I click my tongue in disapproval on learning that London has a mayor. I’m sure the office never existed back in my circus days. I’ve watched enough westerns to know that the mayor is invariably a cowardly hypocrite who can barely be trusted not to forge his own signature – the sort of scheming scoundrel who sends the lone sheriff to fight outlaws while secretly selling whiskey and rifles to the Comanche. Appointing a mayor is an invitation to corruption, skulduggery and fingers in every pie.
The current mayor of London seems little better than these characters from Dodge City. I had the misfortune to hear him on the wireless, droning away in his nasal voice about how he was tackling the city’s problems. Someone should tell this smug little twerp that London’s problems existed long before he popped out of his mother’s egg pod, and will survive long after his mortal remains have turned to dust. Nothing short of a change in latitude will solve them. The man who believes he has miraculous powers is a short step away from donning a cape and demanding sacrificial virgins.
It wasn’t always like this. The story of Dick Whittington, thrice mayor of London, is fed to English babies with their mother’s milk. The crucial difference, of course, is that Honest Dick was not the mayor, but the Lord Mayor. Being ennobled meant that very little work was required of him, which greatly limited his capacity for doing mischief. His only duties were to wear a funny hat and accept the cheers of the multitude as he travelled to the Guildhall in his golden carriage. There’s nothing like being powerless to win the affection of the English masses. The popularity of the Queen of England rests largely on her irrelevance.
Now Dick Whittington would never have made it to the top without the aid of a highly resourceful and unswervingly loyal cat. In those days, the feline population knew the meaning of an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work. As well liquidating pesky rodents, the ambitious cat performed odd jobs for its master and softened up his lady friends by curling up on their laps. Before the advent of the sports car, the most effective pussy-magnet was the pussy. When young Dick came to London with his worldly possessions tied up in a bundle, it was his future cat-servant who spotted his potential and showed him the ropes. After a spell together in the merchant navy, they quickly penetrated the inner circle of Lady Veronica Cadwallader, who bought Dick a seat in the Worshipful Company of Fannymakers.
Sadly, the cats of today no longer have the skills required to advance the career prospects of their owners. Dr Whipsnade allows a tomcat called Casper to reside in his mansion, who thanks to the doctor’s liberal disposition has been permitted to retain his gonads. There was a time when Casper allowed me to feed him insects by hand. Nowadays he turns up his nose at such offerings, his palate having grown accustomed to gourmet cat food containing salmon, pheasant or venison. When I invite him to approach me, he yawns lazily and sprawls along the carpet, expecting me to go and stroke his belly. He obviously thinks life is pretty good, toasting himself beside the fireplace and shagging the neighbourhood kitties when he can be bothered to get off his arse. His nemesis can’t be far away though. He has the complacent air of the pride male whose domain is about to be invaded by a pair of young lions who’ll make mincemeat of him. He’ll be yawning out of the other side of his face when that happens.
But enough of London's pampered felines. Tomorrow I return to the Congo, where men are men and apes are apes. And cats are vicious devils who'll rip out your liver if you give them half a chance.
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