Abdication Aggravation

In an ivy-covered house in Surrey a tall man with a moustache, dark hair, dark glasses and a very suave jacket was speaking into two mobile 'phones at once. Some people thought that the new up-and-coming Whig MP, Marc Sethargis, was showing off how important he was with his seemingly endless array of mobiles and landlines. Actually he just liked telephones. In fact at the moment where our story begins we find a doorbell which sounds like a telephone ringing outside his huge Georgian house.

Marc went to answer it and was somewhat surprised to find two men hauling a brand new washing machine towards him.

"I don't recall requesting this," he said.

"Requested or not, you've got it, mate - anonymous benefactor and all that malarky," said one of the two workmen. "Righto, Charlie - towards me; to the right; that's it; through here."

Before Mr. Sethargis could object the duo had brought in and installed the device. They even put the glittering blue washing powder which it took into the machine before leaving.

Mr. Sethargis shrugged and decided to put some clothes into the machine. As soon as he pressed the 90-degree-Fahrenheit button he found himself sprayed with blue powder, collapsed and died.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

It was five o' clock in the morning. An unlikely pair stood in the iconic rubble which had once been the Pink Tower. During the day it would be heaving with visitors, all eager to see the site which had sparked off the "Bacon War" with Denmark, in which Britain had just triumphed. At this time, however, the only people you'd expect to see clambering about over burnt pink bricks would be MI5 agents having a secret tryst, which is exactly what Lynn and Peter were.

Lynn Trabban was in her fifties, had long red hair and clothing which wasn't really conducive to a secret agent's need to be inconspicuous: one shoe was black and one white; her fur coat was black on one side and white on the other; her dress was also black on one side and white on the other but the exact opposite way round to the coat.

Peter Onion, on the other hand, looked more conventional: an overweight man in his sixties he wore glasses, a red tie, a white shirt and black trousers and shoes.

"We could do wid anodder of dese to set up da smoking Italians," she commented in her bizarre accent, gesturing to the scene around her. Peter had been part of the operation with her to persuade the Zionist terror group Beni Ha Aretz to blow up Pig World a year ago so that the government could blame it on the Danes. Beni hadn't realised, of course, that they'd been used. Their efforts had brought into existence the world's second ever democracy (which had pleased the Americans) and had brought in a lot of revenue in the form of war reparations (which was very welcome on both sides of the Atlantic).

"What have you got against the Italians?" he asked.

"Look at dese pictures," she said, showing him the three Whigs who'd died mysteriously at home recently, the latest being Sethargis.

"So?" said Peter.

"So, tell me you think it's a coincidence dat dey all died one after de odder."

"I think it's a coincidence that they all died one after the other. You owe me some serious overtime, mate, dragging me out of bed at four o' clock in the morning to come here to listen to this."

"You're not using your eyes, sweety - look where dey all smoking well died."

"Oh, I see," said Peter, re-examining the photos. "They're all in their kitchens, aren't they?"

Lynn nodded.

"Somebody's trying to put da blame on da Tories and da smoking Queen so people try to make her abdicate; she doesn't abdicate; dere's a smoking civil war..."

"It's a bit over the top, isn't it? You know what these politicians are like. They all drink like fish; they all smoke like chimneys; they die..."

"No, honey. I do have proof of what I'm telling you."

Peter listened on intently.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

A man walked down Renfree Way, smoking a cigarette.

"This is the Borough of Spelthorne," came a voice on a loudspeaker. "Citizens are reminded it is against the rules to smoke in the street."

The man hurriedly extinguished his cigarette. Another man came up the other way reading a newspaper. It was all about the latest mysterious Whig death and the pressure being put on the Queen to abdicate. He placed it in the dustbin when he'd finished.

"This is the Borough of Spelthorne," came the voice again. "Citizens are reminded it is against the rules to place newspapers in the dustbin."

The man hurriedly retrieved the offending article and placed it in something called a recycle bin, which the new Fascist administration in Spelthorne designated for paper.

A mile away the Spelthorne Young Fascists were having a great time. They'd been split into a Red Team and a Blue Team. The Red Team had successfully taken over the artificial lake island and defeated the Blues.

"This is the Borough of Spelthorne. As the Red Team have won the task, the Borough of Spelthorne has prepared a dinner of cold meat and a vegetable salad for them to enjoy." (This was greeted with a cheer by the Reds and a groan from the Blues.) "As the Blue Team lost control of their island, they will now have to jog for half an hour." ("Suffer," cried some of the Blues' opponents.) "Fascism will prevail."

At this last, both teams got up and raised their arms straight in front of them at a 45% angle and with the palm downwards, as specified by the Party, and intoned "Il Duce" together.

They all knew that they'd all be sitting round the roaring camp fire later singing "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" as loudly as they could and sipping carrot juice. Later they would all retire to their mixed tents, which was the main attraction of Young Fascist camping retreats for many of their participants.

As it happened the Blues were lucky enough to spot a citizen who (a) wasn't wearing her "D" badge showing her shameful Danishness prominently enough and (b) was clearly overweight. They reported her and were rewarded with a sweetcorn barbecue which the Red Team couldn't have. Now whose turn was it to "suffer"?

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The two workmen had just left the maverick Whig Lord Owen with his new white good and were on their way to see Commander Trabban, leader of Spelthorne Borough Council, for their cash.

Lynn Trabban's hated cousin turned slowly to face them. They tried not to be intimidated by his skintight black uniform or eye patch.

"Il Duce!" he screamed, giving them the Roman salute.

They returned the salute. He sat in his chair swigging carrot juice from his hip flask and listened to their story.

"Lord Owen, ay? Well, well, well. Now, my friends, you want your payment - of course you do for your excellent work."

He pressed a button on his desk and two drawers fired out, killing the two workmen instantly.

"Fascism will prevail," he muttered, Roman-saluting briefly at the dead bodies.

He suddenly noticed the strains of "Land of Hope and Glory" coming from just over the barbed-wire fence he'd directed around his Borough. He decided to deal with it later. One day he would burst through the chaos he was creating plus the decadence already entrenched: the farting, drunken upper-class twits that ruled this country. He would run the whole of Britain like the Borough of Spelthorne and bring some order to the Empire. For the time being, let the people outside play music at him. They would rue the day...

There was a knock at his door and two workmen, their faces covered by gas masks, entered carrying a photocopier.

"What's this?" asked the Commander.

The photocopier was set up and a glittering blue toner put in. In a panic, he went to his desk and hit the "fire" button. He was out of ammo.

His horrible cousin Lynn said, sarcastically, "New smoking photocopier for you, Commander."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Nobody farted, checked their e-mails or played dice while Lord Ashdown spoke of the plot uncovered by two secret agents in the Borough of Spelthorne, which had the clear connivance of Giovanni Mussolini, the latest of that surname to hold the title of Dictator in Italy.

"Consequently," he concluded, "this country is at war with Italy. Rule Britannia."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The Union-Flag-draped tank ordered by Peter and Lynn continued to play "Land of Hope and Glory" as it tore through the barbed wire and started to trash the Borough of Spethorne.

As the blue toner clogged the lungs of the Commander, he managed to get three words out:

"Fascism... will... prevail..."

And he expired.

The End

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