The Barricade

That evening the Prime Minister appeared in a simultaneous transmission on all major television channels.   He was flanked by union flags, and Mr Fluffy stood behind him, one paw on his shoulder.   There was, he announced, to be a rally in Parliament Square the following morning.   He urged all right minded patriots to be there as it was to be followed by a march to Tower Hill.   There they would regroup before  proceeding down Royal Mint Street, along Cable Street and on into Limehouse and Poplar.   They would retake the docks, by force if absolutely necessary, restoring normality and stability to the nation.   The broadcast ended with him standing, hand on heart whilst the National Anthem played out under slow mixes to old footage of Battle of Britain Spitfires and selected clips from Sink the Bismark.


A council of war was convened in an upstairs room in Charlie Brown's.   This legendary dockland public house, legendary at least amongst the world wide maritime community, is  more properly named the Railway Tavern, it sits on the corner of Garford Street close to the gates of the West India Dock and is always referred to by the name of its renowned, broken nosed, ex-pugilist landlord, the self proclaimed 'uncrowned king of Limehouse'.   The building had been commissioned by Charrington and Company, it is some five storeys high, over a basement, is crowned by a copper-covered cupola and aspires to a bastardised Baroque style.   The interior is a museum of curiosities gathered from all parts of the world, gifted by seaman sailing into the docks of East London. The majority of the souvenirs and nick-nacks in the collection, hanging from ceilings, nailed to walls, crowded on shelves, are from the Far East and Polynesia.      
Boz was (sort of) chairing the meeting, which was degenerating into something of a buffet; cheese sandwiches and beer had been provided, on the house, by the proprietor, Charlie Brown.   Ginsbergbear coughed and Phoebles banged a beer mug, freshly drained, on the table.   The ships' cats and a small contingent of Kronstadt sailors, being more inclined to action than the rest, shushed the disparate anarchist and communist factions and eventually gained their attention.   Boz recounted what he could remember of his one sided conversation with Slasher McGoogs.   Much of his concentration had been taken up at the time by the ugly automatic pistol that was being pointed his way and he was still a bit shaky. 
It was agreed that the march must be stopped and that it would be halted in Cable Street near to St George's Town Hall.
The Brick Lane Zapatistas were put in charge of constructing and manning a series of sturdy barricades, whilst La Columna  would help to secure the side streets and alleys.
Those Marxist-Leninists, Trots and Maoists present put aside their doctrinal differences and, declaring that the time was not yet right  for action, retired to The Prospect of Whitby on Wapping Wall to wait out the coming events.
With time of the essence the company then downed their beers, polished off the sandwiches, made use of the tavern's urinals and litter trays and proceeded down Cable Street to make their preparations.


Fuelled by strikers’ braziers and the smoke from burning police cars an old fashioned London fog had descended on the East End.   A red glow from bonfires and torches coloured the smog and suffused the shadowy buildings that lined the street with a crimson light.   Curling smoke constructed sinuous dragons which twisted through the air above the scene.
The anarcho-surrealists in panto costumes were dispatched to form a redoubt at the junction of Cable Street with Dock Street.   Much in evidence, as with most of the irregulars, was their weapon of choice, the Classic Burp® Gun manufactured by Ack-Ack Inc of East Detroit Michigan.   They had strict instructions that theirs was to be a delaying action only, there was to be no last ditch stand.   When overrun they were to fall back and melt away, their job then would be to harry and slow the marchers.   They were joined at the redoubt by Snowdrop in ballet tutu and Red Army budionovka pixy hat, on her unicycle, juggling flaming brands and assuming tenuous command. 


In Parliament square the Royal Marines' Regimental Brass Band played a medley of Elgar's more stirring tunes before a high podium and lectern that bristled with microphones.   From here the Prime Minister gave yet another rousing speech,  though it transpired that he would not himself be on the march - prevented by an unfortunate prior engagement.
Rank upon rank of black clad riot policemen in visored helmets, already rhythmically tapping their truncheons against their shields, formed up behind the band; then came paramilitary cadre units of fundamentalist Young Conservatives and public school boy volunteer brigades, uniformly equiped with Saturator SIG SAUER 556’s; finally the massed irregulars with Burp® guns and assorted cheap water pistols bought, en route, from a branch of Lidl Stiftung and Co. KG.
On arriving at Tower Hill, their ranks swollen by thousands of patriotic peasants with pitchforks, flaming torches and of course, Burp® guns, they encountered the East End fog.   The column was also joined by the dark shape of a Metropolitan Police medium range pursuit airship which, forced to fly too high above the fog bank, was to play no significant part in the day's events.   The band struck up once more and the advance into the alien maze of streets that lay beyond the walls of the great city began.


The primary barricade spanning Cable Street, constructed from iron bedsteads, pallets, up turned carts, assorted furniture and the occasional shell of a motor vehicle, being completed and topped with red flags, black flags, red and black flags, the Brick Lane Zapatistas took up their positions.   Silhouetted figures armed with STR80-AK47 Aquafire combat water weapons mounted the barricades and presented clenched fisted salutes to the featureless mist.   They shall not pass!  ¡No pasaran!   Consuella Starcluster with the republican flag draped across her bodice and wearing a profondo rosso frigian cap with the blood, puss and scab rosette of her spiritual homeland, topped the highest pinnacle.   

Kronstadt Sailors under the command of Phoebles, who was wearing a saucepan on his head and which he feared may well be stuck, manned giant rubber catapults (three man bomb launchers), in a line behind the barricade, with a plentiful supply of water bombs and flour bombs.
Track had been removed for some distance north and south of Shadwell station to prevent the Government  from deploying its armoured trains.   Ex-miners from Wales and Yorkshire had come in via the backroads to avoid police road blocks and they were to guard the sewers and underground tunnels against surprise attack.
Slates were removed from the roof of the Italianate Vestry Hall so that  Ginsbergbear could take up a commanding position above the cornice with his powerful Exploderz X Ranger 1075 water machine gun.   The defences were ready.


There followed a nervous pause in the proceedings until, far in the distance, could be heard a marching band playing Colonel Bogey.   It faltered and was drowned out by the cries and clamour of conflict.   The anarcho-surrealists had gone into action.
To the rear, amidst the reserve troops and baggage an ex-colliery brass band responded with the Marseilles and Internationale and a small Welsh choir sang out a baritone rendition of Lloyd George Knew My Father.