Local Politics

“That’s Bryan, isn’t it?”, said Patrick as he looked out of his front window.

“Sorry?”, replied his wife, Lisa.

“I said that’s Bryan, isn’t it?”

“What outside? He’s probably off to get his morning coffee”

“Yes…but…why is he carrying a grenade launcher?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bryan, from number 24, is walking down our street with a grenade launcher. He’s wearing camouflage clothing and he’s painted his face to look like Arnie in that movie”

“Good one! He loves dressing up. Wait a minute...why is Greta at number 36 crawling commando style along our back fence? She’s in her nineties!”

“What the hell is going on?”

This was no ordinary Tuesday morning in Somersby Avenue. What Patrick and Lisa didn’t know is that, at some point during the night (3.47am to be precise), a civil war had broken out in their peaceful seaside town. It had been announced on a well-known social media platform that is now mostly subscribed to by those over the age of 65 (so that they could express their views on the failings of the local council, criticise the “youth of today”, and look at photos of yesteryear, when everything was perfect). Patrick and Lisa, being considerably outside of this age demographic, had been blissfully unaware of the ensuing conflict building up outside of their home. That was until Patrick had seen their neighbour Bryan marching down their quiet street with military-grade weaponry.

“I bet it’s been advertised on Headpage!”, Patrick loudly exclaimed.

“What do you mean?”

“I bet that, whatever this is, has been advertised on there. How else would Bryan and Greta know what was going on and we wouldn’t?”

“I guess that makes sense. I’ll try to log on without setting up an account.”

“Jane down the end of the road is riding a mobility scooter with a machine gun on the top”, uttered Patrick in disbelief.

“I’ve found it! It says that a civil war began at 3.47am this morning between Bobblebum-on-Sea and Crabwick.”

“But that’s insane. Who started it?”

“It doesn’t say. It was posted by someone called Bobblehead. No profile picture. In fact, nothing at all on their profile.”

“Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? What are we supposed to do? We don’t have an armoury in our shed, do we? I forgot to pick up an Uzi when I went to the supermarket yesterday.”

“You didn’t go to the supermarket yesterday. I went”, Lisa corrected.

“Yes, yes, minor details. My point is, how are we supposed to defend ourselves from the raging hoards that are going to descend on us from Crabwick at any moment?”

“Well, we have a hammer in the toolbox. Two hammers in fact, although one is more for hanging picture hooks.”

“Right. Well, we’re basically screwed, aren’t we?”

They hear a loud thud coming from upstairs and are both frozen to the spot with fear.

“I think someone is breaking in”, whispers Patrick.

“They would had to have scaled the walls”, remarks Lisa.

The familiar sound of breaking glass shatters their adrenaline-fuelled focus. They retreat into the kitchen, away from the staircase.

“Patrick? Lisa? You guys there?”

“Wait a minute”, whispers Patrick, “that’s Geoff’s voice isn’t it, from number 34?”

“Erm, I think so. I’ve not spoken with him that much”

“Yeah, I think it’s him. How did he manage to climb up the walls of the house to break in, he’s in his mid-eighties isn’t he?”

They hear footsteps descending the staircase. Very slow footsteps. In what seems like several minutes, they finally hear the sound of feet on vinyl plank. In a few seconds, or minutes, they will be face-to-face with whomever has broken into their home.

“Hello Patrick. Hello Lisa.”

“Hello Geoff”, they both respond disbelievingly in unison, as Geoff appears in the doorway.

“I thought I’d better pop round and see how you two were doing. I knew you weren’t members of Headpage. I wanted to check that you’d heard the news, you know, about the civil war and all that?”

“Oh right, that’s awfully kind of you Geoff. I mean, very neighbourly”, says Lisa.

“Of course. That’s how we roll round here. That’s what you youngsters say isn’t it?”

“Yeah. That’s right, good one Geoff” says Patrick. “Just one question though. Well actually, we have a few more questions, but anyway, why did you break in through an upstairs window, when you could have, you know, just knocked on the front door?”

“Ah, that’s a very pertinent question there Patrick. The truth is, I used a telegraph cable that runs from close to our house, over the top of number 32, and then connects to your spare bedroom window.”

They both looked blankly at Geoff.

“You’re both thinking, ‘that doesn’t answer our question’, aren’t you?”

They both nod in agreement.

“The truth is, Stella from number 27 has planted landmines all along the pavement on both sides of the road. She posted it two hours ago in the Beacon group. You guys aren’t in the Beacon group for the street, are you? I’ll have to add you later. Anyway, the only way I could get to you was by air so to speak.”

Both Patrick and Lisa were wondering why Geoff didn’t just climb over the garden fences, but he is in his eighties after all.

“So, what do we do now?”, inquired Lisa.

“Well, there’s not a lot we can do really love. It sounds like Crabwick have much stronger forces. They’ve taken charge of the fishing boats. They’ve even assumed control of our mobility scooters. They’ve pushed us right back to the Lighthouse. We’ve got a few snipers in the viewing tower – you know Gladys and Arthur from over the back – but we’re nearly out of ammo.”

“But where did everyone get all these weapons from in the first place? How did you all have time to prepare? The post on Headpage was only put up yesterday evening”, Lisa asked with more than a hint of perplexity.

“We’ve had all this gear for years love. The rivalry between Bobblebum-on-Sea and Crabwick goes back centuries. There’s plenty who know more than me, those who grew up around here. But what I do know is that, when Rita and I moved here with the kids from London, back in the 70s, Greta and her husband Bert from next door came round to welcome us. She gave us a big dish of rhubarb crumble. It’s ‘me favourite, so I was well chuffed. Thing is, when we cut into that crumble, we could see a bit of paper underneath the pastry. We fished it out and cleaned it up and we could see that it was a phone number. No name, just a number.

We left it for a few days, and then days turned into weeks. Eventually, I was sat there doing the horses, when I saw the piece of paper on the mantlepiece. I picked up the phone and I dialled the number. After three rings it was answered by a woman’s voice. She gave us a meeting place. We went there and it was full of old-timers. We were youngsters like you back then. They told us all about the history of it all. How it all started and why. Cut a long story short, they told us that one day, there would be a civil war between the two villages. We would only have a few hours warning, and we needed to be prepared. Next thing, this old geezer – he must have been knocking on a hundred – led us to this room at the back. He opened this big door, revealing what I can only describe as a stockpile of weapons. Everything you could think of.

“Wait a minute”, asked Patrick, “Didn’t you think that this was all a bit, you know, extreme?”

“Oh yeah, of course. I mean we moved here for a quiet life. Get away from London and the growing crime rate and all that. We didn’t know what to do. We left the meeting place, and we went round to speak with Greta and Bert. We also spoke with some of the other neighbours - Stella was here too back then. They all said that they felt the same as we did when they were first told the story and were shown the weapons. Thing is, after a while, it just became a normal part of living here. Nobody spoke about it ever. When new advancements in weaponry were developed, we would stock up. The way we looked at it, it was just like being in America. They all have this kind of stuff over there don’t they? You know, AK-47s for their 21st birthday and all that!”

“I’m not sure they do”, Patrick and Lisa were both thinking, but didn’t say aloud.

“So, why were we never given this telephone number to call? Why were we never offered any weapons?”

“Ah, well, a bit of an administrative error there, I’m afraid. Seems like Claire and Tim next door were meant to be in charge of onboarding you, but they were away when you two moved in. By the time they returned home, they thought someone else must have clued you in. Bit of a balls up I’m afraid.”

“Right. So should we see if we can borrow any weapons from someone?”

“Probably not much point to be honest Patrick.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

“Well, you see, the war is due to end in eleven minutes.”

“What do you mean, ‘the war is due to end in eleven minutes?’”, asked Lisa.

“If nobody has clearly won after seven hours of fighting, then a truce has to be called. We’ve currently been at war for six hours and forty-nine minutes”.

“So, why didn’t everyone just hole-up in their houses for seven hours? Why is Greta, who is in her nineties, doing SAS-style manoeuvres across our garden?”

“Oh Greta? Nah, that will just be her daily workout. She got into all that High-Intensity Interval Training stuff during Covid. She loves it.”

“And why did you scale the rooftops and break into our upstairs window, if the war is nearly over?”

“Just to see if I still could, to be honest with you Patrick. I’ll pay to replace the glass, don’t worry. It can come out of the war chest.”

Suddenly, they all hear a loudspeaker and a familiar voice. It’s Reverend Charlotte Bishop, the local Vicar of the Church which sits astride the two villages. She declares that the civil war has come to an end, and that everybody is to go back to their homes and to put down their weapons.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The next day, Lisa and Patrick are sat in their front room, reading the newspapers, when they suddenly hear a loud explosion from outside. It was the fourth one today.

“How many more of Stella’s landmines are still out there?”, asked Patrick.

“I don’t know, but we won’t have any neighbours left at this rate”, replied Lisa, returning to her crossword.