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Fat Cats at No. 10

Words: Eleanor Kirby

With English fat cats re-enacting a smorgasbord of children’s party games (in, out, in, out, shake it all about), Larry the Cat is here to stay, sitting on the metaphorical wrapping paper and putting a halt to pass the parcel.
The cats at 10 Downing Street have long acted above their “Chief Mouser” status, moulting on PM’s since 1924, a more constant pillar of British politics than the regular hand overs from party to party.

With meagre expenses barely stepping on the price of morning coffees and an accidental overspend on our mobile data allowance, the need to claim thousands to fund the upkeep of a second home is trivial when fence hopping between properties is the only way you can justify second helpings.

Brushing away the power of the pussy with the recycling of a conservative name, the early incarnations of Cabinet Office cats were named and renamed Peter the Cat (with their female counterpart lazily marked “Peta”). This gang of four held their seats for forty-seven years, and with the Conservatives being responsible for moulding Britain throughout 70% of this time, the wide-eyed public must have been hypnotised by cats’ eyes. A doughy image to gloss over a bought of austerity as unmanageable as fleas.

Nowadays, the power of propaganda has not strayed far beyond the material, as Larry donned a rosette for the Royal Wedding, unquestionably strengthening the Royal-Political bond. Like anyone who has found fame in youth, however, the CM was ousted in the tabloids for his overzealous interest in a neighbouring female cat, and more scandalously, the findings of mouse remains left on the grass near No. 10. According to his official page on the Downing Street website, the contemplation of “a solution to the mouse occupancy” is still contained within a “tactical planning stage”.

While the downsides of a cat in office leave visual marks upon someone very much in the public eye (fur covered suits and allergy induced eye bags do not bode well when trying to gain the upper hand on Jeremy Corbyn’s un-ironed jackets), the collateral to be paid upon hearing Cameron adopted Larry from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home, or is hesitant to leave him behind, is more potent than anything a spin doctor can conjure up. Toying with our hearts as cantankerously as boys holding puppies on Tinder, we’re not falling for it.

We can only hope that Theresa May’s love of kittens roams beyond her heels, only then can we really listen to what she has to say.



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