In the back of the faux BBC van, tightly secured in a red
polyester Santa Claus present sack which is giving off a mighty amount of
static electricity, Kenneth the Phantomime is feeling more than a little hacked
off. You would think, wouldn’t you dear Reader(s) that he might be feeling
frightened or anxious or upset, rather than hacked off, but no. For Kenneth the
Phantomime is used to peril, drama and danger. He has been caught up in more
tricky situations in his lifetime than Tricky McTricky, the Trickiest Trickster
in the Kingdom of Tricky. By comparison, being kidnapped, which is obviously
what has happened, sits pretty low on his Scale of Dangerous Situations.
‘Oi!’ he shouts. ‘OI!!!!!’
And he tries to bang on the floor of the van, but the sack
is too constricting for him to gain much purchase with his feet. And then he
remembers that he is supposed to be King Charles, who definitely would not try
to draw attention to himself by shouting ‘Oi!’
‘I say!’ says the King Phantomime. ‘I say – can anyone hear
one?’
There is no response. The King Phantomime slumps back
against the side of the van. ‘You’d think,’ he says to no one in particular,
‘that if you are going to plan the kidnapping of a King, you’d at least choose
a Santa sack of better quality than cheap polyester. Something in velvet,
maybe. Or a nice heavy brocade.’ He sighs. People will never consider the finer
details of a situation like he does.
After a very short time, the van stops. The Phantomime has
been thinking that a) they haven’t been travelling very fast for a getaway
vehicle and b) they also don’t seem to have travelled very far. Either that, or
he was knocked unconscious and is only just now coming to and they are now
somewhere remote. Like Lowestoft. But no, he is pretty certain he has been
conscious throughout.
He can hear voices muttering, and the van shifting as its
occupants descend from the front.
‘Is this a good idea?’ says a voice. ‘Isn’t this a bit
risky?’
‘It’s called hiding in plain sight,’ says another voice. ‘The
British police are incompetent. They never think about looking under their
noses. They will organise, what is it called – ‘a nationwide man hunt.’ They
will send their forces to the borders, to the airports, to the seas. They will
spread quicker than a suspicious rash…’
‘I’m not so sure,’ says the first voice.
‘Look!’ says the second voice, her tone growing loud and more shrill with impatience. ‘Do you know who I am? Do you realise how much planning
and detail has gone into this plot? Do you seriously think I will risk everything
I stand for by making a tiny error?’
‘Well, I suppose not,’ admits the first voice.
‘Who am I?’ says the second voice. ‘Tell me WHO I AM!!!’
‘You’re the Granarchist,’ says the first voice.
‘YES!!’ says the first voice. ‘I am indeed. I am she. I am
the grandmother of all grandmothers and I am anarchist of all anarchists and
together I am – the GRANARCHIST! And what is it I want to do?’
The first voice sighs. ‘You want to bring about the end of
the monarchy in Great Britain, and then the world, and be the instigator of
global republicanism.’
‘YES!!’ says the Granarchist. ‘Exactly! This is my life’s work.
And nothing will stand in my way! MWAHAHAHAHAHA...HA!’
The Phantomime has been listening to this exchange with
renewed interest. Some might say that there was an ego standing outside this
very van that was bigger than his. They’d be wrong, but it’s a close call. But
it is the familiarity of the voice that has really piqued his interest. He is
sure he has heard it somewhere before. Is it the ‘mwahahahahahaha..ha?’ Or is
it something else?
The side door of the van slides open.
‘King Charles, we meet at last,’ says the Granarchist. And
then, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, someone lift him out of that sack. I can’t be
speaking to him like that, all trussed up like a turkey.’
The Phantomime feels hands lift him up and help him from the
van. Someone is fiddling with the tie at the top of the sack and then he feels
a rush of air on his face as the stifling polyester falls away and he comes
face to face with the Granarchist herself.
‘Your Majesty,’ she says. ‘I would curtsey, but it would
make my Republican stomach vomit up my breakfast.’
Stay in character, stay in character, the Phantomime’s inner
voice whispers.
‘Have you tried peppermint tea?’ he says. ‘Works wonders for
a delicate digestive system.’
The Granarchist flinches ever so slightly. The King
Phantomime scans her face for signs of familiarity. She is about five feet six
in height. Her hair is silver and her eyes are dark grey. Her skin is
remarkably smooth for someone calling herself a grandmother, and the Phantomime
looks for signs of lip fillers, Botox, and face lifts but finds none. And,
believe me, he knows what he is looking for. He decides on a direct approach.
‘I say,’ he says. ‘But have we met before? You seem awfully
familiar.’
This seems to startle the Granarchist but she quickly
regains her composure. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Absolutely we have NOT met, never ever,
no way Jose. I am an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. I am an under-the-radar
Ninja.’
‘Oh well,’ says King Phantomime. ‘My mistake.’
But still, he thinks, there is something strangely familiar
about her…
The Granarchist narrows her eyes. ‘You seem very relaxed for
someone who has just been kidnapped,’ she says.
‘Calm in a crisis, that’s me,’ says the King Phantomime. ‘No
point in getting in a tizz about things until one knows what is going on, eh
what?’
‘Hmmmm…’ says the Granarchist.
‘And who are your charming friends?’ says King Phantomime,
turning to the two other figures who are lurking in the shadows.
‘These are my colleagues – Anna Kissed, whom you’ve already
met…’
‘Ah yes, the BBC producer,’ says King Phantomime.
‘And this is Nick Louse, also known as the Santanarchist,’
says the Granarchist. The chap dressed in the Santa outfit tugs his Santa hat.
‘Morning,’ he says.
‘Charmed,’ says the King Phantomime.
* *
* * * * *
Meanwhile, back in the home village, which is managing to
keep to real time, Holly the Florist is looking up the hill at Much Malarkey
Manor which is lit up like a Christmas tree. Loud music is reverberating across
the fields. Holly turns to her business partner, Ivy. ‘Ere,’ she says. ‘What’s
going on up at the Manor, then? I thought they was all away?’
‘They are,’ says Ivy. ‘Cept for that little ginger dog, Nell
the Poo, and that Ptolemy Pheasant chap. It’s the little dog’s second birthday
today. She’s throwing a bit of a party. You know, whilst the cat’s away, the
dog will cause absolute chaos in the name of fun.’
Holly looks affronted. ‘Ow come we 'aven’t been invited to
this party, then?’
Ivy laughs. ‘We have! Grab your coat and we can get going!’
Happy 2nd Birthday, Nellibobs! A Christmas
miracle we’ve made it this far.
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