1955-
The Volgans were here and planned to stay. One thousand and one years of Volgan rule was promised; one more than normal. Europe had capitulated before the might of the hordes from the East. America, that bastion of liberty and high-rises, had watched idly from the sidelines committed to their new policy of non-intervention, even though they had the big bomb. Volgan propaganda had hinted that they too possessed the ultimate weapon. Refusing to twist, the Americans would not call their bluff, they stuck.
Britain had been defeated. Freedom was lost to the Brotherhood, as the Volgans called their native country. As Mother and Father had been used before, hood options were limited, the Nationalistic Volgans plumped for Brother. Sometime in the far future with all the family connotations spent, a rising or newly independent state will have to claim the wordy, second cousin on my father’s side hood.
A fiercely Royalist and loyal subject of the crown of Britain was not amused. Today he was to report to a compound to work for his new master. He was wrestling with the hose in the shower. By turns blistering hot or numbingly cold the temperamental water had a mind of its own. He pulled the nozzle from the tap and surprised by the pressure of the water he slipped, wrapping the shower hose like a stethoscope round his neck, then fell into the shower curtain and derailed it. It was going to be one of those days.
He joined the queuing ranks of Britons that were to be administered into work groups. Eventually, Volganese was to be learnt from everyone but for now the mother tongue of Shakespeare, Holst and Prescott was accepted on certain occasions. The gloating Volgans had posters saying: Venimus, Vidimus, Vicimus. Horrible in victory, they had adopted Caesar’s quote and the three fingered double V (or W) sign was a gesture of Volgan supremacy.
The Royalist heeded the warning from the frightened man beside him. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Tsar. He neared the front line until he faced the Volgan secretary in charge of this detail. This clip-board bureaucrat was well-dressed except for the bottom of his jacket that, slightly creased, flapped open. There was a button pinned inside his jacket that resembled the polished fasteners on his torso. A spare button! The Royalist was taken aback, with innovations like these no wonder the Volgans won.
Still astonished he was asked his occupation, which he gave, then led at gunpoint to the back of a truck. The vehicle’s occupants were men of immense build, worn boots and chequered shirts; these were the good guys; they were the size of steam ships; he’d feel safer with the Volgans. The Royalist squeezed between two of these hulks and the truck rattled along the street.
Conversation was limited as the soldiers minding them would inflict punishment without fear or pity. In whispers the Royalist could make out two bulging muscled inmates proposing a wish to be sent to Belgium where they could bask in fame and glory as opportunities were plentiful. He could not unravel this cryptic chatter focusing instead on the floor that gathered dandruff from the finger-combing heads of the occupants.
One of the Volgans shouted “Octahobka” although it was February. The truck stopped with not a café in sight. Disembarking all the men were forced to give the Volgan sign. The Royalist contemplated dropping a finger and taking some stitches for the team. This would warrant an inclusion in a revised, updated edition of Fox’s Book of Martyr’s. The rebellious streak passed and in submission he double V’d (or W’d) with false abandon.
With their rifles cocked the Volgan soldiers gave each man an axe. You can’t dig graves with an axe, thought the Royalist cheerfully; at least we’re not burying bodies. Quizzing an axeman that cometh to his side, he asked his compatriot, what in the name of the House of Windsor are they doing deep in the forest?
“We’re here to go logging. We’re loggers’.”
“I told the office clerk I was a blogger.”
“Well you’ve got something exciting to put in your next post. There’s nothing more rewarding than cutting down trees.”
All the Whizz from Bizz 