This is part 8 of an ongoing interactive story, links to earlier parts can be found below:
Part 1: A beginning is a very (very) delicate time
Part 2: Up for the craic at dawn.
Part 3: You can’t make an omelette without a violent uprising against the eggs.
Part 4: This revolution will definitely be televised
Part 5: Lactose, meet intolerance
Part 6: Bottle Episode
Part 7: You Really Got Carried Away
The most popular choice for continuing the story was:
Trot out as much as you can of the speech from Braveheart with a few bits of Orwell thrown in for good measure – finish up with a rousing “Tonight the streets are ours!” – then try to find the nearest bathroom.
Episode 8 (Quite a lot of) Anarchy in (some parts of) the UK.
You can’t believe it’s been only two weeks since the government unsuccessfully tried to vanish you. So much has happened since that the whole thing has become a, thankfully, distant memory.
The ad-hoc anarchist camp/musical festival that now resides in the street outside your flat is just beginning to warm up for the day as you are getting lunch ready. You really, really, really hope that there is less angry poetry today.
On the news earlier another minor government minister was rolled out to try and explain just what they are doing to try and quell the nightly protests, riots and general uprisings that have paralysed the country for the last week or so. They stutter through even the mildest interrogation, looking like a deer in the headlights. You guess this is what happens when you promote new MPs to government positions after you sack half the cabinet in a panicked re-shuffle the papers christened the ‘Friday Farce’.
After your amazingly awkward call for revolution following the dramatic rescue from those government goons, the authorities initially went with a ‘pretend this isn’t happening’ strategy. After the first night of widespread protests, they abandoned that approach, went completely heavy handed and brought the riot police in.
Unfortunately for them, the police were almost entirely sympathetic to the protesters, so from then on the protests have gone unchallenged and are also full of armoured and trained riot police. Following a few nights of ‘Down with this sort of thing’ protests and the occasional Bank or Estate Agents being set alight, the protests began to coalesce into a wide array of distinct movements and events.
- On College Green outside parliament, a huge mosaic has been made. It depicts the Prime Minister in sexual congress with an anthropomorphic cartoon milkshake. Every night, under cover of darkness, private security guards are dispatched to remove it. By 10AM every following morning the image has been carefully re-constructed.
- In Manchester, all of the drug dealers gave away free weed for 24 hours, the entire city has been stoned ever since. Crime has dropped to zero, the share price of dominos has gone up 800% and the locals are building a massive sculpture of Milo the cat in Hulme park.
- Brighton has submitted papers to the EU to join as an independent state – they have started building a large rainbow coloured brick wall across the A23.
- On Dartmoor a collective of farmers have ploughed out massive letters in the earth to form the three mile wide slogan “BRING DOWN THE #GIEVRNMENT”.
- In almost every major town or city, a near-general strike is underway, millions of people have occupied their streets and many have been putting on mostly terrible, but well intentioned musical events.
When a majority of the cabinet made it publicly clear that they weren’t massively keen on bringing in the army to resolve the widespread chaos , the PM began a clearout, leading to a national leadership team of only the most hardline and loyal Tory MPs. The Daily Mail orgasmically proclaimed: ‘Boris Seizes Hard Power!’
While the right-wing establishment is playing it very straight, everyone else seems to realise that the government is in big, big trouble. During Prime Minister’s Questions last week, rather than actually ask any questions, the normally dour leader of the opposition simply stood, pointed at Boris Johnson and laughed for one whole minute. Then he sat down, adjusted his quiff, and posted amusing milkshake memes via his ipad for the rest of the session…
The microwave has just pinged when Psycho-Kev, your old allotment buddy bursts into your flat. Kev is the de-facto head of the troubling group who decided of their own accord to form your ‘personal security team’. They scare you far too much for you to ever ask them to stop.
“We’ve got a situation!” Kev half yells at you. You shrug back, Milo stretches out on the counter top and looks unimpressed. Kev bursts into your flat and announces some kind of ‘situation’ or ‘risk escalation’ at increasing regular intervals. Not for the first time you consider what a shame it was that they kicked him out of SAS training for being ‘a health and safety risk’.
“Seriously, I’ve just got a sitrep from Scazzer that is priority alpha.”
“Ok Kev,’ you soothe, “Calm down, I’m sure everything will be ok.”
“Negative! Negative!” Bellows Kev, striding up and down, “You need eyes on parliament now.” His face is so creased up in tension and concern that you can only see two of his four, yes four, teardrop tattoos.
“Look, I’m just going to have some supernoodles and then-”
“Now!” Exclaims Kev, locating the TV remote and flipping to a rolling news channel.
The screen fills with the green benches of the house of commons, where some no-mark Tory with a union flag tie is making a furious speech in favour of what the lower third of the screen informs you is an imminent vote on the “Loyal Citizen Act”.
You turn to Kev with another shrug. “If this vote goes through we need to evac you to a safehouse – Stat!” He barks.. You consider another shrug, but Kev is starting to vibrate slightly so you decide it might be best to humour him.
“Are you sure we need to err, evac, Kev?” You ask in the calmest voice possible, wondering what on earth he is talking about.
“The fucking Loyal Citizen Act!” spits Kev. “It means they can immediately detain without trial anyone that they define as a ‘Major non-patriot’ – i.e. You!”.
You pause blowing on your steaming super noodles, realise that this is not a good thing at all and probably something you should be more concerned about. Maybe you should have spent more time on social media this week rather than smoking weed with the passable ambient synthwave band who seem to be on a nightly residency at the adhoc festival camp outside.
Kev is asking about the location of something called your “Bug out bag”, when, with very little warning, a helicopter descends over the back garden and two camouflaged figures abseil down into the back yard. You both stare open-mouthed down from the kitchen window at these new arrivals, completely unaware of the three Men in Black type figures who have strolled in through the door while you were distracted.
“Ahem.” says one of these covert-looking spooks. You jump out of your skin and drop your noodles. Milo jumps down and buries his face in them. Kev adopts a frightening looking karate stance – the interloper holds up his hands in what you hope is a sign of peaceful intentions.
“We have little time,” he says in a tight, mid-atlantic voice, “the vote is minutes away. I am authorised on behalf of the President of the United States to offer you political asylum at our embassy, our operatives outside are ready to airlift you at once.”
“What?” You manage.
“The USA always stands ready to offer aid to champions of freedom and democracy.”
“Really?” You ask, “Have you told, like, most of Central America that?”
“Yeah,” Sneers Kev, absolutely itching to have a fight.
“That was a long time ago – and anyway, you really need to-”
Your front door crashes open again and another team of smartly suited, possibly armed men burst in. Everyone stares at each other for a second.
“Allo,” says one of the new arrivals, “I am ere on ze behalf of President Macron of Frawnce, Ee iz most urjentley keen for you to take azyleem in zee embassy Francais.”
The two diplomatic delegations stare at each other, with what you guess is professional contempt, but as they are all wearing shades it is hard to tell.
“We ‘ave ze car diplomatique ready for you outside.” Says the French spook, he glaces at the TV, where the MP’s have just started to get up to vote “We must go now, allez, allez.”
“Let’s just wait a minute there, Frenchie,” begins the lead American.
For the next two minutes your tiny flat is the scene of some kind of international incident featuring bickering, macho posturing and some really quite funny, but completely unrepeatable nationalistic insults.
The helicopter whirrs, the MPs shuffle about on the TV, someone shouts something about Charles De Gaulle being a child molester.
“Will you all shut up!” you yell, “I’ve made a decision.”
(So far you have brought down about 25% of the government. They have replaced a fair amount of the cabinet and behind the scenes there are all manner of purges and mass resignations going on)
What exactly do you think your diplomatic choice should be?