Larry: The Untold Tail - Chapter Three

The Early Cameron Years

I spent five years living with Dave — that’s long enough to qualify me as an expert witness on the man. Although I should make clear, I was never actually asked to give evidence either about him or against him.

Not that you needed to be an expert or genius anyway when it came to Dave to know he was an arrogant prick.

I wasn’t impressed that he was Prime Minister — not with that piss-poor performance anyway. After thirteen years in power and with the fallout of that whole “dodgy dossier” fiasco — Labour were complete hasbeens.

Finished.

That election should have been a walkover. But he still couldn’t win it outright.

So he ended up having to wrangle a coalition together with that Nick Clegg fella. He was the “closet Tory” who’d been masquerading as the leader of the Liberal Democrats for the past few years.

Clegg?! — What a Tit.

One minute he was fiercely opposing everything about the Tories — the next he’s betraying his voters by having a love-in with them and landing himself a right cushty little number as “Deputy Prime Minister”.

I’ve endured watching humans do some really strange and creepy shit, but even I found the whole “Nick and Dave” show a very awkward thing to watch.

From day one, Dave really struggled with another man in the house. He was accustomed to people listening to his every word — as he spoke about himself, then himself, and finally, a little more about…. himself.

Then there was me… I couldn’t care less, completely uninterested in him, his career, his status and his constant need for praise and admiration. The moment he launched into one of his monologues I’d just get up and leave the room. I wasn’t going to entertain that.

I’d spent four years at Battersea, among plenty of cats, dogs and humans who fancied themselves important - and I learned that the quickest way to discover how important someone really is was simply to ignore them and let their grandiosity deflate in its own time — like a badly filled balloon slowly losing air while everyone watches and murmurs in disbelief.

Dave took it very personally.

There were persistent stories in the press suggesting that he didn’t particularly like me. But the reality was actually far simpler — he just felt threatened by me.

Dave might spend most of his time with his head up his own arse, but he’s not a complete Numbnut. He knew the score. He knew he was out of his depth with me.

But eventually the rumours became so relentless that Dave’s fragile ego cracked wide open — which led to that whole ridiculous campaign and woeful array of photographs with him cuddling me…. Staged proof of our perfect relationship.

I found the whole thing hilarious.

There was something tragically British about a Prime Minister producing photographic evidence just to prove to the nation that his cat actually did like him.

Which as you can clearly see for yourself… I didn’t.

I gave zero shits.

Very quickly I started to understand this peculiar species I’d been placed amongst. Politicians are fascinating creatures — they spend extraordinary amounts of time trying to convince people they’re completely in control — whilst at the same time furtively asking each other what the fuck is going on.

I heard lots of serious conversations through half-open doors; most consisted of somebody fucking something up, then somebody else insisting that something had to be done about it, followed by several people in a heated argument over what exactly needed doing, before somebody finally announcing that they’d take the matter away and consider it.

And that was that — you never heard about it again.

Nothing was ever dealt with…. that’s how government operated.

But I couldn’t get bogged down in all that malarkey anyway. I had my own shit to deal with. For some bizarre reason I was attracting lots of attention, and within just a matter of weeks there was a huge expectation on me to catch mice.

To be fair, it seemed reasonable enough at first — until I realised that nobody actually expected Dave to catch any mice.

People kept asking whether I’d caught anything yet.

Journalists were constantly wanting updates.

And Politicians were dissecting my record.

I mean, seriously… get a life.

Almost immediately there were concerns I wasn’t performing the duties that were associated with my position.

Go back and read that again.

Talk about pots and kettles…

Politicians!!!… concerned… that “I”…. wasn’t performing the duties associated with… “my” position?

If irony and hypocrisy hit that lot in the face they’d still somehow miss it.

It wasn’t like I signed a contract agreeing to eradicate the entire rodent population of Westminster.

My philosophy has always been simple. If a mouse crosses my path and I fancy chasing it, I will… And if I can’t be arsed, I won’t.

What do they think I am anyway? A walking database. Some sort of endless spreadsheet logging every victory?

I don’t need to brag about everything I catch. I don’t haul all of my dirty linen back home or into public view.

What happens in the allotments stays in the allotments.

I don’t know if it was the pressure that got to me, or if I just wanted to shut them all up, but I decided to catch one and leave it out on full display.

Well, what an absolute disgrace that turned into. The media were calling me a ‘deadly assassin’, a ‘killer’, a ‘murderer’ — all that lurid nonsense.

The gall of it…. look at them — the bunch of scavengers, like flies around a shit — desperate to get the best angle of a mouse’s dead corpse — and they’re painting “me” out as the gruesome one.

Then my public profile got very complicated after the infamous incident with that journalist — A random woman who just picked me up out of nowhere. Without any prior discussion, no introduction at all and certainly no consent.

One minute I’m minding my own business — the next I’m being manhandled off the ground by a stranger.

I didn’t know her. She didn’t ask. She simply decided that because I live at No.10, I must be available for handling and inspection.

So… I scratched her.

Imagine the outrage there would be if a stranger walked up to her and did the exact same thing.

I don’t regret it.

But the story made all the newspapers, and it was being reported as though I had launched some unprovoked attack on an innocent member of the press.

This was the last thing I needed right now — being described as aggressive for a second time…. which was complete bullshit anyway.

Let me correct the record…

I was brutally kidnapped for at least four seconds, and by sheer luck and utter determination I managed to escape.

I was the victim here. Not her.

The posh twat Dave was bloody loving it. There was something about watching me spark a minor diplomatic incident with the press that secretly thrilled him.

He’d put on this solemn Prime Minister face, offer some pre-scripted advice about handling the media — all delivered with a wonderfully insincere air of someone pretending to be helpful while privately relishing every moment Then he would slip away with what I could only describe as a slimy, smarmy smirk on his face.

I knew Dave well enough to read that expression. He wasn’t trying to steer me clear of trouble. Quite frankly, he was sadistically enjoying the fact that I kept stumbling into it — savouring every misstep like it was his own little victory….. Wanker.

During this period, everywhere that I looked — George Osborne was around. He was one very awkward man. Always wore a slightly worried expression, and whenever he was nearby you braced yourself for bad news.

He definitely wasn’t a full on human — he had this creepy energy, like he ran on some sort of re-chargeable battery or electric current. And his relationship with Dave was extremely odd— I never quite worked out what it was.

But George himself wasn’t a problem. It was his cat — Freya.

She turned out to be a real problem.

Freya wasn’t anything like me. She had “CAT-TI-TUDE” — and like…. proper style.

I’d started my life on the streets. I did my time at Battersea. So I’ve met more than my fair share of cats with tude. I’ve seen the lot — the full shebang.

But Freya had something very rare.

She had swagger — the unwavering confidence of an animal who always gets her own way, who moves as if the world owes her attention, and who’d been told by many senior people throughout her life that she was important.

I didn’t give a monkey’s about how important she was or thought she was. This was my pavement…. my turf.

Of course, Freya didn’t see it like that.

The first few encounters were fairly civil. We stared at one another. We walked past one another. We sat in the exact same places the other wanted to sit.

It was diplomacy. But it failed — and eventually we had a proper tear-up.

Now… let’s get a few things straight here. We’re cats. The rules are different. We don’t mess about. It’s cat equality.

So… Did I give her a whack? … Yes, I bloody did. I stuck one on her.

And she deserved it — because she was being a right fucking nuisance.

But just my luck, a photographer caught the whole lot on camera.

Within hours the entire country knew. The newspapers were calling it the “catfight of the century”.

Political journalists were suggesting that the incident represented tensions between Cameron and Osborne. I was livid — a photograph of me having a scrap with Freya was turned into an analysis of the Chancellor’s relationship with the Prime Minister.

I wanted to issue a statement. Something like…

But, I was advised against it. Lucky really. And I have to be totally honest here too. The paps got this one badly wrong — focusing mainly on the politics, but also once again on my aggressive streak… I dodged a proper bullet.

And I was ecstatic with that, because the reality was she battered the shit out of me. Absolutely schooled me.

If the lads round our way knew the beating I took that night, they’d have never let me live it down. I’d have been a laughing stock — Loser Larry.

And anyway, that fight made her famous. She was a nobody before that. I was already big time. So, she should have been thanking me.

It really was not a great start to life at No.10. The first 12-18 months were a bit of a shocker.

But the one saving grace about being in Government and under relentless public scrutiny is that there’s always a human ready to outdo you with a spectacular fuck-up. It’s like a game of Top Trumps with that lot….

Right, Dave?…. Oh yes, Dave’s time came alright. Boy did it. Wiped that smirk right off his slimy face.

But those stories are for another chapter.

And quite frankly, I’m going to need a considerably larger window.