This novel is something a little different for me. It is a satire set in the
UK at the present moment. There are striking parallels between these days and
the 1930s. There’s a lot of racist people around who are crawling out of the
woodwork as they have been encouraged by the implications of the Brexit vote.
Tompkins bounded down the stairs and buttonholed Spiffy Wiffy, loitering by his vehicle.
“I have to say, Spiffy, that I don’t like the cut of Ingram’s jib, he thinks I deport our foreign brethren back to the places where they started from, adorned with those ridiculous Guy Fawkes masks from a cheap flick based on a comic.”
“Where would someone get so many of those masks from?” said the Deputy-Commissioner, stroking his chin, “by Jove, Tomcat, I think you’ve hit on something there.”
Tompkins tried to look modest and failed.
“Well done,” continued the Deputy-Commissioner, “but who would want so many masks at the same time – only people who are planning on deporting immigrants, that’s who.”
“And anyone who’s planning on attending a demonstration in a major population centre and is buying them for their friends, family, and associates,” replied Tompkins.
“Yes, but most people wouldn’t buy more than ten,” replied Spiffy Wiffy, “that’s a great line of investigation, Tomcat, my God the Metropolitan Police missed out on a great detective, when you embraced missionary work instead of good, ol’ fashioned police work. Is the missus still going strong?”
“Yes, Spiffy Wiffy, Filly is going great guns driving our minibuses over to the continent, distributing toys to the children in need over there on the dark side of The Channel.”
“She’s a driver?” enquired Spiffy Wiffy.
“She is, trained by The Army no less, so she can cope with all the lack of comfort that comes from driving on the wrong side of the road and all that palaver. Myself, I follow the white line down the middle of the road and let the people coming towards me decide for themselves which side they pass me on, y’know.”
“That’s probably illegal, Tomcat, but I am sure the authorities ignore you when they see the ‘GB’ plates on your Jaguar.”
“Deffo, Spiffy Wiffy, they go ‘Puff, Les Anglais’ and spit into their spittoons with a great deal of anger.”