In the Throne Room, the King Phantomime is stationed on his
throne, ready to pull the crocodile pit lever as soon as his rescue is secured
and the Grand Duchess Yekaterina tips him the wink. Anna Kissed and Nick Louse,
a.k.a the Santanarchist, are playing a tetchy game of ‘Whose Veggie Stew? – the
Deluxe Version’. The Granarchist is pacing the floor, annoyed that there still
hasn’t been a response to the ransom note.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I thought the British
public would be in uproar that their King has been kidnapped.’
‘Per’aps not,’ shrugs Anna Kissed. ‘Per’aps they are, at
last, taking the lead from l’histoire de France, and are growing tired with the
‘ole pomp and circumstance of Monarchy. Per’aps they are sharpening Madame
Guillotine as we speak,’ and she lets out a slightly maniacal French titter.
‘Mwahehehehe!’
Nick Louse, who is finding his Santanarchist outfit growing
increasingly hot and scratchy, suddenly looks up from studying his hand of
cards where he has been pondering either laying a pair of carrots and an
aubergine, or calling Anna’s bluff with a triple roasted beetroot. ‘Woss that
noise?’ he says. ‘Can you ‘ear it? Sort of rumbling, like an ‘erd of stampeding
wildebeest is on the move…’
Everyone listens. The rumbling grows louder and closer. The
gang of anarchists glance at one another, quizzically at first and then with
increasing concern.
Suddenly, the doors to the Throne Room burst open and a swathe
of not very happy Armed Forces Veterans enter, shouting ‘God Save the King!’ at
the tops of their voices. Some of them have, en route to the Throne Room,
grabbed a selection of ancient armaments from the Palace wall displays and are
waving them around like they really mean business. Some of the Palace staff
have done the same because it’s something they’ve always wanted to do and now
seems the ideal opportunity.
‘Oh my word!’ says the King Phantomime, bugging his eyes and
rising to his feet. ‘My people! My loyal and devoted people!’
Well, what a palaver ensues!
‘There they are!’ shouts Bert, who, at the age of
eighty-eight, is having the time of his life. ‘Traitors! Anarchists!’
He leads the charge across the Throne Room. ‘Get them!’ he
shouts. ‘Take them to the Tower! OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!’
‘Careful, Bert,’ says his wife, Irene, who has armed herself
with a toasting fork. ‘Don’t you be setting off your hip again.’
In her heart, the Granarchist wants to fight back. She wants
to hold her nerve and stand fast for her beliefs and all she has worked for.
She glances around and can already see that Anna Kissed and Nick Louse have
been surrounded and cornered. She realises she is outnumbered to the tune of eighty-five
to one against her, which isn’t the greatest of odds at the best of times. Her
dilemma is should she surrender and feel shame for the rest of her life, or
should she throw herself on a sword and die with honour, although it will
probably hurt a bit, but not for very long? Also, she can smell battered
sausages, to which she is highly allergic.
And then the noise around her subsides. She can see the
crowd advancing on her, she can see they are still shouting and are very, very
angry. But there is no sound. It’s like the moment has slipped into slow
motion.
‘Vot shall you choose to do, Granarchist?’ whispers a voice
very close to her ear. ‘Vot is your next course of action?’
‘Who’s that?’ says the Granarchist, glancing around.
‘Does it matter?’ says the voice. ‘I am ze voice inside your
head. I am your conscience, your moral code, your ethical standard. Vot iz the
best course of action at zis moment ov time? Sink carefully…’
Ultimately, the Granarchist is a sensible, if slightly
misguided person, and she knows what to do which is jolly good because the Lady
Author doesn’t have enough days left for an extended plot line. As the angry
people approach, the Granarchist holds up her hands. ‘I surrender,’ she says. ‘Just
keep me away from the battered sausages.’
‘Hurrah!’ shouts the crowd, and Bert’s wife holds the
Granarchist at bay with her toasting fork whilst Bert secures her hands with a
curtain tassel. ‘See how YOU like being held hostage,’ he says.
The King Phantomime is overcome with gratitude. How
wonderful that his people have come to his rescue and how wonderful that no one
has met a horrible end by being eaten by crocodiles, which, after all, isn’t
very festive, is it? (Although part of him, the Kenneth the Phantomime bit, is
a tad disappointed he didn’t have the opportunity to pull the crocodile pit
lever.)
Everyone in the Throne Room falls silent as the King
Phantomime stands to address his people.
‘You’re going to have to tell them the truth,’ says Mrs
Miggins, giving him a nudge.
‘Yes, I know,’ says Kenneth. ‘But it’s been a hoot, hasn’t
it?’
‘Would I call it a hoot?’ says Mrs Miggins, who is quite
exhausted with it all and wants a nice cup of tea and a sit down. ‘I don’t
think so, but do carry on.’
The King Phantomime clears his throat. ‘Friends, Romans,
countrymen…’ he begins. ‘No, that’s not right. Er…my dear, dear people…I have a
confession to make. I am not actually King Charles III, Monarch of this Realm.’
A collective gasp goes up from the crowd.
‘Told you so,’ says the smug Chief-of-Staff.
‘But fear not,’ continues the Phantomime. ‘The real King
Charles is safe and sound. He and Queen Camilla are on a Christmas holiday. I am
merely a very good and highly plausible stand in.’
‘Then ‘oo are you?’ says Bert, stepping closer and peering
into the faux Monarch’s face. ‘Oh yes, I can see now. You’re not as ‘andsome as
‘is Majesty.’
‘Rude,’ says the Phantomime. ‘I am Kenneth the Phantomime,
actor and performer extra-ordinaire.’
The Granarchist looks up, suddenly alert. ‘You’re WHO?’ she
says.
‘Kenneth the Phantomime,’ says Kenneth. ‘You may have heard
of me. I’ve had my moments of fame in the past.’
‘YOU!’ screeches the Granarchist. ‘But it’s YOU who
encouraged me to take the road of anarchism in the first
place…mwahahahahahahahaha!’
Kenneth looks confused.
The Granarchist, newly emboldened by this revelation,
continues. ‘Kenneth, it’s me – Tracey Lacey McFacey. The founder of the
Phantomime Fanarchist Fan Club! Remember me? It was YOU who inspired me to take
down the monarchy after your seminal performance in the musical drama, ‘You
Must Be Joe King,’ where you played a Prince who gives up his right to the
throne by moving to California, marrying an actress and single-handedly bringing
down the British Royal Family.’
‘Dear goodness, Kenneth!’ says a shocked Mrs Miggins. ‘Even
now, you STILL manage to be the root cause of all the calamity at Christmas.’
‘Honestly, Kenneth,’ admonishes Mrs Slocombe, ‘have you no
shame?’
‘I never had you down as a firebrand,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘A bit
of a twerp perhaps, but never a firebrand.’
‘Personally,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘I am glad that everything
has turned out well.’
‘I’m glad we didn’t have to resort to the crocodiles,’ says
Mrs Miggins.
‘I am not,’ says the Grand Duchess Yekaterina who has
witnessed the crocodile pit in action and always found it to be thrilling
entertainment.
‘What crocodiles?’ say Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey.
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