Hairy London by Stephen Palmer Page A

have Archimedean floating systems, which only they can aford. Fight the reactionaries! Brothers and sisters unite! Many people who must through the c onditions of their lives go to work every day canot today go to work today. The govern ment is to launch an enquiry, but who will write it, and to who will they report? The landed gentry who rule us from Downing Street of course. The London aristocracy habve spread a hairy lie.
    Velvene glanced up at the slender, pale and unshaven man who had thrown him the rag. “Who are you, if I might ask?”
    The man scowled at him. “More to the point guv, who are you?”
    Velvene glanced down at himself, aware that his attire marked him out as a man not of the working classes – although his clothes were filthy and tattered. Moderating his accent as best he could he said, “I just heard a man whipping a little boy in the johnny cab down Pentonville Road.”
    “Yes, they do that, the people who rule us. You only just noticed? What’s your name, guv?”
    “Velvene... Orchard. I’m a sculptor, a destitute sculptor.” He glanced at the clay figure on the trolley behind him. “This is my latest work.”
    “Yeah, right. Well guv, the nobs got us good and proper this time. The hair is designed to stop us moving about see, so they can control us even better.”
    “Who are you people?” Velvene asked, his curiosity piqued.
    “I’m Pertrand Urricane, leader of the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London. Glad to make your acquaintance, guv.”
    Velvene nodded. He wanted to mention that he had met Karl Marx the previous day, but realised that Pertrand might consider that an opportunistic lie. So he said, “And what are your basic principles, eh?”
    “We follow Marx and Lenin. You ever heard of Lenin, guv?”
    “Vaguely.”
    Pertrand smiled, then laughed and shook his head. “Ooh guv, you got some very tasty reading coming up. Lenin is the saviour, see, he’s got the theory that’s gonna bring down the Romanovs in Russia, and hopefully the aristocratic government over here. Marx, you see, he pointed out that the working classes is oppressed, but Lenin, he took it one stage further, saying that the final stage of capitalism is imperialism. So we gotta bring down the nobs.”
    “Well,” Velvene said, “I think the, er, nobs might have a thing or two to say about that.”
    “You know any nobs, guv?”
    “Not me, no.”
    “Hmmm. Only you sounded like you might.”
    Velvene decided to change the subject. “Why are you protesting outside King’s Cross station?”
    “’Cos some Romanovs is due here any minute, down from Balmoral or some such place of idle luxury. It’s our duty to protest. I’d knife ’em if I could.”
    “Would you...”
    Pertrand looked Velvene up and down for a while then said, “I’m gonna do you a favour, guv. Come with us back to our headquarters. You need some grub, some tea, and then some good solid reading. What you say?”
    Velvene shrugged. “I suppose I could, I have nothing else to do.”
    From the station entrance a toffee landau emerged in which two figures could be seen, glittering with jewels, as Velvene noted. The Marxist-Leninists threw stones and sacks of Curious paint at the vehicle, which, resting on an inflated bag, sped off down Euston Road with little hindrance from the hair.
    “That showed ’em,” Pertrand observed. “All right, everyone! Fun over. Back to Gordon Square. This here is Velvene Orchard, a sculptor. He’s interested in Marx and Lenin, so be polite to him.”
    With some embarrassment Velvene waved to the half dozen protestors.
    Pertrand’s headquarters was a dingy upper floor flat situated opposite the tree-strewn greenery of Gordon Square, an apartment in which lay a Marxist library, a number of living rooms and bedrooms, and a shared kitchen. The bathroom was a shed erected on the roof. Plumbing was rudimentary.
    “This’ll be your home for a while guv,” Pertrand said. “It’s basic, but it’s