I Am The Mayor Of London

I spread plans out on the giant glass table. Turn Brixton into Brighton – dig out a channel through Kent, Sussex and let the sea roll in up to Streatham Hill. More geostrategic entertainment zones. 10 000 hole crazy golf course as workfare replaces Dagenham.

200 yards away from the Tower of London which is above a grade one listed building and of importance to the monarchy my tower is set back in parkland. It does not obstruct any view. It is energy self-sustained. I live in an apartment three feet wide, by three light years. The staff of the tower drink their own piss in order to save the finite resources of the planet. As well as carpets I have glass atria and many computers.
The staff number in their hundreds. They wear smart clothes and two hundred denier intelligent body-whelks that recirculate moisture into the cisterns of the pot-plants. Everywhere light shines. They are allowed to sit on their desks and arrange their cubicles.
At five o’clock the bell sounds. Everything that happens in London happens here first. Every shit that slips out of a cockney’s or a businessman’s arse is monitored and given travel-clearance through the Thames Barrier from us.

I hire a rota of Ninjas to do the business. Double up, I got on the phone to Sir Paul Condon. The Metropolitan Police have good voicemail systems. I ask Paul for a team of his Harlesden streetcleaners. The man is irascible. I send my team of thugs out to appraise the situation. Facilitators in the discreet BMWs. I hire an evil married couple with a new big dog to go round town. They know to fetch me the best looking tourists.

I have innumerable valises, flush-fitted stationary cupboards of manifold contents, fast acting cleaning fluids, rows of urinals with infra-red activated rinse and door-control, excellent lifts of the most silent and glass-enclosed kind, five types of letterhead each with their degree of severity, the female staff with their hair of a certain length in knots above the neck, an ingenious display of large flowers in the foyer, some 5000 kilowatts of internet bandwidth, self-replenishing refrigerators, servile male staff trained at fawning since birth in my private underground dojo. The security sub in the Thames: four men, one for each point of the compass, cowled like monks in dripping black oilskins, lashed to the conning tower rail by steel belts, each with a pair of goggles and Zeiss binoculars clamped firmly to his eyes, staring blindly into his own sector of darkness, teeth hidden behind frozen lips clenched onto a cheap plastic snorkel. A vast conveyor belt of snacks.