Dynasty

Still dressed in his uniform, Jeremiah lay on the old bed that pulled out from the wall of his little bedsit up by Brighton Station and shivered. He had just come off shift from his cash-in-hand job at Kemptown Fried Chicken, and so he had a little money, but had forgotten to get a fifty pee for the gas meter which had run out that morning while he was trying to make breakfast. He would go and  get one in a while, from Mr. Shah's on the corner, but now he was tired, and wanted to put his feet up for a couple of minutes, before venturing out again. It was cold in the flat, yes, but at least it was out of the bitter January wind. Blossom had assured him last week that Brighton Station was the coldest place on Earth, next to the Scott-Amundsen base at the South Pole, and Jeremiah had not laughed.

He didn't talk to his friends about his job much. Not that he was ashamed, far from it. That, for Jeremiah was the whole point of his being here, to work so that he could pay for his Phd. in International Relations. In a free-market, he felt free to take low status, low-paid work to keep body and soul together. He was rather proud of the fact that he was the first member of his family to get through college in this way. But it was not interesting work, frying chicken all day, and he had huge amounts of reading to get through, so when he saw his chums, he liked to argue politics, not talk poultry. To argue with ones friends, to learn from Mr. Luff; he might be cold and tired, but life, for Jeremiah, was good.

Mrs. Norbury called through the door.

"Mr Farafan! Phone!" He hopped off the bed, opened the door, and followed his landlady down the hall to a payphone by the front door.

"Who is it, Mrs. Norbury?"

"A lady. Very grand. Didn't give a name." said Mrs. Norbury.

"Hello Mother," said Jeremiah into the reciever.

"Hello sweetheart! You'll never guess where we are?"

"London."

"Oh. How did you guess?"

"Because Father always comes to the UK on one of his jute and orange junkets in January. You go to Dundee, you come down to London for the new year sales, you phone me up and invite me to lunch, I come, Father and I argue, you go home. Every year for six years. And you always say 'You'll never guess where we are.?' How are you?"

"Well, things are a little difficult, to be honest. Your father and I were wondering if we might come and stay with you for a few days?"

"Mother, it's impossible. I only have a bedsit."

"Oh, but, darling, we must. You see, we're in the most terrible spot - Daddy's been deposed!"

Christmas out of the way, things had returned to normal in Bloomsbury Place. Frances' parents had gone back to NZ, the Eel had frightened Dolly's friend Josephine by shouting at her for sitting in one of his chairs, and several pairs of  Caroline's knickers had gone missing only to turn up mysteriously in Cats' laundry bag. Sailor Dave was still off somewhere with The Guildford Stranglers, but otherwise God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.

With the new University term still a week away, the kids already back at school, Frances had little to do in the afternoon but to sit with Blossom in the top floor flat drinking coffee and running over the finer points of her parents visit.

'It was OK, but the old man will talk politics with me, and he says stuff that he knows will wind me up.'

'Like what?'

'Oh, stuff about immigrants, and how lucky NZ is not to have any...'

'Hello? Isn't everyone an immigrant?'

'Yeah, even the Maori's, really, if you think about it. But he won't have it. I try not to rise to his bait, but he's such a bigoted old cunt, I can't help it.'

'I used to argue with my Mum all the time about politics. During the three day week, when my dad was still alive, we used to sit there by candlelight, the three of us, screaming about Mr. Heath, and the unions, and all that. It's funny, when you think about it, 'cos old Ted was a bit of a hero in the 80's, wasn't he? I mean, who else was standing up to the Milk Snatcher? It was Ted Heath, Harold Macmillan, the Church of England, and the Prince of Wales. Very strange, really.'

'Do you still argue with your Mum now?'

'Nah, life's too short. Anyway, she stopped voting Tory after the Libya bombing. Said that it was wrong to treat this country like an aircraft carrier.'

'Good for her.'

'Yes, but the horrible thing is, the older I get, the more right wing I get. It's annoying. My old man used to say that one day I'd grow out of Deep Purple and Uriah Heep, and like real music, by which he meant jazz. And he was right. And he used to say that I'd end up a Tory too. And maybe he was right about that as well.'

'No.'

'Maybe. It's talking to Jeremiah and The Eel. They make sense.'

'Oh, but they're not Tories. Libertarians, yes. But that's different.'

The phone rang. Blossom answered.

'Hello? Hi! We were just talking about you...What?...Oh...I see...well...yeah, Dave's still away...yeah, and Frances' folks have gone...hang on, she's with me now...yeah...I'll ask...'

Blossom put his hand over the mouthpiece.

'It's Jeremiah. He's got some people from home stuck with nowhere to stay, and he was wondering if...'

'Of course.' said Frances. 'We can put up a couple, no problem.'

'Hello, Jeremiah? Yeah, Frances can do two...yeah, I'm sure that's fine. The Sailor's not due back for a fortnight...OK...now?...that's cool...see you in a bit. No, it's no hassle. OK, see you in a bit.' Blossom put the phone down.

'Oh, right, he was calling from the station. Turned up out of the blue, they have, looking for somewhere to crash. There's three. I said one could have Dave's room.'

'I'll nip down and get the spare room ready. Are they coming straight here?'

'Yeah, I said it was fine.'

'OK. Give us a bell when they get here.'

Frances and Blossom knew that despite Jeremiah's avowal of the unfettered free market, his own economic position was parlous in the extreme. He worked in a fast chicken place and received a tiny grant from a shadowy organisation called the John Galt Foundation in order to pursue his post-grad studies at the University, but life was sometimes quite hard, they knew. There certainly wasn't floor space in the tiny bedsit which Jeremiah called home to accommodate unexpected guests. What little they knew of Jeremiah, they had learned from the Eel, who had introduced him into Bloomsbury. He was a political exile from a tiny African state and so they assumed that his friends must be fellow refugees, escapees from some foul regime. Both Blossom and Frances felt kinda cool to be putting up asylum seekers. Blossom poked his head round the door of Sailor Dave's room, just to satisfy himself that it was in its usual Spartan state. Not that any of the weirdo's who occasionally turned up looking for somewhere to crash would care if there was fungus growing up the walls, so long as they could smoke spliff all night and sleep all day. Still, it was as well to check. Perhaps African political refugees were fussier than hippies.

The intercom rang, and Blossom pressed the bell to admit them. He rang Frances to tell her that their guests had arrived, and she came running up. They could hear the sound of voices coming up the stairwell.

'I've never met any of Jerry's friends from home.' said Blossom.

'No, neither have I. I'm intrigued.' said Frances.

Jeremiah arrived at the top of the stairs, carrying some expensive luggage; behind him came a very smart middle-aged couple, and, behind them, a smiling white haired gentleman in his sixties.

'Thanks, people.' he said, putting down the cases. 'I really appreciate this. So, Bob, Frances, allow me to introduce you to my parents. Their Serene Highnesses Martin and Maria, King and Queen of Farafangana.'

The smart middle-aged couple nodded.

Blossom stared open mouth at the couple; Frances went white, and dropped a curtsey.

'Oh, my dear, there really is no need.' said the Queen. 'Jerry's only pulling your leg. We've been deposed.'

The King winced.

"And this," continued Jeremiah "is Grand Vizier Cornelius, First Secretary of The Marxist-Leninist Party of Farafangana."

"How do you do?"

"I'M DEAF!" shouted Cornelius.

"He's deaf," said Jerremiah

'Deposed?' said Blossom to Jeremiah.

'It's my brother, Martin,' said Jerry. 'He's organised a coup, the crafty old sod.'

"Where the fuck is Farafangana?" whispered Frances to Blossom.

"Off the east coast of Africa. South of Zanzibar" said Jeremiah, overhearing.

'He's a traitor, that's what he is, a traitor to the principles of International Marxist-Leninism,' said Jerry's father with some bitterness.

"Don't be too harsh, Martin. Democracy does seem to be very much the thing these days," said Queen Maria.

"Democracy. Oh, yes, we all know what that means, don't we? The hegemony of a deeply ingrained ruling class, serving their own interests and the interest of multi-national capitalism. He's a liberal bourgeois traitor to the class struggle, that's what he is. Little cunt."

Blossom and Frances helped with the cases, and got the ex-royals and their grinning son and their faithful old retainer around the kitchen table drinking cocoa and lemon tea, whilst Martin the Fifth fulminated against his eldest boy.

"Father! Calm down! What's happened?"

"You tell him." said the King sulkily.

"Well, " said Queen Maria, "we got into Kings Cross from Dundee, and usually there would have been someone from the embassy to meet us, but there wasn't, so we phoned but it was busy, so we thought, 'Funny', so we got an Evening Standard and went and had a drink and your Father sat and had a beer and read the paper, and he saw this."

The Queen pulled the paper from her bag, and showed it round.

"What, 'Portugese Premier in sardine talks'?" said Blossom.

"No!" snapped the King. "Look!"

It was just a short piece. 'Island Coup', ran the headline.'

'A non-violent coup has taken place on the idyllic Indian Ocean island of Forofinguna. The Crown Prince Martin, heir to the throne, has been proclaimed King by the Speaker of the island's parliament in the absence of his Father, the despotic Martin the Fifth. A spokesperson for the new ruler says that full democracy will be established on the Island Paradise. Elections are expected soon."

 "Despotic! Little fuckwit! He's a power-crazed little toad, always was, always will be."

"So what did you do?," said Jeremiah.

"Well, we hurried off to the embassy, and the ambassador demanded the return of our passports, so your Father hit him." The King smiled for the first time."So then the ambassador told us that all our assets were frozen, and we went off to the bank, and they said we couldn't have any more cash. All we had was the £200 I got out to get some new duvet covers for The Royal Peoples Bungalow. So we phoned Jerry. And then.." The Queen dabbed at her eye with a tissue, "if that wasn't awful enough, we had to come down to Brighton by Connex South Central."

"And here you are now," said Frances, "and very welcome too."

The ex-King turned to his son.

" I bet he abolishes The People's Militia, and sets up a standing army."

'No, they'll be no demand for it.' said Jeremiah (now revealed to Frances and Blossom as His Royal Highness The Prince Jeremiah of the People's Second Administrative Division).

'Demand?' said the king. 'Demand? What's demand got to do with it?'

'Well, you're the one who always goes on about the People's will. I mean, what could be a clearer indication of their will than the expression of needs in a free and open market?' said Jeremiah.

'Market, market, market. That's all you ever care about, isn't it, the bloody marketplace. People have needs beyond the acquisition of material goods, son' said Martin.

'Do they argue all the time, Your Majesty?' whispered Frances into Maria's ear.

'I'm afraid so. It's even worse when Marty's about. They see things so very differently. It's their education, you see. My husband went to Eton and Cambridge back in the fifties, so of course he's a terrible old-style communist. He didn't believe in his children getting a privileged education, so we sent Marty to Fettes and Oxford, and I'm afraid he's turned out a screaming Social Democrat. Blairite revisionist scum, my husband calls him. Well, realising his mistake, Martin insisted that Jerry be sent to Harrow and the LSE, which were regarded as quite sound in my husbands day, but that was the worst of all, and he's turned into a fervent free-marketeer. If only they'd listened to me.'

'What did you want for them?'

'Gordonstoun and St.Andrew's. Rough 'em up a bit. But, it wasn't to be...'

The ex-King and his son argued on, with Blossom, who fancied himself as a barrack-room political philosopher trying to keep up to speed. Unfortunately, Blossom was a mild agnostic in every area of human existence, except whaling, and so although he could understand most of the argument, the passion which the protagonists brought to the debate was quite beyond him, and he felt excluded. He gave up a hopeless attempt to engage Cornelius in conversation, and so he sat, in his own kitchen, whilst Father and son raged, Frances and the Queen whispered and Cornelius smiled at the wall. Finally, Blossom managed to get a word in.

'I hope you don't mind my asking, Martin, but how did you square Marxism with being an hereditary monarch?' Martin looked at him.

'Well... it wasn't easy at first. I thought about giving up the throne and becoming President-For-Life instead at one time. But Maria talked me out of it. She liked all the dresses, and everything.'

'Anyway, there was no demand in the market for your abdication was there? The consumer preference at home has always been, quite clearly, for a monarchy of some kind...' said Jeremiah.

'What's that got to do with anything?' said Martin. Blossom gave up, and made some more cocoa.

'Excuse me', said Frances.' but I expect you're all hungry. You're more than welcome to eat with us tonight. You come too, Bob.'

'Er...thanks.', said Blossom, who was already dreading having to sit through hours more debate.

Maria and Martin nodded their thanks, but Jeremiah said,

'Listen, Frances, I hope you don't think I'm being rude, but could we ask the Eel as well?'

Frances was not particularly surprised, as she knew that the Eel was Jeremiah's mentor, so she agreed, and left the debate to start preparing dinner. She had never cooked for royalty before, even ex-royalty; it was exciting, like that dream that everyone is supposed to have at one time or another, where the Queen comes to tea. She phoned down to the ground floor flat, where the Eel was unsurprised in his turn at being invited; Jeremiah had already appraised him of the situation, and he had taken his dinner jacket to the One-Hour Dry Cleaners on St. James' Street.

'It's not going to formal, Edgar', said Frances into the receiver, a little shortly. She was happy to entertain, but she did like to know before everyone else who was going to be invited.

'My dear, I'm very much afraid that I'm going to come as a bit of a shock to their majestys. I'm hoping the old penguin suit will mitigate to some extent.' Frances didn't ask why the Eel was going to come as a shock; instead, she went and woke Paul, who had been enjoying his early mid-afternoon snooze, in order to preserve his strength for his late-mid-afternoon nap, a nap which he regarded as essential if he was going to be able to gather himself in time for his late afternoon doze in front of 'Fifteen To One.' He was not pleased at being rudely awakened and sent out for some essentials.

'Oh, maaan. Who's coming to dinner? And do I have to come too?'

'Yes you do, you useless piece of shit. We're entertaining The King and Queen of Farafangana. And then they're staying for a day or two.'

Holland gave the uncertain, crooked little grin that had persuaded so many young and gullible women that he was a sweetie, despite very good evidence to the contrary.

'Who's coming really?' he said.

'I told you. The King and Queen. It turns out they're Jeremiah's Mum and Dad. And a batty old loon they've got with them, and Jeremiah, of course, and you and me and Blossom and The Eel. Now, here's the list.'

'Straight up?' said Holland.

'Yes! How many fucking times? Now, get going.'

Holland did as he was told, feeling self-important. It was not, after all, everyday that you got to go down Asda at the Marina on behalf of royalty, albeit deposed ones.

Frances was preparing boeuf bourginon from a recipe she had gleaned from The Independent on Sunday. The article had said that boeuf bourginon had been the great star of sixties and seventies dinner parties, had fallen from grace during the eighties, and should now be due for a revival. Frances, ever the back-street post-modernist, could not resist serving anything so knowing; she cooked her ingredients as slowly as possible, and got herself dressed, thinking her little red mini-dress would do the job. At seven-thirty, the King and Queen arrived, and Frances showed them to the spare room. Um and Er were allowed to shake hands with the illustrious guests, and were then plonked in front of a Disney video to keep them quiet; by eight, all the guests were assembled, except the Eel.

'What a lovely flat,' said Queen Maria, as she sat in the front room, sipping Tio Pepe.

'Thank you.' said Frances. 'It could do with a lick of paint, though.'

Holland and Blossom looked at one another; every January, Frances started to think about re-decoration; and every March, the two men were rail-roaded into spending a week with paint-brushes and step ladders. The door bell rang; Frances rose to admit the Eel, choking with exertion from the climb, resplendent in his dinner jacket, his medals gleaming proudly on his breast.

'Mother, Father,' said Jeremiah, 'allow me to introduce Edgar Luff.'

'It's a pleasure, your Majesties. After so long. The last time I saw you, indeed the last time I was in Farafan was at your wedding. So long ago!'

The ex-King gawped, if royalty can do anything so undignified as gawp.

'Christ.' he said. 'Luff. I remember you. You... you're... you were my grandfathers advisor at the conference when we got independance.'

'I had the honour of serving your grandfather, Your Majesty, that is true.'

Cornelius was looking at the Eel suspiciously.

'Luff!' he bellowed.

'Yes?' said the Eel.

'Do you remember me? Cornelius?' It appeared to Frances that the Eel blushed.

'Ah... Cornelius.... '

'What?'

'YES! I REMEMBER YOU!'

'He remembers me. He remembers me. Do you remember my wife?'

'Yes' said the Eel quietly.

'What? Do you remember my wife?'

'YES.'

'He shagged my wife.' said Cornelius, pointing at the Eel and smiling around the room.

'Edgar!' said Frances in surprise.

'She was a lovely woman. A LOVELY WOMAN!," bellowed the Eel. Cornelius smiled and nodded.

'VERY GOOD LEGS!' Again Cornelius smiled.

'How is she?'

'Eh?'

'HOW IS SHE?'

'Dead. Dead. Dead these last ten years.'

'I'M VERY SORRY TO HEAR IT.'

'Thank you. She always spoke very highly of you.'

'Yes, this is very touching', said the King. 'But wasn't it you that advised my grandfather to lisence jute production to Britain at a rock bottom price, in return for aonce and for all payment, pocket the profit and have done? The deal that threatened to destroy our economic independance before we'd even begun?"

"Yes. Well, it was your grandfathers idea. He told me that he didn't want independence at all; couldn't be bothered with it. He liked the colonial life; playing golf, swanning around in his Roller, drinking Pimms, sleeping with lovely women. He begged me to find a way to keep the cash rolling in. Of course, I was working for the UK government, so your Grandfather's idleness and indifference to the fate of his Kingdom were a godsend. Farafan was a smashing little stop on the way from Cape Town up to Calcutta, but it had long ceased to be valuable. So I swung the deal on jute[1]. Your granddad was happy, we were happy and the Farafanganese people in the excitement of independance neglected to read the small print. Sorry."

'Sorry?'

'Yes. Still, I got this for me trouble.' He thrust out his breast, to show the king The Star of Farafan.

The king was dumb-struck. All these years of struggle, just so his granddad could live like a king,

'The old fucker...' he said.

'And now this, Your Majesty. It is a tragedy, a terrible sadness to us all. Especially Jeremiah and myself.'

'Why's that, Luff?' said the King. 'I should have thought that Marty's ideas are much closer to yours than to mine.'

'Good Lord, no, your majesty. We abhor wishy-washy pinkos like your eldest son. Now, if our plans for a coup had advanced a little further, we hoped to establish Farafan as the first genuinely free-market state in the world. But, the bloody social democrats got there first.'

Jeremiah looked at The Eel, and then held his head in his hands.

'Your plans for a coup? Your plans for a coup? Why, you treacherous...'

'Oh Jerry.' said Queen Maria, disappointment in her voice.

'Shall we go through?' said Frances brightly. 'We're eating in the kitchen, I'm afraid.'

The party trooped into the kitchen, the atmosphere decidedly cool, and sat around the large stripped pine table, where, inevitably, political debate raged on. Blossom chatted to Frances and the ex-Queen, whilst Jeremiah, The Eel and ex-King Martin screamed at one another. Surprisingly, Holland was something of a hit with the king. As a man with all the political clout and insight of Dale Winton, he had little of substance to contribute. But he nodded when the King spoke, and said things like 'Right On', and 'Power to the People', and, implausibly, even gave a clenched fist salute and said 'Ho Ho, Ho Chi Minh!' as Frances served the pudding.

Over coffee, the king spoke with approval of his new disciple.

'I'm glad to see that this young man, at least, does not suffer from false ideology.'

'Right on.' said Holland.

'Perhaps while I'm here, you might show me something of the down-trodden lot of the workers, Mr. Holland?', said the King. This puzzled Holland. What workers? Holland didn't really know any, though he was aware that his wife staggered up to the University occasionally. Perhaps he could take the King to Cats' workshop, and they could watch him mend videos and hi-fi's, and stuff. Then inspiration dawned.

'I've gotta sign on tomorrow.' he said. 'you could come and watch that, I suppose.'

The ex-King beamed. 'I'd be delighted.'

And so it was that at eleven the next morning, Holland and the King went along to the Social in Upper North Street. The King was a little taken aback by the plush open plan offices, but he was cheered by the sight of beggars in the street outside. The lady behind the desk smiled at Holland.

'Good Morning,' she said 'How can I help you'

'Gotta sign on.' said Holland with bad grace.

'Thank you Sir. And your name is...?' Holland handed her his signing on card; she flipped through the envelopes in the box in front of her, and found his file.

'Here we are sir... if you could just sign here? Thank you very much.'

Holland signed.

'Thank you very much sir. Thank you for using the Benefit Agency. Call again soon. Have a nice day.' Holland gave her the finger, and stalked from the office.

'What a nice lady.' said the King.

'She's a cow. She's got that false thing you were saying last night.'

'Er... eyelashes?'

'Na! Wotsit. Thing.'

'Ideology?'

'That's him.' Outside the office, the ex-King paused to give money to one of the beggars.

'You shouldn't have done that.' said Holland. 'They're all fucking loaded.'

'Really?'

'S'  a well known fact. They all got Astra's, and big houses.'

'No.'

'You don't know much, do you man? Stick with me, and I'll show you what it's really like.'

Holland took the king round to see Black Barney.

'Its well hard, man, signing on,' said Barney, the king watching as he skinned up.

'That's why me and Barney, we're socialists.'

'Yeah?' said Barney. 'Why should some rich fucker have everything, when me and Di have to make do with stolen? We've got kids, and all.'

The King tutted.

'In my country, we had full employment.' said the king proudly.

Barney and Holland shuffled in their seats

'The Iron Marmalade Pot, they called the policy.'

'No man, that's not what I'm saying.' said Barney. 'We don't want full employment man, I've got a fucking business to run, I haven't got time to work, not with my sinuses. No, what I'm saying is that we should be able to live like decent human beings on the social, not scrimping and saving for stuff what's stolen anyway, and not under guarantee.'

'I expect the system almost demands to be abused...'

'That is right.' said Holland. 'Its like Gramsci said.'

'You know Gramsci?', asked the King enthusiastically.

'Course. Frances craps on about him.'

'Very sound on the hegemonic structure of ideology.'

'I know nothing about that bit. Frances just craps on about 'the dismal failure of the left' and talks about Gramsci, and some other old Itie cat. Adorno?'

'Yes,' said the king excitedly.'Er...but I'm  not entirely sure that he was Italian.'

'They're all cunts anyway.' said Black Barney.

'Who are?' asked Holland.

'Ities. They're all cunts. What did they ever do for us? Perspective and banking? Stupid cunts.'

'Perspective is allright, though.' said Holland.

Barney thought for a painful second. Then he said,

'Yeah, perspective is fine. But banking, that's for cunts'.

'Oy, you shouldn't have money, anyway.' said Holland.

'No, no, that's right,' said the king, 'No, you don't need money at all, not in its present form.'

'No, you do', said Barney, 'or you couldn't have a bet and that.'

'No, but you'd bet with your card, wouldn't you?,' said Holland.

'Would you?," said Barney.

'Yes man, of course. You have a special card, with everything on it, all your possessions and that, how much your worth, and the card just takes it off on a machine. That was on Horizon.'

'You're full of shit.', said Black Barney.

'No, it was, it was on Horizon.'

The king said, 'Is there a Claimants Union in Brighton?'

'Yah', said Holland, 'but I don't go. Its in the Peace Centre, and Frances is against it.'

'The peace centre? It sounds admirable..'

'No man. Peace. She doesn't approve of it.'

'I tell you another thing that is shit, and that is private property.' said Black Barney. The kings eyes shone.

'Ah, Barney', he said. 'Now we're getting near to the core of the problem. Indeed. Private property is capitalism's secret weapon.'

'Yeah, that's right', said Barney. 'You go out for a run in the country with mum and the dustbins, and there's fucking signs all over the place, Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted, and all that.' The King furrowed his brow.

'Well, I really meant private property in a somewhat wider sense.'

'That's right.' said Holland. 'It's wrong, not being able to walk where you like in your own country. If I had one of those bastard great big houses, I'd open the fucking grounds, let people come in and have a gander.'

'Yes!', exclaimed Barney.

'I'd charge 'em like. Or have a theme park, or one of them drive through zoo's. License to print money, they are.'

If the ex-king had had the good sense to say no to the spliffs which were circulating freely, he might have realised that Holland and Black Barney were to Socialism what Margaret Thatcher was to St. Francis of Assisi. But, recalling his student days, and jazz clubs, and Soho in the fifties and The Colony Room, The French Pub, The Coach and Horses and all the rest of it, he remembered smoking a little 'tea', and feeling kind of good afterwards; and then he remembered for the first time in a long time what it was like to be free from care; and he remembered long rambling discussions with fellow Leftists, and reading Marcuse by candle light and what seemed like an impossibly far away youth.

And so he forgot the cares of high office and smoked  right along with his new friends. And now he came to feel that although their ideas were perhaps a little muddle-headed, their hearts were in the right place, and that heart was much more important than mind. Poor Princess Di showed that. He smiled and nodded and accepted joint after joint; then, at one 'o' clock, he went with them to The Eastern Star for a few beers. After that, of course, they all thought that the best thing to do would be to go back to Barney's to finish off that little bit of blow that Barney had. By four thirty, the King, Black Barney and Holland were semi-conscious on Barney's new leather sofa in front of 'Countdown'. At five, Di, Black Barney's lady, asked the king if he'd like some tea with her and Barney and the kids, and it came into his head that there was nothing that he'd like more; they ate fish finger sandwiches in front of 'Home and Away', and the King swore to Di that he'd never eaten anything nicer, and that he wanted nothing more than to sit here and put the world to rights and watch telly and eat fish finger sandwiches for ever.

When, at eleven, Holland took the King back to Bloomsbury Place, Queen Maria was none too pleased, and she refused to speak to the King.

And now Holland saw it as his particular responsibility to show the King the dark underbelly of the welfare state. The next day he took the King to meet Matt the Bat, one of Black Barney's brothers-in-common-law, and his lady, Janet The Gannet. The meeting seemed to go smoothly enough; the king was fascinated to hear of Matt's run-in's with the Housing Benifit, whilst Janet told a doleful tale of her last court appearance. But the King noticed that his interest in social deprivation waned in direct proportion to the amount of cannabis he smoked; so that after a very short while indeed, he was quite happy just to sit back and listen to Janet and Holland debate the possibility that our entire universe might just be an atom in a whole other universe, and that the amazing thing was, there was no way of telling.

As Holland and the King staggered up the stairs of the house, the King asked Holland,

'Why do you call him Matt the Bat?'

'Cos he can see in the dark, man. Very handy geezer.'

'I can imagine. And Janet? Why do yo call her Janet the Gannet? Is it because she eats a lot?

'No man. It's cos when she gets pissed, she regurgitates her food.'

The next day, Holland said to the king,

'I know a guy you'd like to meet. Zom. He's a diamond geezer.'

'A diamond geezer?' said the king.

'Oh yes.' Holland paused. 'Well, diamante, anyway. Fancy it?'

'Why not?'

So Holland and the king went to visit Zom in St. Martin's Place.

'We'll just walk up. Zom doesn't like it if you ring the bell'

In Zom's flat the curtains were drawn; the only light came from the TV set. By this light, the King could see an emacited figure, seemingly dressed in rags, huddled on a mattress on the floor.

'Alright Zom?' said Holland.

Zom didn't respond.

'How are you?'

Zom was as still as the grave.

'Oy! Zom! This blokes a King!'

Zom stirred not one muscle.

'I'll put the kettle on, shall I Zom? I've bought some sugar!'

However hard the king looked, he could not see the rise and fall of Zom's chest by the hideous light of the cathode tube.

'Sit down, your majesty. Please.' said Holland.

'Oh. Ah. Thank you. Where?'

'On Zoms mattress. He don't mind, do you Zom?'

Flies swarmed around Zom's mouth.

'Zom don't mind. Lots of people hang out here in the day. Zom's cool.' said Holland. So the king perched nervously on the edge of the matress, and tried to look at Zom. His eyes were wide open, but they were not watching the TV, rather, they stared at the ceiling. The King looked, but Zom did not blink.

'I rather think your friend Zom is dead.' said the King.

'Who, Zom? Zom, dead? No, he's always like this, aren't you Zom? He's a right laugh.'

'How do you know? That he's not dead?'

'Well, he don't smell.' said Holland.

'Actually,' said the King, 'he does a bit.'

'And he moves.' said Holland.

'When? Have you ever seen him?'

'No. I've never seen him moving. But I've seen evidence of his having moved. Sometimes when you come up, his mattress has moved, or the telly's on another channel. And there's always tea and milk.'

'So Zom goes shopping?'

'Well, no, not as such. He gets so many visitors, we all thought is was a bit tight, always drinking his tea, or eating his biscuits. So people who come up always bring a little something, so as Zom dont have to worry.'

The King sighed.

'Has it ever occured to you that it might be these visitors who move the mattress, or change channel on the telly?

'No, Zom wouldnt like that. People might hang out here a bit, but it's Zom's drum, and he gets to say where the mattress goes, and what's on telly.'

'And does he ever say?'

'Zom don't need to. He sets it all up before people come, gets it just how he likes it.'

'He's told you this, has he?'

'He doesn't need to man. I just know.'

'Right.'

Another visitor arrived, who Holland introduced as Terry. In fact, there was no need for introductions, as he helpfully had 'Terry' tatooed on his forehead. Terry rolled a few spliffs, and when it came to Zom's turn, Holland held it in Zom's mouth. The king could not see the end of the joint burn any brighter. But, as the King became more stoned himself he found Zom's company quite soothing, and he chatted to him about the problems of building a socialist state in one nation. People came and went, and the King became more stoned, and correspondingly more voluble; by the time he and Holland left, he felt that he and Zom were firm friends. When he took Zom's hand to shake it, it was cold and limp, but he was easily persuaded by Holland that this was because Zom had poor circulation.

On the fourth day after his arrival in Brighton, Holland took the King to visit Slim Jim. Slim Jim was fat. Very fat. Slim Jim was so fat that he looked positively American. Slim Jim indicated to the King that he should sit on a battered old sofa.

'You will no doubt be wondering, your majesty' said Slim Jim, 'why my good friends, such as Mr. Holland here, call me Slim.'

The King had wondered no such thing. He assumed that Slim was called Slim because he was fat. What the King was wondering was when Slim would skin up. But he nodded mutely.

'Allow me to demonstrate, your majesty.' Slim Jim reached behind him, with some effort, and produced a biscuit tin.

'In this tin, as you can see, I have all the doings which will enable me to roll a cannabis cigarette. However, you will have noticed that I keep this tin some way from my seating position. This produces an aerobic effect which helps me to keep fit. Now, if you will observe...' Slim took a Rizla from the packet with an exagerrated windmilling motion of his right arm, and then a second with his other arm; the third he pulled from the packet with both his arms, as though he were in a tug-o-war contest. The King was fascinated. When the time came to roll the completed joint, Slim did so on his stomach, rolling the spliff up and down for some minutes.

'By this means, I am exercising my arms, and applying gentle massage to my stomach muscles. Now, I light the cannabis cigarette. You will notice that there is only one ashtray in the room, and that I have have placed it centrally, so that in order to dispose of our ash, we have to rise from our chairs to do so. Also, you have no doubt noticed that our chairs are placed at a strategic distance apart. Again, in order to pass the number, both the passer and the recipient have to come to a half standing position, once again providing us with all important exercise.'

The King was gagging for his go, but it was Slim's dope, so he just nodded encoragingly.

'I have devised this programme in order to keep drug users fit.' said Slim. 'There is only one problem.'

'Oh? What's that?' asked the king.

'The Munchies. After a few spliffs you get fucking ank[2], and have to eat biscuits. That is why, despite my ground-breaking fitness programme, I have put on a few pounds. I am currently working on this problem.'

'Could you keep the biscuits on a high shelf?' asked Holland. 'So's you had to stretch for them?'

Slim Jim stared at Holland in wonder.

'Mr. Holland! You are a genius. Have a cake.'

T

Queen Maria had not been idle either. Whilst her husband was out investigating social conditions and getting off his face all day, she had been utilising her own particular skills. By slow persuasion, she had managed to enlist the help of the Eel, and it was his diplomacy, practised and patient that saved the situation. On the sixth day of their enforced visit, when Holland, the plaster newly removed from his wrist, had decided to take the King bowling in The King Alfred Centre, The Eel, supported by the loyal Prince Jeremiah, had puffed his way up to the top flat to tell Maria that the negotiations with their eldest son back in Farafan which the Eel, helped by Jeremiah and Ma had been conducting by fax had reached a successful conclusion; that they were now welcome to return home, where they could begin life anew in a grace and favour granny annexe that the new King Martin was having built onto the newly renamed Royal Democratic Bungalow.

The Queen was delighted, but also a little nervous as to how her husband would react; to her surprise, when he rolled in late again, a beatific grin all over his increasingly relaxed face, he took it very well, and admitted that the strain had been getting to him lately, and maybe it was time just to kick back and let the kids run the family firm; he himself would do a little gardening, and had acquired some skunk seeds from Barney to get him started. So it was arranged; Jeremiah went up to London to get back his parents passports from the Farafan Embassy and to apologize to the Ambassador for his Father having hit him. A flight was booked.

The preparations for a farewell dinner were set in train for the night before departure. Much to Frances' distaste, the King had asked that Barney and Di were invited; Frances asked a couple of people from work, including Brad, an Australian post-graduate studying the socio-dynamics of tennis coaching, with whom Frances seemed especially friendly. The Eel and Jeremiah came again, of course, as did Cats and Blossom. Caroline came, and sat through it all, sullen and blushing; Cornelius took an obvious shine to her, and sat next to her and did not seem to mind her silence.

At the conclusion of the meal, The King stood and made a little valedictory speech, in which he thanked his wife and Prince Jeremiah and Mr. Luff for sorting everything out, and Frances and Di for their hospitality, and all his new friends for helping him to see that nothing really mattered that much anyway. He saved the best for last.

'Finally, I should like to say, that by way of appreciation for all the help that you have shown us in negotiating with...' here a little spasm of hatred passed over King Martin the Fifth's face, just one last time and never to return, 'King Martin The Sixth; and by the powers vested in me, I should like to confer upon Mr. Luff membership of the Farafan Order of the Garter.' The Eel started to rise, to thank the King for his beneficent generosity.

'Please.' said the ex-king. 'That is far from all. In view of the extra-ordinary kindness and appreciation shown to my wife and I, and our old friend and councillor Cornelius, by our hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Holland, I have decided to confer upon Mr. Paul Holland the highest honour that it is within my powers to bestow. Mr. Holland, from this day hence, you shall be regarded as an adopted Prince of the Royal House of Farafan, and an honorary member of the Fara tribe. When, and note I say when, and not if, you come to stay with us in Farafan, you shall be treated like the royalty that you undoubtedly are. Ladies and gentleman, I beg your indulgence; please give three hearty cheers for Prince Paul of Farafangana. Hip hip...'

And, to Holland's considerable embarrassment, the assembled party gave three, if not hearty, then at least audible, cheers.

'Er...', he said. 'Thanks. And...Right On!'

[1]Whatis jute?

[2]'ank': short for 'ank (or 'Hank') Marvin; Brighton rhyming slang for feeling very hungry.