Larry: The Untold Tail - Chapter Two

People always want to know what it felt like when I first arrived at the world famous Number 10 Downing Street.

The answer usually comes as a massive disappointment to them. In all fairness it did to me as well.

Everyone imagines a security convoy, flashing blue lights, a chauffeur-driven limousine, a red carpet laid out, television cameras lined up outside the famous black door, and the Prime Minister standing there waiting to welcome Britain’s most high profile asset with some sort of ceremonial bowl of quality meats.

I hate to ruin the illusion, but nothing like that happened whatsoever.

They proper fucked me. They told me I was being recruited to save the country.

But there was no convoy.

No photographers.

No cheering crowds.

In fact, my arrival was so understated that if you’d blinked, you’d have missed Britain’s most important feline recruitment since the Egyptians discovered cats had figured humans out thousands of years earlier.

I came in through the back.

One moment I was leaving Battersea. The next I was being hurried through some shifty back entrance while members of staff whispered, “Let’s keep this low-key.”

I soon discovered that “keeping things low-key” was practically a constitutional requirement inside Downing Street. Although, with the amount of cash being thrown at staff to leak everything, even the PM’s themselves were all over it.

Rumour has it Cameron himself actually negotiated the figure to leak the “pig story”. Yeah, that pig story.

And over time that secret back entrance became known to everyone as the “Boris’ Door”.

The first thing that struck me was how different everything was.

Battersea had been noisy. Lively. Dogs barking. Cats arguing over sleeping spots. Volunteers rushing about. Every meal had been a small victory and every warm blanket had required delicate negotiations that usually ended in violence.

Number 10 was... quieter. Not peaceful, exactly. It was utter carnage but made to look like controlled panic.

People hurried everywhere clutching red folders, speaking in hushed voices as though everything they said was a matter of national security and even the walls might overhear them.

Every conversation sounded desperately important, although after a few weeks I realised most of them were lost in their own delusions of significance, always discussing a meeting that would eventually lead to yet another meeting.

And the rest revolved around the kind of office scandal that grips every workplace, such as whether Clive from PR had deliberately stolen Helen’s cheese and pickle baguette from the communal fridge, despite it being very clearly labelled, “Helen’s. Do Not Eat.”

Humans are extraordinary creatures.

But I have to say it, the food was magnificent.

At Battersea I’d become accustomed to eating whatever presented itself. If someone accidentally dropped a bit of sausage outside the staff café, that counted as a very successful day.

And half a discarded tuna sandwich out of the bin was practically a state banquet.

My standards were necessarily flexible.

Suddenly I found myself living in a house with professional kitchens and chefs.

Fresh chicken appeared with remarkable frequency. Salmon made regular appearances. Roast beef even wandered within paw’s reach.

I naturally behaved as though none of it met my exacting standards, because maintaining an air of quiet disappointment is an essential part of being a cat.

And then came the people. Wow. The people. Where do you even start.

David Cameron was the first Prime Minister that served me. First of all, who even talks like that? I’d never heard of posh people before, never mind how they talk.

Dave was an arrogant prick. He possessed the calm expression of a man who permanently looked as though he’d just remembered he’d forgotten to do something important. Most often he had - his job.

We reached an understanding almost immediately. I stayed out of Cabinet meetings unless absolutely necessary and big decisions needed to be made, and he accepted that any chair I chose to occupy instantly became government property under my jurisdiction.

His wife Samantha... alright, I have to be honest here, for a long time I didn’t even realise she was his wife. Dave spent most of his time shut away in offices with this George Osborne fella, and everywhere they went they kept telling people, “We’re all in this together.”

Well, obviously I assumed they were a couple.

It seemed the only logical explanation.

Then I eventually discovered what they actually meant, and somehow it made even more sense.

It was all that austerity business.

They kept insisting that “we’re all in this together”, but we quite clearly weren’t. Those two were happily knocking back wines and brandies that cost thousands of pounds, dressed in finely tailored suits with Rolex watches on their wrists, while telling everyone else they all had to tighten their belts.

Dave’s famous answer when asked the price of a loaf of bread… “well north of a pound” - pretty much confirmed he was well north of even his own bullshit.

Anyway, Samantha was wonderfully kind and, if I’m being entirely honest, seemed considerably more organised than many of the elected officials wandering the corridors.

Every successful household has someone quietly keeping everything together while everyone else takes the credit. From what I could see, Samantha was the one running the whole operation.

I won’t embarrass anyone by naming names, that’s not my style, but let’s just say Andy Coulson, William Hague and Michael Gove, all seemed to become a few inches shorter whenever Samantha walked into the room. And let me tell you, Gove does not need to be any smaller than he is already.

Then came the children. They all had very different personalities.

The young girl was wonderful and would happily sit beside me for ages, brushing my fur while I pretended not to enjoy every second of it.

The older boy barely noticed I existed, spending most of the day buried in books, practising something impossibly complicated, and generally behaving like a miniature professor.

Frankly, I respected it. It’s a rarity to find a human capable of leaving a cat completely alone like that.

But the youngest one, little fucker.

We did not see eye to eye. At all.

He must have thought I was some sort of interactive toy for rich kids. He had no understanding of personal space, zero respect for the afternoon naps and a complete disregard for the sacred importance of never pulling another man’s tail.

I hated him.

Well... perhaps “hated” is a little strong.

Let’s just say that if someone had accidentally locked him outside for the day, I wouldn’t have been in a great hurry to open the door.

There was one member of the family I never had the privilege of meeting. Their son had sadly passed away before we all arrived at Number 10, and even as a cat it wasn’t difficult to see how profoundly that loss had affected them.

Politics has a habit of making us forget that, behind the titles and the headlines, there was still a family carrying heartbreak.

And of course, before I was allowed to settle into public life and take up my role saving the country, the Government insisted I undergo what they described as media preparation.

Apparently a cat requires a degree of training.

I was introduced to several communications advisers, each carrying folders thick enough to invade a small country. They explained that the press would take an interest in everything I did and that, from now on, my behaviour reflected not only upon myself but also upon the Office of the Prime Minister and upon my country.

I stared at them.

One of them smiled.

“Excellent eye contact,” he said, making a note.

The training continued for days. I was taught that there were certain responses that were non-negotiable. Things like.

“No comment.”

“That’s a private matter.”

“I’ve answered that question already”.

“I reject that suggestion.”

“That decision was taken before my time.”

“The position hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not going to speculate”

There was even an entire day devoted to etiquette. Apparently Boris missed this one completely.

So it turned out that life inside Number 10 came with expectations.

I was advised not to interrupt meetings by launching myself onto conference tables, no matter how fucking dull they became. Visiting heads of state were not to be climbed upon unless invited. Antique furniture was not an approved scratching surface, and confidential government papers, while undeniably comfortable, were apparently not suitable places for an afternoon nap.

Obviously I paid no attention to any of that and did my own thing.

And then maybe the most ridiculous comment of all came. A particularly enthusiastic official stated that I should always present an image of calm professionalism.

So I looked around the building and began to suspect… I was already the calmest one in it.