Set in London

As someone who is fervently against capitalism, I was enthralled by
the efforts, a couple of years ago, of hauliers, farmers, the
pro-hunting lobby, The Conservatives and other radical anarchist
organisations to bring down the Government. So much so, that when the
fuel crisis was at its height, I gave up my job at BurgerWorld to
embark on my own campaign to destroy capitalism, and not only to topple
the Government, but the United Nations, the IMF, the EC, the BBC and
other such evil corporations.
It's easy to get sacked by BurgerWorld; you can serve something
edible, deep-fry the manager's head, or do as I did, by combining the
both. I don't think anyone noticed, least of all the manager, who was
slow on the uptake at the best of times, although some of the younger
customers got more of a surprise than they bargained for in their Fun
Meals that day.
I decided on a low-level campaign. Well, it had to be low-level, as my
friends couldn't join in, they were busy queuing up at petrol stations,
to enable them to queue up at other petrol stations, so they could
queue up in traffic jams to get them to work. Actually, my friends told
me my plan was idiotic and there was nothing wrong with capitalism.
Hunh! They'll be the first ones up against the wall, see what their
diet of organic vegetables does for them then. The result was I'd have
to destroy democracy on my own. Sorry, I, er, meant capitalism.

Step one in the plan was to bring down our so-called government by
highlighting the problems facing the NHS. Our health service has any
number of crises to deal with (underfunding, low morale, red tape,
Christmas Day visits by Michael Barrymore) and I was sure to win public
support by siding with the doctors and nurses.
I set up a blockade outside my local hospital, preventing ambulances
from leaving the Accident &; Emergency department. My plan was all
the more righteous when you consider the damage those polluting
ambulances were doing to the ozone layer. The only snag was lots of
ambulances were already out on the road, performing their decadent
tasks, and were unable to drop off their patients into the hospital, so
they dumped all the sick people beside me. At least I now had something
to form a blockade with; you've never seen such an orderly picket
line.

After three days, all was going well, and not a single ambulance had
passed through. As the sick and dying piled up, I assessed public
support by asking a blatantly right-wing newspaper to canvass the
ailing townspeople on whether the government was doing a good job. It
turned out my protest was fully justified, and the public were right
behind my campaign to improve the NHS by bringing it to its knees. Of
those asked, 100\% agreed the health service was underfunded, the
government should do something about it, which should not by any means
include raising taxes.
Unfortunately, after a few more days of barricading the hospital,
public support died off (literally) and my campaign began to stutter.
The last straw came when the canvassing journalist ran down an elderly
cyclist, shouted at her for getting in his way, before running over her
again, for a bit of fun (he later published a piece about the menace
cyclists pose on 'Britain's crowded roads'). As I left my post to get
the old lady to see our point of view, an ambulance burst through my
human blockade, killing the stragglers and ending the protest.
Apparently, a cabinet minister had tried to entertain the queuing
motorists by doing stunts in his sports car, but the minister
spectacularly crashed his car into the line of motorists, who showed
their appreciation in the traditional motorist's way, by kicking him
until his kidneys flew out of his mouth.

With the hospital blockade over, I had to think of another way to
destroy our corrupt society. Then an idea struck me; unfortunately, it
was someone else's idea of punching me in the head, for causing his
entire family to die. The ungrateful wretch punched me so hard I had to
go for treatment into the hospital I'd been blockading, and I must say
that the nurses treated me splendidly, though I had no idea that a blow
to the cranium would require so many rectal examinations. In front of
so many people. With tickets being sold. And usherettes selling
chocolate ice cream. And my parents laughing at me.
On leaving hospital, I was struck again, this time by an idea of my
own. I went to my local bookshop to read books, without the slightest
intention of paying for them.
I started at the 'A' section of Contemporary Fiction, and worked my
way through the alphabet. It wasn't easy, as it took hours to read each
book, and it became increasingly difficult to avoid the gaze of the
shop assistants. I was able to camouflage myself by sticking unsold
copies of 'Last Week' on my person, thereby fooling the high number of
police milling around. They knew as much as I did that by reading the
books without paying, I was on the verge of forcing their paymasters to
capitulate, allowing me to set up a People's Council, where everybody
could have their say, all were equal, and of which I would be the
leader.

As my protest dragged on, I realised I could save time by reading just
one copy of each book, rather than the shop's entire stock. Do you
know, I can recite the whole of John Major's biography on request,
though no one has actually requested that, though I'm sure it'd be a
great ice-breaker at parties.
Anyhow, one thing I noticed about these contemporary novels, and
that's nearly all were set in London. Although I was resolute in my
determination not to buy a book, I was tempted to purchase an A-Z of
London to enable me to understand these novels all the more easily. It
must be a very exciting place to live, with suburb a fashionable one
and the roads full of cars all day long. The people in the novels were
trendy and interesting, the couples had brilliant sex, the single
people had brilliant sex and everyone had brilliant careers, or
brilliant drug problems, or both.
I happened upon a novel that wasn't set in London, but was located in
a 'region'. This was before I'd stopped reading every copy of every
novel, so I was able to memorise part of it:
'Our milkman walked up our garden path. "Mornin,'" he spat, before
braking a bottle over our Darren's head. Our milkman then retched and
died of TB. Our Dad made our Mam cook our Milkman for our Sunday lunch,
and our Dad beat our Darren for not eating all 'is helping of Milkman.
Then I had to go to our cornershop for a Hovis loaf and some dripping
and then I did some crimes. I got home to find our Darren being eaten
in the street by wild dogs. I told our Dad what had happened after he'd
finished beating our Mam, and he beat me for talking out of turn. Then
he beat the wild dogs for eating our Darren, and then he beat our
Darren for being eaten by wild dogs. He was a good man, was our
Dad.'

I was glad to get back to the London novels after that, especially the
ones with happy endings, where the single characters got off with each
other, married, had children and bought brand new cars. By the end of
my protest, I'd successfully read every novel in the shop, while
avoiding the store's newly employed security staff, though occasionally
I had to cheat and resort to murder.
As I walked home, I got the idea of writing my own novel, using the
London-based books as inspiration. OK, when I say inspiration, it was
more a case of copying out the best bits and putting them in a vaguely
coherent order. A few hours later, and my novel, cunningly titled 'Set
in London' was ready to be published. There was a minor problem, when
the publishers asked me if I could set the novel in South Africa or
India, so they could win an award, but I put my foot down, and London
it was.
The novel is about a single woman with a job in a trendy office, with
all computers and stuff, and all her friends are married and having
sex, and everyone has great careers and takes drugs and drinks and has
babies a lot, but they're all really concerned about their health, the
environment, feng-shui and having babies. It takes a look at the lives
of rich, high-flying executives, in routine, everyday jobs who share a
luxury apartment in a run-down, unfashionable suburb. The heroine,
Polly Popples, remains resolutely single, an independent woman of the
twenty-first century, until she meets Mr Perfect and then spends the
rest of the novel stalking him and sending letters threatening violence
if he doesn't marry her.
The publishers love it, and say I'll make my fortune. I guess the
destruction of capitalism will have to be done later, as my agent wants
me to write a sequel and move to London, to be closer to 'where it's
happening'. I get my own car though, and a big petrol allowance. So
make sure you look out for 'Set in London', when it hits the
bookshelves, and be certain to buy it before you read it.