Your mission, they said, was first to make contact with your comrades in the Wimbledon area. The key to your courage was seeing your fellow woman and understanding the future that you wouldn’t live to see, and how your sacrifices could make it a better place.
It is through time that you learned true socialism had to be imposed before it was appreciated, and a government could be a gift to its citizens. The robotic proletariat is our biggest threat, as a proletariat of flesh and blood, and only the state can threaten it back. This rhetoric stirs in your mind as you approach the cleaning closet on the third floor of Centre Court (the shopping centre, not the tennis one). The password, ‘October’ leaves your nervous lips.
Inside it is in fact a cleaning closet, just with seventeen people inside. You expected hammers, sickles and proud Soviet flags but quickly realise that would be counter-productive to your aims. All British; all angry; all defectors; all eating chicken katsu curry from the stall outside. It smells offensive but they offer you some, striving to put the commune in communism. You’re to meet here monthly, which you can’t help feeling is a foolish pattern. Any pattern can be followed, either by MI6 or the bemused cleaning staff, and lead to discovery. Tom Hanks won’t be here to help us this time.
You have to sell yourself as a friendly capitalist, they say, like Oprah Winfrey does. They’ll never figure out Oprah, those dumbass yanks. ‘They’re onto you Mr Corbyn’ I say, addressing a gentlemen sat on a Henry-hoover, ‘Newsnight put you in a hat’. Simon Schama, perched awkwardly on a mop bucket, informs me he has greater issues at present.
You can’t help but wonder how such a strange mixture of people came together for the benefit of the Kremlin, but your critics have simplified it for you. If you dislike the dominant neoliberalism, which is now considered the norm, your only choice is to feed information to Putin so he might crush economic stability in the West. You feel resolved as you pass a crisp packet round to Prince Harry. ‘That Nazi costume was a great way to throw them off, good going there’ you comment as his royal fingers plunge into the bag of Roast Chicken & Thyme Sensations.
Alan Titchmarsh opens a discussion on returning Britain to self-sustaining, nationalised agriculture, but Carol Vorderman points out that the effort required to make all fruit and vegetables grow in the shape of Putin’s ears is only possible with EU funding. You sneeze on Trevor McDonald and apologise, it really is quite cramped in there. Adele has fallen asleep.
In truth you may be decades older before the Kremlin calls on you, and in the meantime your secret cleaning closet gatherings are all that will comfort you in the slow, painful demise of capitalism. Safe in the knowledge that prosperity will return in a red dress, having lost a few pounds but gained a few arms, you continue your daily routine.
*Hi there. This is a joke. I am not a Russian spy and neither are any of the other people mentioned here… unless they are of course, I wouldn’t know.