Satire – Tomcat Tompkins – 6

“I am glad to have been of some use to your esteemed group, Mr Tompkins,” said Ingram, colouring at the lack of respect he felt was being shown towards him “now if you don’t mind I would like to look around the rest of the club.”

Tompkins stepped aside and allowed the Inspector by – “We’re only using this room, Inspector, so we’ll be quiet as you and your people search the rest of the club looking for those nefarious Whopper Boys, who put foreigners in minibuses and deport them to the Land of the Frog.”  

“Thank you, Mr Tompkins, I will appreciate your further collaboration when we meet again.”

“Look forward to it, I’ll go and have a word with Spiffy Wiffy, your boss, while you’re nosing around the nether regions of the place,” replied Tompkins.

Ingram smiled and headed up the red-carpeted stairs to the top floor of the building, his short legs taking the stairs one at a time.

Tompkins put a finger to his lips and indicated The Archers should head down the stairs in an orderly fashion and leave via the side entrance.

As the last man, Ginger, was walking by him, Tompkins whispered in his ear “Tell the lads I will be sending out a pigeon with the instructions for the next meeting. It seems like our  communications are compromised, so I’m not taking any chances.”

Ginger nodded his head and smiled as he jogged down the stairs leaving Tompkins alone in the doorway. Tompkins made a note to send his best pigeon, Henrietta, to Ginger, who would then send his pigeon, Matilda, to Wet Bob and it continued like this until Dry Bob sent his pigeon, Thatcher, back to Tompkins to complete the circle of communication. They would then return the pigeons to each other at the next meeting, which was a useful subterfuge should anyone wonder what they were meeting about.

Tompkins bounded down the stairs and buttonholed Spiffy Wiffy, loitering in 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.”

Published by Julian Worker

I was born in Leicester. I attended school in Yorkshire and University in Liverpool. I have been to 93 countries and territories including The Balkans and Armenia in 2015, France and Slovakia in 2016, and some of the Greek Islands in 2017. My sense of humour is distilled from The Goons, Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, and Midsomer Murders. I love being creative in my writing and I love writing about travelling. My next books are a travel book about Greece and a novel inspired by Brexit.

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