The Brass Band Competition

            Ferdy pulled Phoebles away from the food table, just as he was starting on his third mooncake.

            “But I’m in the middle of… Do those pink things look like prawn cocktails to you? I’m very fond of prawns.”

            Outside, a stretch of lawn had been cleared, and groups of bandsmen were polishing their instruments, shaking out the accumulated spittle and setting up music stands. Each Brass Band was similarly uniformed, somewhat like bus-conductors, with peaked caps, but distinguished by colour. There were mills’ bands in maroon or navy, miners’ bands in scarlet, charcoal or green, and a Sergeant Pepper tribute in shimmering pink, yellow, sky-blue and crimson satin.

            The SPZ and Brick Lane Zapatista Massed Marching Mariachi were on the brink of being disqualified for not being Traditional and were being defended vociferously by The Megadeath Morris, already barred on account of not remotely resembling a brass anything. The resultant loud squabbling had drawn a crowd. Eventually it was agreed that the trumpet section from the Massed Mariachi along with a small contingent of buglers from the West Surrey Mounted Makhnovchina could compete, but there were to be strictly no guitarrón mexicano or fiddles.

            Unseen behind one of the moot hall’s open windows, and with his back to it so that he would not be influenced or prejudiced by any prior knowledge regarding the contestants, the competition adjudicator sat waiting to pass judgement on each performance. The order of play was determined by the drawing of lots from a venerated cloth cap, donated by Keir Hardie himself in times gone by – and, after much fumbling and faffing, the competition was under way.

            By the third rendition of Mull of Kintyre Phoebles was becoming fidgety and Boz had dozed off. He woke with a start as the Zapatista Mariachi launched into The Birdie Song. Their chances of winning were looking slim, but Snowdrop was wolf whistling and shouting “Encore!” While he slept they had been joined by Anna and Bui. Aunty Stella was there too, having changed from her Subcommondante’s uniform into denim jeans and a salmon-red and black bee-striped fuzzy jumper. She had Googleberry with her and he had acquired a large Italian ice-cream cone.

            “Some foreign chap with a black eye was giving them away before they melted, from a Galatia tricycle with a bent wheel and defunct freezer. Looked like it’d been blown apart by a minor explosion.”

            As the competition results were announced over the Tannoy system there was loud applause from the crowd, and some grumbling from the competitors.

            “Look. Over there.” Ferdy had spotted Barrymore striding jauntily towards them across the green. She was beckoning furiously for them all to meet her half way.

            “Larry wants every one out front of the main stage as soon as you’re finished here. Who won?”

            Phoebles shrugged, “That bunch with the tubas and trombones and stuff, I think. Or that other lot with trumpets and French horns and a drum. Or maybe…”

            “Never mind.”

            Behind them a fight had broken out. Two bandleaders were at war over the competition trophy, grasping a handle each and tugging in opposite directions. More and more bandsmen joined in, swinging their instruments like halberds. 
            "Jocks awaaah!"
            There was a sudden surge as a wave of screaming Reivers and wildcats plunged into the fray. And then, scattering combatants in all directions, Rotskagg Blenkinsopp was in the midst with an ululating Dark Flo balanced precariously on his shoulders.

            “Someone is going to get hurt,’ said Barrymore. As Boz and Co watched the spreading mayhem the Ranters moved in.

            “Peace and love, man.”

            “Group hug.”

            “Karma.”

            Ducking fists the Ranter men folk distributed flowers and spliffs. Girls, wriggling in between the grappling factions, handing out catnip mooncakes and kisses, began to calm the situation. As the violence subsided Rotskagg and Flo emerged from the crowd.

            “Well that ended a bit disappointingly,” she said to Boz, “Blenkinsopp and I barely got started. Who are those hippie kill-joys?”

             Barrymore resumed, “Larry. Main stage. All of you. Don’t hang about too long. Oh, and Mr Boz, Larry says someone has to pay for that airship he lent you. Have any of you seen Slasher McGoogs. The acting PM would like a word with him too.”

            Googleberry started to whistle innocently, which is not easy with a mouth full of ice-cream.

           “Not really his kind of scene, this,” said Boz, “Doubt we’ll see anything of him today.” He tried to put a conspiratorial arm upon Barrymore’s shoulder, but couldn’t quite reach that high. “Erm… About that airship…” he almost whispered.

The Autonomous Peoples' Dirigible 'Airship of State'

 Wow man, like…

            That Larry, he’s the man.   That’s some pad he’s got.   And we talked… and drank… and smoked… and drank… and ate…   Those mooncakes… out of this world.   Some quality catip in the mix.   Bet Barrymore made them.   Not much she can’t get hold of.

            Sky.   I can see the sky.   Sky’s all around?   Wow!

            [Ginsbergbear wakes, or ‘comes down’ as some would say, on the upper observation deck of the Airship of State, beneath a geodetic Plexiglas dome.   We will discover why he is there before too long.]

            Woah!   Sky up ahead.   Sky up above.   And fluffy clouds…   And birds.   I like birds.   But what’s that behind me?   Behind me there’s… funnels.   Big bronze smoking smokestack funnels.   And this is?   A spiral staircase… that goes…               Wayhay!   Down and… down and… down and...

            Round and… round and… round and… round and…

            The rest of the gang were gathered in The Airship of State’s sumptuous lounge.   Boz, Slasher and Phoebles were huddled in a circle of armchairs discussing McGoogs’ plan, Ferdinand was studying the Scotland double page spread in The New Pictorial Atlas of the World, Odhams Press Ltd., 1926 Edition, and Barrymore was doing something mildly erotic with a cocktail shaker whilst chatting to Comrade-Squadron-Commander Polly Karpova.   Polly had been overseeing the tethering of her crimson warbird below the dirigible’s canopy, towards the stern, before coming forward and joining the others.

            “Woah-haaay!”   There was a protracted rumbling bumping sound and a bear rolled out from the bottom of a spiral staircase to halt with a thud against the leg of a coffee table.

            “Mr Bear, how good of you to join us.”   Barrymore and Ms Karpova advanced sinuously upon Ginsbergbear, the contents of their uniforms animating the coarse fabric like eels in a flour-sack.   Barrymore proffered a glass containing raw egg, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, vinegar, and a generous measure of Balkan vodka.   “This will pep you up.”

            Ginsbergbear took the glass and drank the contents without looking.   His eyes opened wide, then opened wider.   “Ay carajo!   That smarts – what is it, distilled aviation fuel?”

            Barrymore smiled and patted his shaggy head.   Polly sashayed over to the others and collapsed into a vacant armchair next to Phoebles.   She swung her army booted feet onto the intricately inlaid rosewood coffee table, flashing bare legs and thighs, smooth as a barrister, taut as banjo strings.   She removed her officer’s cap and dropped it on the deck, copper- red hair cascading about her shoulders.   As she lounged back her jacket fell open to reveal a body hugging, telnyashka-striped, thermal teddy.   Suddenly the temperature in the cabin felt uncomfortably warm and sweat began to form on Bozzy’s brow.

            “So gentlemen,” she purred, “What have you in store for us?”

            Ferdy joined them, still holding on to his atlas; his dodo cool untouched by the provocative antics of the young air ace, “We’re going north from Carlisle, following the A7 deep into Reiver territory.   Larry has lent us the Airship of State in the hope that it will impress the natives.   We are wholly and deliberately unarmed so let’s hope he is right.”

            The SL102 Airship of State was Britain’s most impressive dirigible, 978 feet long, with a polished aluminium skinned canopy embellished with bronze tracery and powered by four 1200 horse power in-line Stanley Steamer aero-engines with a funnel each.

            “Our destination is Gilnockie Tower, ancestral seat of the Gilnockie of Gilnockie.   He is nominally the Reiver Head Honcho and has agreed to meet us to discuss an acceptable way out of the current impasse.   That’s if The Kittens haven’t already set the Lowlands ablaze.”

            Ferdy paused as Polly took a catnip roll-up from the tin that Phoebles was offering round.   She struck a Swan Vesta on the hobnailed sole of her boot and set light to the end of the spliff.

            “And I don’t get to shoot anyone?”

            “Not unless the whole exercise turns to cold custard,” interjected Slasher McGoogs.   “But if we find ourselves up to our bum holes in angry crocodiles you’re the only hope we’ve got.”

The Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm

There was frantic activity at the naval airstrip on Hessle foreshore.   Within the suite of offices that occupied the upper floor of a concrete blockhouse, beneath the concrete control tower, an operator rushed from the radio shack to the desk of his Comrade-Commander.   Seconds later an adjutant ran along the corridor, down the stairs and out into a surprisingly sunny Indian Summer to ring urgently on a large brass bell whilst shouting, “Scramble!”

            Boiler suited engineers were already removing the protective quilted jackets from the engine cowlings of three Polikarpov I-16 fighters parked expectantly on the tarmac as the Comrade-Pilots pulled sheepskin flying-jackets over their telnyashkas and clasped their parachute harnesses into place.   Each clambered over the wing of his aircraft and into the cockpit.   There was an irregular chuck, chuck, chuck as the Shvetsov M-63 9-cylinder (900hp) supercharged air-cooled radial engines fired up and soon settled into an even drone.   Props twirled faster and faster.   The three planes sang in unison, Comrade-Pilots waved, “Chocks away, tovarisch.”   Gathering speed in single file down the runway, they lifted, banked and, forming up wing-tip-to-wing-tip, headed out to sea.

            The radioed call for assistance had also reached Consuella Starcluster at the Cirque des Absurdités in The Land of Green Ginger and she immediately headed for the docks, riding pillion behind Snowdrop on her unicycle and with two of the Kittens of Chaos crammed into the sidecar.   Now they were standing on the quayside looking at ninety metres of what could be taken for a gigantic flying boat were it not for the wholly inadequate stubby wings.   It was painted British Racing Green with a red star on the tail and had two formidable rows of missile launchers along its back.   A Kronstadt Starshina stood beside them holding a large cardboard box.

            “The finest ekranoplan ever to take to the air.   We bought her on e-bay from a scrap metal dealer in Kaspiysk.   He had her deconstructed and shipped flat-pack on an IKEA container vessel bound for Immingham Docks.   We’ve followed the instructions to the letter putting her back together, but we’ve got this box of bits left over and some of them look as if they might be important.”

            “¿No iba a estar listos para el combate de cualquier momento pronto, entonces?” (It will not to be combat-ready any time soon, then?) sighed Consuella.

            “Nyet.”

            “Oh, but…” from two very disappointed Kittens, “…we wanna go in the big planey thing!”

            “With the rockets!”

            The Petty Officer smiled down on the pair as if they were cherubs, in their battered straw boaters, micro skirts and laddered black stockings, “Not today, little ones.   For now, she goes nowhere.”

            Snowdrop had wandered over to another large cardboard box sitting on the quay close to a stocky cast-iron bollard.   From it she had selected three suitable yet random items of an aeronautical nature and was honing her juggling skills.

Consuella looked concerned, “Joost how many ‘beets’ do hyou haav left oveer, Comrade-Starsheenarrr?”

            “Er… quite a lot.”

            “Hand what exactly does work on thees wonderfool vessel of yoors?”

            “It floats.”

The Princess Aethelfleda was struggling to gain height.   The crew of the Belgian trawler observed the hot-airship preparing for action and disappeared off the deck.   Pouring smoke from its funnel the fishing vessel quickly made its best speed away from the area.   As the dirigible banked, a young rating, who must have lied about his age, manned the port waist gun and opened fire towards the Chats Souterrains’ Ducks.   They were not yet within range, but were closing fast.

            Ferdy turned to his comrades; his wide, pale eyes flashed cold resignation and a small muscle on his right temple twitched.   “She’s sluggish.   That flack must have done more damage than we thought.   It’s ruptured a gas cell.”

            “Dump the ballast, Phoebles.”   Boz spoke quietly but with dark determination, “Ferdy… just get us above those fighters.”

            The Gruman J2Fs came in, broke away left and right, and circled the wallowing dirigible like wolves around an abandoned biryani takeaway.  

With the aggressors closing in, Ginsbergbear puffed and wheezed his way up the spiral staircase that climbed through the belly of the airship, eventually reaching the open machine gun turret just aft of the funnel.   He clung to the sides for a while, gulping air, back bent and shoulders drooping while his breathing steadied and heartbeat returned to normal.   He cocked the four 0.303 Browning machine guns, tested the swivel mount and pressed the throat mic to his larynx.  

            “Dorsal gunner ready.   Nothing to see up here.   Wait…”   Something was diving out of the sun.

            He took aim at the lead aircraft, saw there were three of them, and then recognized the silhouettes.   He quickly panned the guns off the target.  

            “The Ratas have arrived.   We might be alright after all.”

            As the Polikarpovs roared overhead they opened fire towards the corsair fighters with 20mm ShKAS wing mounted cannons.   The silver fuselage of the lead aircraft flashed in the sunlight and as it banked Ginsbergbear could make out red, white and blue concentric rings encircling a blue star painted on the tail and a scarlet winged anchor below the cockpit.   All much more flamboyant than was usual for the chromatically conservative Kronstadt sailors who regarded a red star against a complementary green ground amply adventurous.   Through his gun-sights the Comrade-Pilot of the Rata could make out a rear gunner in one of the Ducks speaking urgently to his pilot and then standing up, gilded pickelhaube glinting, waving to the other seaplane and pointing into the sun.   Shells exploded around him.   The ensuing dogfight was short - the Polikarpov Ratas were faster and more manoeuvrable.   But once the J2Fs of Les Chats Souterrains broke off, their rear facing machine guns kept the pursuers at bay.

            Job done, the silver Polikarpov I-16 pealed away to fly over the Princess Aethelfleda, dipping its wings in salute, the pilot, cockpit hood pushed back, giving an OK sign with one raised hand.   The remaining Ratas, sea green with a red star on the tail, followed the Ducks at a respectful distance.   They only turned back when they reached the limit of their range, certain by then that the Ducks were heading for their base on the Tyne.

            The dirigible turned to limp for home, leaving the abandoned gunboat and corsairs in the orange life rafts to sort out their own problems.   A CPO, his sleeveless summer telnyashka exposing an impressive array of tattoos, appeared on the bridge.

            “We have stemmed the leak, tovarisch, but we’ve lost a lot of helium…”   The Aethelfleda was a composite airship, with gas bags fore and aft and a hot air chamber amidships.   “…We should make it back OK - just.”

            Phoebles slumped on the deck, his face blank and no hint of his customary inane smile.   Ginsbergbear arrived at the bottom of the spiral staircase.   Boz removed his eye patch and gripped the chart table with his one free paw.   “This is not an adventure any more, we just keep going ‘cos there is no alternative.   Where will it end?   When will it end?”   He nodded towards the pilot, still rigid at his post.   “Ferdy is strung so tight something has to snap.   He’s running on catnip and Red Bull.   We’re making such little headway in this war, it’s just endless attrition.”

            “I’m fine,” snapped the pilot.

            “No you’re not.”   Phoebles, wrinkling his brow, spoke almost in a whisper, “It was all so gentlemanly at the start.   There were rules, unwritten rules, but everyone understood them.   Somewhere it all changed and we barely noticed.   We do what we have to, because we have to win.

“I wonder if we have lost sight of something.   We try to prevent these pirate raids without considering what makes the Corsairs tick.   We outwit them when we can.   But have we stopped trying to understand them?   Has anyone thought of making sandwiches?   It’s been a long time since second breakfast.”

            “Chins up,” Said Ginsbergbear, “It’s not two months since we escaped the caverns in Castleton.   I’ve written a poem…”

I

Kt – Q3 ch

It is a petty triumph, black plays

The long game.

Black Death tossing pawns into

The fray, pinning, forking.

Mein fahrer hat vom blitz getroffen.

Blitz und Donner, fork

Lightning.

Black Death and Quixote, silent, still

On the pebble strand.

Sea creatures, Kraken chicks

Whisper, “QxKt.”

A high price to pay

For fish.

II

“Is that you, darling?”

“No, it’s someone else.”

Dog Days’ vindictive caresses, sweating

Over dead Odysseus, drowning

In Leviathan’s aquatic grotto, rotting

Pelagic cargoes.

Beleaguered White King scorns ransom.

III

The bowler hats and brollies, departed after…

High heeled, high hemmed, thrawen thighs (with thwongs attached) typing

Endlessly.   “The copier’s out of ink.”

Had to get a proper job,

Down the Co-Op.

While the brazen Geordie,

Embracing Superman,

“Careful Ducky!” holds:

He who fights monsters should beware

That in the process he does not

Become a monster too.

IV

Gaze long enough into an abyss and

 The abyss will gaze back into you.

Give me another mooncake and I’ll do this till the cows come home.

Boz wondered if he had ever been this depressed before.   However, everyone’s mood lightened considerably when the poem ended and the flags and wind socks of the Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm aerodrome at last came into view.   And the gang were bordering on cheerful once the Princess Aethelfleda was on her pylon and repair crews were swarming all over her.   Larry’s personal runabout was tethered to a neighbouring pylon. 

            On the tarmac they bumped into Barrymore.   She had been tinkering with one of the Porsche engines on Larry’s dirigible and was removing a tiny speck of oil from her bottle-green, crotch length chauffeur’s jacket.   “Hi boys,” she straightened the fur on the longest tortoise-shell legs this side of Paradise, “Larry’s waiting up stairs.   He wants to discuss developments.   I’ll just hang around down here, see if I can catch one of these delicious sailors.”

            Larry had made himself comfortable at the Comrade-Commander’s desk in the Comrade-Commander’s chair, the Comrade-Commander was trying not to look awkward perched on the edge of the adjutant’s desk, and the adjutant was fetching teas and coffees.   Larry started talking before tedious formalities could delay him.  He addressed Boz and waved a general indication towards any Kronstadt personnel within range.            

            “I’m putting these boys in charge of trawler protection for a bit.   We have another piccolo problema.   No-one has heard from the Lord Ancaster since they radioed that they had arrived at the Antarctic ice shelf.”

Rise of the Lizard Kings

England was not yet an anarchist utopia, but under Larry’s random and light pawed guidance it was becoming co-operative.   Its people were quietly becoming self reliant, involved and innovative – and in some small way, happy.  

Superficially Limehousesailortown was unchanged.   Steamers, clippers and tramps still jostled for a place at the quayside; bars, stews and music halls still spewed rowdy, boisterous, swaying parties of intoxicated matelots out onto the narrow streets; ships’ cats still slunk in and out of dingy catnip dens.   Homesick seafarers still sought temporary solace in companionable, rentable substitutes for their dimly remembered mothers and sweethearts; but somewhere along the line the claustrophobic alleyways had lost their edginess.

The penthousebedsit was pretty much the same as well.   A kettle whistled on the range, the little black and white TV set was showing Land and Freedom – its brown Bakelite case had become loose and an eerie mauve glow escaped around the cathode ray tube.   Monochrome posters of Ernesto Guevara and Albert Camus eyed each other from opposing walls.   Ginsbergbear was lounging in an old armchair, feet up on the mantelpiece and catnip shag dangling from an as yet unlit Peterson briar, Boz was trying to concentrate on the latest, slightly crumpled, copy of International Catnip Times whilst Phoebles pointed out good bits that he had written and Ferdy, having warmed the teapot, was toasting pikelets under a small gas grill.  The pals were relaxing between adventures when…

There came a coded rap on the door.   Phoebles opened it and Slasher McGoogs was standing before him.   He was wearing a pair of St Michael’s aertex Y-fronts over a cerise spandex hooded one-piece.   The hood formed a close fitting mask over his upper face and a serpentine gilded S was emblazoned on his chest.

“B****r me!” expleted Boz.

Ferdy raised an eyebrow, “I know the nation’s dress code is somewhat more relaxed under Larry’s leadership,” He glanced pointedly at Phoebles’ voluminous Smarty-spotted trousers and rainbow bracers, “but surely there are still limits.”

“It’s not easy, suddenly finding you’re a superhero after all those years of covert operating.”   Slasher stalked into the room and perched on the edge of the dining table.

“Er, I’m not sure the table is all that sturdy.” Boz warned, but Slash ignored him.

“Turn up the sound on the telly, I don’t want to be overheard.”   He could barely be heard at all as the film climaxed in a crescendo of gunfire and Spanish shouting.

“My contacts within the Aldershot Ghurkha Community warn of rumours from their homeland that the Merovingian Lizard Kings are on the move and strange discs have been seen in the sky above the mountain peaks.   Agents in the north report of Reivers raiding south of the wall, and Les Chats Souterrains have been seen mingling amongst the revellers at the Castleton Goth Festival – Speedwell Cavern has been closed to the public.   Corsairs aboard black whale hunters with 40mm Bofors or twin 12.7mm DShK’s mounted on the prow have been hi-jacking Arctic Coleyfishtrawlers and holding their cargo’s to ransom!”  

Boz gasped.  “Coleyfish pirates?   Destitute fishmongers?   A coleyfish famine?   This is a disaster!”   Ferdy tried to calm him.

 Ginsbergbear had not really been paying attention during the exchange and was idly flicking channels on the old TV.   Up popped the DOG CHANNEL.

“In lill ole England during the terrible insurgency against democracy their prime minister and some of his aids were cut off and surrounded by drug crazed and heathen anarchists.   Knowing that if they were captured they would be tortured horribly, in ways I cannot describe on television, they determined to take their own lives rather than be captured.   As the screaming demons closed in yelling their blood curdling war cry and the English Gentlemen prepared to meet their end, the baying horde suddenly stopped, stunned into silence, and knelt in prayer.   The astounded British ministers looked about and over them stood DOG in Glory, glowing pink and gold.

And DOG spake, ‘Let my people be!’

“Needless to say, the terrorists fled.

“Although the forces of Anarchy and Atheism are currently in the ascendant, DOG and Democracy will one day prevail.   The Army of DOG is being assembled and we need your donations.   For every $ we receive an amount will be put towards armbands, stickers and Boneos.   Contribute today.   Support the cause.”

“More trouble.” Mused Ginsbergbear.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Slasher, “They’re too busy fleecing their own to really bother us.   The true danger lurks in the caves of Derbyshire.” 

 Phoebles was aghast.   “You expect us to take on the Merovingian Lizard Kings, the Dark Lords of myth, the shades behind all that is twisted in the world?   Isn’t that a bit ambitious?”

“Just a little nibble at the trouser cuffs of their ambition, a tentative toe into the custard bowl of Machiavellian malevolence.   See what we can stir up.”   McGoogs’ eyes blazed behind the mask.   Ginsbergbear had begun to pay attention and Boz swallowed, “We can’t just sit back and do nothing – the coleyfish.”

Downstairs, the lounge-bar was all but empty – two worn out Kittens of Chaos were recovering along a red plush chaise longue over hookahs and tiny cups of treacle-black Monsoon Malabar, Sam was mangling a boogie-woogie improv, flat fingered across the tobacco stained ivories of an aging upright, smoke-grey derby pushed to the back of his head, striped shirt with white collar and cuffs folded back from the bony wrists, breakfast stained flannel waistcoat ruckling as he played.

“Your usual, boys?”

Dark Flo was doing service behind the bar.   She was slight and pallid with sunken eyes and raven hair that hung about her face like dead crows on barbed wire; waif-like, vulnerable and yet hard as black-iron nails.   She could pull a perfect pint, Yorkshire head judged to the millimetre, with one hand tied behind her back and the other skewered to the bar by a Bowie knife.   She might dispense or relish pain with equal measure, quell a riot with her contortions at the pole, or empty the bar with a single, gentle command.   For now she pulled pints of tawny London Porter and served them up with Talisker chasers.   Before Slasher McGoogs she assembled a shot glass of Tres Amigos Anejos, saltcellar and a half lemon on a cracked white bone china saucer.

Phoebles and Boz moved over to their favoured table in the bay that looked out onto Narrow Street and sat on the window bench.   Ferdy and Ginsbergbear pulled up bentwood cane-bottomed chairs and McGoogs perched on a leatherette-padded stool.   They huddled conspiratorially.

 “My plan is that we explore the caves south of Mam Tor and discover what is going on.” began Slasher McGoogs, producing a dog-eared copy of The Potholer’s Handbook for Derbyshire, IIIrd Pocket Edition, 1956; printed on storm resistant paper.   Within the chapter headed Castleton Caverns it included a handy sketch map of the Speedwell and Peak cave system.   It did not show Titan, which at the time of printing was still to be discovered, but Slasher had roughly pencilled in the location of the gigantic chamber.

“Have you cleared any of this with Larry?” asked Boz.

“I have told Larry nothing.   I despise despots and Larry is Gato Número Uno.”

“That’s hardly fair,” chipped in Phoebles, “We and the Revolutionary Committee did all agree he should be PM.”

“And it’s not as if he’s done any harm since taking office.   In fact he’s done sweet FA.   I’m amazed he doesn’t get bored.” Added Ginsbergbear.

“If I may interject at this point.” interjected Ferdy, “Mr Larry can in no way have ‘done sweet Fanny Adams’ despite the accusations in Mr Fluffy’s Chicken News on US telly.   Firstly she was not all that sweet – she was a grubby little tyke.   Secondly, she was ‘done’ many decades ago and her story has passed into myth.   And thirdl…”

The tail end of a steel wire ladder dropped past their window into the street outside.   It was followed by the descent of a pair of improbably long legs and finally by the top half, only, of a bottle-green chauffer’s uniform.   As the door to the catnip den opened and Barrymore, Larry’s indispensable factotum, entered the inmates could hear the Vwwshsh of the twin VW vectored screw engines of the incumbent Prime Minister’s personal dirigible.   She lifted her goggles and perched them above the peak of her cap as the wire ladder began to drift slowly down Narrow Street.

“Stay!” commanded Barrymore into the discreet mouthpiece that curved elegantly out from under her headgear.   The drifting ceased instantly.

“Blimey!” exclaimed Boz, “Is the Den bugged?”

“Certainly not, Mr Boris.   I just happened to be passing and am graced with unusually acute hearing.   Larry wanted you to know that he has despatched the Coleyfishspytrawler Lord Ancaster towards Antarctica to investigate the rumours.”

“What rumours?” asked a slightly ruffled Slasher.

“Ah, Mr McGoogs, a pie without your sticky paw in it?   Makes a refreshing change.   There’s reports of unusual activity at the US airbase – UFO under the ice – that sort of thing.   Leave it with us.   You have Larry’s full approval for your own little enterprise.”  

“Man… Larry knows of our enterprise?” Ginsbergbear spoke, “I’m not sure even we know about our enterprise yet.”

Sashaying over to the door Barrymore looked back over a coquettishly inclined shoulder, pinned them with her golden, kohl lined eyes  and said, “Carry on.”

Wrapping one leg around the wire ladder with the sensuality of a trapeze artist, she ascended into the heavens.

The Search for Slasher

Under instruction from Strawberry Aunty Stella's large and diverse family of cats split into small groups and fanned out across Surrey, sniffing under bushes, peering into windows and enquiring at fishmongers and dairies.   Ferdy made a daringly low level aerial survey of London in the vague hope of spotting the infamous signature grey homburg of McGoogs.   Boz had found YouTube footage of the Angel Alley address along with snippets showing someone very like Slasher McGoogs sharing a catnip spliff with pickets around a brazier outside the gates of St Katherine's Dock, ascending the steps between jet black monolithic guardians into the dread quarters of the omniscient Fluffy Media Corp, and sneaking round the back of Number Ten.   In the snug of the Town of Ramsgate, a trawlermen's riverside tavern in Wapping, Phoebles discovered that not only was the pub, originally the Red Cow, named after a particularly popular copper haired and deeply freckled barmaid from a time before juke boxes when executed pirates hung from gibbets above the London River mud, but that Slasher was to be seen regularly, in the company of les Chats Souterrains, disembarking from a Chris-Craft Cadet,  finished in richly varnished walnut, at the neighbouring Wapping Old Stairs, invariably after dark.   The trio of amateur sleuths was also repeatedly made aware that they were not alone in pursuing the spectral grey moggy.   Where-ever Boz and Phoebles went it seemed detectives or journalists had just left.

Montgomery  Manlove McGoogs died in the early hours of this morning in a random and bizarrely incongruous collision with a runaway milk float.

www.guardian.co.uk.   

Later in the day Radio 4 ran an obituary  for Slasher McGoogs.   It was brief and short on hard detail.   He had no traceable early life, arriving in the East End with a preformed reputation for dodgy dealing and a shadowy, ephemeral persona.

The KGB, it transpired, believed him to be a double agent who had been turned by British Intelligence.

MI5 reluctantly admitted to his indeed being a double agent, but suspected his allegiance to lie with the KGB.

The CIA thought he was a minor film actor with Mafia connections who had died of a drugs overdose in the late 1960’s.

Various East End Underworld snouts reported that he was definitely in the employ of Special Branch.

Whilst a police file, withheld despite the Freedom of Information Act, but obtained through Wikileaks, listed him as a criminal mastermind.


"And now he's dead."
"Hmm, very conveniently... with no witnesses to the accident and his body identified by two white cats with thick Occitan accents.   Perhaps we'll keep looking for a bit."
"But if the BBC..." Phoebles was by nature a little too trusting.
Phoebles, Boz and Ferdy met in the Town of Ramsgate to prepare for yet another nocturnal vigil, sipping milk-pale green fairies and surrounded by society’s jetsam.   At closing time they purchased a large bottle of ginger-beer, emerged onto the cobbled street and melted into the shadows.   Soon they were alone and as the night wore on the ever resourceful Ferdy took out his pack of sandwiches and thermos flask of Earl Grey.   There had been the gentle slap as tide mounted the worn stone stairs and, now, the splash and trickle of the waters receding.   The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon from the spice warehouses nearby, the sky was starless and overcast, there were distant rumbles of thunder.   With dawn approaching and the gloom around beginning to lift, a thin mist crept in from the river.   Twice during the night they had heard the gentle knock and creak of rowlocks, the drip of oars, but no-one had landed.

Phoebles knocked back the last of the ginger-beer. "Home then... again?"

Boz was just considering the possibility that he might have been wrong about Slasher's survival and wondering if this was the time to admit it to the others when a rope ladder landed in their midst.

"If you could pop up here for a moment, please, Mr Boz.   You will be able to rejoin your companions later."

They looked up and, hovering above them, saw a small, cigar shaped, bronze coloured airship; the canopy was banded with aluminium straps, it had a single broad-bladed propeller and a compact gondola from which dangled the precarious ladder.   In the open hatchway stood an impossibly tall, slender tortoise-shell in bottle green chauffeur's uniform.   She had huge dark eyes, possibly made up to enhance them even further.
"Please... It will be alright."
"I'll see you back at the pad." said Boz, beginning to climb.   Dangly pilot ladders are not the easiest things to negotiate for anyone but the most practiced of pilots and Boz didn't really do climbing.   However the dirigible had descended as low as it dare and eventually, somewhat puffed, he was allowing himself to be helped aboard by the torti chauffeur.    The cabin was fitted out in midnight blue velvet plush edged in gold cording, a large chandelier hung from the deck-head, a panel door with brass fittings led through to the bridge.
"Good morning, so at last I get to meet the famous Mr Boz."   A tabby cat wearing a red white and blue rosette sat in a deep tub chair holding a large brandy glass,   "I'm sorry, do sit down" he indicated towards a similar, but vacant seat.   "I am Larry from Number 10."
Boz sat.
"Barrymore, see to a drink for Mr Boz, would you."   The airship had ascended, turned west-nor'westward and was flying above the City.
"Is she driving AND waitressing?   Is that safe?"
"Let's not worry about Barrymore, very competent young lady.   Let's talk about you.   You're still looking for the recently deceased Mr McGoogs."   It was not a question and Larry did not seem to be expecting any form of answer.   "You appear to suspect that Mr McGoogs is some sort of secret force for good, with a plan.   He is not.   He is a despicable profiteer and we are better off with him dead."
Boz was feeling very uncomfortable.   The cabin was warm, he had not slept, the brandy gently burned in his stomach and this cat was terrifyingly confident.   "How do you know all this?   Did you have him killed?"
"People tell me things, Mr Boz.   And I don't kill... as a rule.
"We are on our way to make a hospital visit.   There's something I want you to see.   Do agree to come along."
They were crossing above the seeming random tangle of railway lines into Euston Station and soon began a descent into a tight courtyard outside the entrance to an apparently abandoned hospital.   Larry took Boz by the arm and led him into the building whilst Barrymore tethered the craft, above the entrance decorative brickwork spelled out 'London Temperance Hospital'.  The entrance hall was deserted, fallen plaster littered the marble floor, but along a corridor things began to bustle.   Nurses came out of doors striding efficiently in starched pinafores and black stockings, hurried past or plunged through other portals.   There was businesslike chatter.
Larry opened a door and encouraged Boz into a long Nightingale ward with two rows of identical, cream, iron beds.   On the edge of almost every bed sat, motionless, a cat in striped winsiette pyjamas; most stared vacantly beyond their inner space into the vacuum of eternity, some shook.   In the centre of one bed was a bulge under the bedclothes which twitched uncontrolably.   Another cat stood to attention at the bottom of his bed.   Larry ushered Boz towards him, but they were waylaid by a ward sister.   Boz could not take his eyes off her chest, where she had pinned a wonderful little upside down watch.
"Best leave him.  He will settle eventually."
Larry turned to Boz, "These are all here because of your Mr McGoogs.   All they needed to help them cope with the stresses of catlife was a little catnip at the right moment, something to layback the troubled soul, hush the cacophony.   And what did they get?   Krapola.   Honestly, that's what it sells as, Krapola Katnip, and it's rubbish.   It's force grown under artificial lights in vast sheds in Milton Keynes, it's thin and weedy with virtually no psychedelic properties, and it's not even cheap   He's flooded supermarkets and pet shop chains with the stuff and it affords no relief.   All these cats needed was a little break from reality and McGoogs denied it to them - for profit."
The nurse kissed Boz lightly on the forehead, "The monster is dead, and good riddance.   Go home and forget about him."

"A LITTERATE IRON

All Along An Algerian Alley…

Boisterous Blue Birds Bury Bulbs.

Cats Can Cry, '¡Caramba!' ‘Cos…

Dogs Do Dirty Deeds Down Drainpipes."

Ginsbergbear’s i-phone vibrated silently in his pocket.   He finished his recitation, but cut short the Question-and-Answer session.   Back in his bell tent he read the text message.

"Ferris wheel In half hour"