his flying helmet. “Told you
we shouldn’t have spent so long over breakfast.” But the bird was wrong. As they reached the row of Portaloos and temporary
litter trays by the road gate they could hear the trumpets and guitars of the Massed
Zapatista Marching Mariachi as they played La Valentina, and see the tops of
the wavering crimson union banners above the heads of the spectators. The annual Gala parade always
drew a large crowd.
They
squeezed through as near to the front as they could manage and Dark Flo lifted
the vertically challenged Ferdy onto her shoulders. They were in time to see Snowdrop’s techanka wreathed
in flowers with Consuella in her most exotic Carmen Miranda outfit, letting rip
on her tambourine. The
techanka was followed by the prancing cavalry of the Snake Pass Zapatistas led
by Aunty Stella, in her Subcommandante Everyman outfit, sans ski mask, but
wearing a delicate feathered purple half mask that perfectly matched her
hair. Each caballerro lofted
a fluttering black SPZ flag.
Next came the Catnip Growers Association rainbow float, swathed in a
purple haze. Bringing up the
rear, with the Kittens of Chaos crammed on the roof rack, came the Vicecream
van blaring out the Slasher Theme from Psycho. As the last of the parade passed, the crowd spilled
onto the road and followed into the Recreation ground.
