13. A Murgatroid For Your Troubles

What Ho Proles!

I want there to be no doubt, though doubts have indeed been raised, that I climbed out from under yon table not as a hero but as an English patriot ready to stare danger in its bifocals, throw caution to the light north easterly, and let slip the hounds of Murgatroid. Health and Safety might well have a few words to say about such a wanton display of responsibility but the boys at H&S would have also called off the D Day landings if they’d had a say in the matter. It seems that heroism cuts no mustard with the guys at Health and Safety. Then again, these days, even the age old English pursuit of mustard cutting is banned by EU regulation. So let’s not call my actions ‘heroic’. Let’s simply label them as ‘duty’.

‘What Ho Anarchist!’ I cried in the general direction of the Hon. Frederick Finley before another pellet whizzed my way, this time finding a tray of creamed asparagus fingers.

‘Get your bloody head down!’ somebody shouted from a shrubbery to my side. I think it was David Davies, though I can’t be totally sure. Where he’d managed to get a black balaclava from, I still don’t know. I can only assume that men with SAS training carry the damn things around wherever they go.

‘Look here,’ I shouted to the lad sighting me with his air rifle. ‘Don’t you think this is taking your anarchy a little too far?’

Another pellet took out a china salad bowl before a head in school cap popped up on the battlements.

‘Is that you, Murgatroid?’ it shouted.

‘It is,’ I said and, as a friendly gesture, I unfurled my handkerchief and gave it some air.

‘What do you want?’

It seemed an odd thing to ask a man under a red and yellow polka dot flag of truce. ‘What do I want?’

‘Yes, what you standing up like that for? I could shoot you.’

‘No doubt you could, old chap, but I thought with all the things we’ve gone through, you wouldn’t damage a friend.’

A shot whistled through the air and shattered a glass somewhere over near the Islington crowd.

I admit I felt reasonably happy with the resulting shower of champers that rained down on them. One of them giggled and said something about it being ‘just like Johno’s birthday bash’. I’m a mite cautious about condoning anarchy in general but you have to see my point when it comes to that lot.

‘What was that for?’ I asked.

The boy peered out again. ‘I didn’t like the way they’re looking at me,’ he said, and to be honest, he probably had a point.

‘Look,’ I said, sounding perhaps a little less desperate than I was feeling. ‘Can’t we talk about this? This anarchy lark of yours is getting a bit out of hand. This is all going to end up with a mild wounding needing antiseptic cream and a plaster.’

‘I’m not coming down!’ he shouted.

I looked towards the shrubs. ‘I’m warming you, young Frederick, there are men down here trained in twenty seven different ways of disarming you with a jar of pickled gherkins.’ I gave David Davies a wink as if to tell him to stand ready. ‘You wouldn’t want them to get involved, would you?’

‘Call me Freddie,’ came the response.

‘Freddie?’

‘Or Fred. In fact, call me Fred. Fred’s much better.’

I couldn’t help but ask. ‘And why should I call you Fred?’

‘Because I’ve given up being an anarchist,’ he explained.

‘You have? Well... jolly good... Fred.’

‘You convinced me, Murgatroid. I realised that men like us should have strong meaningful views.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘We are men of ideas, leaders of the common hoard.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself!’

‘And we should be prepared to fight for what we believe.’

‘That’s less in the spirit,’ I admitted, ‘but I see your point.’

‘I knew you would, Murgatroid. I knew you’d understand, even though I’ve decided to join the class war.’

‘You’ve what!?’ I exclaimed, my legs nearly giving way on me.

‘I’ve joined the class war. Frederick is dead. Fred is a man of the people. It’s just like Trotsky said. “The revolutionary epoch will create new forms of organization out of the inexhaustible resources of proletarian Socialism, new forms that will be equal to the greatness of the new tasks.”’

‘Oh, now look here…’

The boy was now on a rant and had stood up on battlements with a book in his hand. ‘“To this work we will apply ourselves at once, amid the mad roaring of the machineguns, the crashing of cathedrals, and the patriotic howling of the capitalist jackals.”’

‘I say! Capitalist jackals? Steady on there... Even jackals have feelings.’

‘“We will keep our clear minds amid this hellish death music, our undimmed vision. We feel ourselves to be the only creative force of the future...” It’s the old struggle for equality, Murgatroid.’

The lad had clearly gone bonkers.

‘You can’t join the class war,’ I cried. ‘You’re an Honourable. We Honourables don’t fight the oppression. We are the oppression!’

‘But I’ve renounce my title. I’m joining my brothers in the struggle.’

The thought that he had brothers was a thought too dark to contemplate. Somewhere in the distance, his Lordship was directing staff to the roof as further off there was the strained yelp of police sirens.

‘Look here,’ I said, slipping my arm into my jacket as is my way when I’m about to deliver one of my important speeches. ‘It’s all very well feeling a bit miffed about things. After all, Fred, we Tories believe in this once great nation of ours and it makes us damn vexed to see what a mess Blair’s lot have made of it. But whether you’re rich or poor, we stand by each other. There is no class war in a Tory Britain. There is only the great struggle to better the country for the sake of every individual. We are all equal in the eyes of the Tory God.’ I waved a finger in the newly abbreviated Frederick’s direction. ‘And guns are never the answer, my boy. Words are the weapon of an English gentleman. Words and sometimes a big stick, but never guns, unless the enemies are pheasant. So, I say to you, Fred, Freddie and Frederick. Come on down. All three of you should come and join us Tories. We’re a fine party of like minded souls who believe in individual freedom, prosperity, and lower taxes. We believe in the right for every freeborn English man, woman and child to go around this country of ours unhindered by speed cameras, identity cards, or the burden of public transport. Come on down, young Finley by any name. Come down and all this will be forgotten. Join Me. Join the Tories. Join England!’

Suddenly the garden filled with a ripple of applause coming from beneath every table and out of the shrubbery.

I can’t deny it was a proud moment and a tear came to my eye.

‘Fiddlesticks!’ shouted the lad and fired a pellet. This time it did not ping but made more a crack sound as it bounced off my right kneecap.

I fell like an old chimney, but I no longer cared. With the applause of the shrubbery ringing in my ears and the knowledge that the weekend hadn’t turned out too bad, I watched as a burly six foot butler, who had used the distraction of my speech to slowly creep along battlements, finally grabbed the damn free thinking radical in a headlock.

As I fell back and gazed at the sky, a mixture of pain and pride filled overcame me and I felt myself go faint as in the distance I could hear the consoling words of Francis Maude.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘has anybody seen any sign of the Pringles?’