So there we were, or at least most of us were. The rest of them had become bored and wandered off to watch a repeat of Downton Abbey. The one where the servants begin a revolution and storm the sitting room, gaining control of the cucumber sandwiches and the strategically vital posh frocks, just before the advert break.
Anyway, those of us left manning the barricades decided too that we great heroes of the proletariat all deserved at least a two-week break in the sun once the revolution had been established. So the steering committee began at once to outline plans for a people’s travel agency in readiness for the next revolutionary council meeting. Someone suggested ‘something should be done about her from number 22,’ which, after a show of hands of the cadre present, was also added to the agenda.
That night we were expecting a counter-strike by the reactionary anti-revolutionary army. As usual they would – we assumed – commence their attack under cover of the peak-time viewing schedule when most of our forces would be settling down in front of something with heavy audience engagement.
Sure enough, just as the first dance-off began, the counter-revolutionaries began their artillery barrage. Unfortunately for them, they were relying on the renationalised Post Office to deliver their artillery shells to the guns at the front. Therefore, they only had two shells, one of which was a dud and the other caused only minor damage to a public urinal down at the far end of the High Street.
Consequently, their attack was desultory at best, only managing to take one of the town’s less strategically important takeaways, before our gallant comrades, all eager for a late-night curry, beat them back.
The glorious revolution continues and we fight on for another day!
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