This is the exciting, serialised version of 'Two Enclaves', which should, more accurately, be known as 'A Tale of Two Enclaves.' It should be clearly emphasised that this was not written by Charles Dickens.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times:
The year was 2059 and the once beautiful city of London had been wiped out and reduced to a squalid wasteland that consisted of two enclaves, one of which was situated to the north of the River Thames, the other to the south.
The Democratic Republic of Brexitania (motto: ‘We embrace truth and integrity’) was located on the North Bank and covered 52% of the area which formerly made up Greater London, whilst The People’s Republic of Remainia (motto: ‘Oh No you don’t’) occupied 48% on the South Bank.
These two quasi autonomous states co-existed in bickering mode, one
occasionally devising small unpleasantries to be carried out against the other. This state of affairs had prevailed since that momentous day, some forty or so years ago, when all six hundred and fifty members of The House had crossed the floor simultaneously and, shortly thereafter, parliament had been dissolved.
Dissolved that is, not in the sense of being declared void or coming to an end, but dissolved in the manner of an antacid tablet being reduced to an effervescent solution in water. The dissolution was caused by the then, Prime Minister, Joris Bonson, mean-spiritedly tipping Jacob Grease Bog’s bottle of aftershave down the toilet in the first floor cloakroom, which had formed part of the Leader’s chambers. Catastrophically, some kind of disastrous, chemical reaction had resulted and over the next four days an unstoppable decline had taken place in the Houses of Parliament, as huge sections of it disintegrated into the river. The last sighting of that noble institution had been when Big Ben, bonging dolefully, floated in funereal fashion, down the River Thames.
Much water had passed under many bridges since that fateful day. Bonson and Grease Bog had reinvented themselves and had forged a very unlikely alliance with Nigel Garage, who, having rendered himself absent from public life for the last 45 years, suddenly popped up again as his usual chummy self. These three wily politicians formed a formidable triumvirate.
Bonson had reinvented himself as Winston Churchill, adopting Churchill’s demeanour and mannerisms, quoting, where possible, from his speeches and smoking vast quantities of absolutely enormous cigars.
Grease Bog, the master of filibustering and acknowledged genius in the classics, had embraced the persona of Julius Caesar with whom he felt that he could identify. During his previous political career, he had frequently delivered long, rambling speeches entirely in Latin, lasting up to five hours. His fellow, honourable members appeared to have had no problems with that, mainly because they were either asleep, or engrossed in ‘candy crush saga’ on their smart phones.
Garage hadn’t needed to re-invent himself, because everyone automatically did it for him. Over the years, he somehow came to be known as ‘Igor,’ a name which clung to him still. Nobody quite knew why.
This astonishing trio, now unbelievably advanced in years, had their headquarters in the crumbling ruins of No 10 Clowning Street, wherein they ate, bathed, slept and conducted parliamentary business.
To be continued ...
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