What a nice day for a Coup thought Icabalde. His eyes sparkled with delight as he looked back down Downing Street from his office window. The grey sleet clouds of the last two weeks had cleared leaving behind a sky of emerald blue and the glorious whiff of insurrection in the sharp winter's air.

Number 10 was about to become the centre of the revolution. The plan was simple, as befitted the simpleton who was about to be overthrown. The PM would meet the French President and the Queen outside No 10 for a photo shoot with the press. Afterwards, while the PM and his French monkey were playing pin the tail on the Italian PM, Icabalde would go over and have a perfectly pleasant tea with the Queen, no doubt mentioning his concern for the PM's health. It was, after all a stressful job and the PM had been acting a bit out of character recently. Then with a nod and a wink, the PM would be back on the podium making the announcement that would outrage both Country and Commonwealth.

In front of a stunned Press Corps, Icabalde would take the stand, wide eyed in shock and calmly confirm his repugnance at the whole scheme. This was not the sort of England he wanted to be part of, an England of hard working, decent patriots who deserved better than this new styled Sun King. Icabalde would suggest it was time for the PM to take a leave of absence ... a long leave of absence to let those fresher and more mature take the reins of the bold stallion of British affairs. And Icabalde was ready with his riding boots and whip in hand.

Afterward the Chief Whip would lead the lash back with messages of outrage and indignation at the PM's callousness in attempting to dethrone the Worlds favourite monarch. The messages of support would no doubt pour in from around the Globe. In fact some had already been prepared. The PM's fate would be sealed and Icabaldes ascendancy confirmed.

While he waited, Icabalde checked the papers and tutted, tutted to himself. Hugo had been caught the previous week in flagrante with a young actress and was currently on R&R trying to put things right with the press, his local party constituents and his wife. Probably in that order knowing Hugo. Another article below was following Jenny's progress with the Ethics Committee following a recent exposé in the Nationals that suggested she had been less than transparent with her expenses. Icabalde sighed; as it had turned out neither of them were PM material. Shame. One wondered how such things got leaked to the press.

Icabalde had ordered doughnuts in for the staff. He was not one prone to celebrating anything but today it was worth splashing out. He sniffed the air. A sugary sweet smell oozed through the offices. The whole day was setting out to be positivity delightful. Picking up his cup he stood sipping coffee watching the TV crews checking the cabling running to their vans further down Downing Street. Outside Number 10, the gibbet the PM was to shortly hang himself on had been erected the night before. A raised platform and a podium stood overlooking the rows of folding seats now full of chattering press teams waiting for appearance of the condemned man and his Aide-de-camp the Gallic Général to arrive.

Icabalde's eyes swept the street to check for the extra security he'd requested to fend off felixus, felixus, should it sweep down the street felling all before it in a torrent of fangs, claws and flying fur. He didn't want the creature to make its appearance during the PM's speech accepting his Queenhood. It would rather spoil the moment.

Four men, clad in black puffer jackets, leaning against the railings signified the presence of the armed teams of SO9, sent by the Yard. Further down toward the end of Downing Street, standing in their shabby raincoats stamping their feet in the cold were a group of MI5 men.

A cavalcade of long black BMW's pulled up beyond the gates that led into Downing Street, ejecting the Presidents security team, a group of swarthy individuals in designer suits with bent Gauloises hanging off their lower lips. They muttered into their radio sets and warily surveyed the rooftops around the vehicles. No doubt having been warned of the lurking terror they were taking no chances with their man. When control had assured them that every mouser flap between Greater London and Dover had been secured they enticed the President from his car.

Amidst a flurry of camera flashes and shouts from the assembled press the President advanced up Downing Street surrounded by his entourage of French flunkies. Right on queue the PM appeared in the open door of Number 10, arms spread wide, his battered beet tanned face in perma grin mode and waited at the top of the stand for the President to climb the wooden steps. As they met on the edge of the podium, the President, tall, angular bearing a cap of slicked back hair, oozed his way across to the PM. The PM, face greasily radiant in the TV camera lights, clasped him on both shoulders and the two embraced. It was like two oil spills colliding at sea. There then followed a display of buttock clenching Entente Cordiale for the press's sake. Two minutes of kissing, patting, petting and unconscious preening.

Icabalde's eyebrow raised itself a millimetre at this revolting display of Continental over-familiarity.

Another cavalcade swept up. Two body guards jumped from the still moving cars and quickly moved to open the doors of the leading Bentley. SHE emerged, resplendent in a chequered overcoat and matching bag looking slightly more disgruntled than the two corgis that escorted her down Downing Street to a ripple of applause from the small gathering of tourists lining Whitehall. The PM trotted down to welcome her and tried to plant a kiss on either side of HER cheeks.

Icabalde's eyebrow arched itself momentarily. The limp wristed fool, trying to land a kiss on a reigning Monarch. She, clearly more practised in avoiding idiots than he had thought, quickly sidestepped him and climbed onto the podium to give the slippery Francophile a frosty welcome of a few clipped words and then stood, fingers tapping impatiently on her handbag, for proceedings to begin.

With a nod from the PM, Peter Porter span into action. As he arranged the group of leaders and their cohorts on the stage for a set of official pictures the door swung open to reveal Thelma de Cruel, wafting out in a green Christian Dior outfit. To Icabalde she appeared somewhat reminiscent of a dumpling wrapped in spinach. She stood slightly unsteadily and surveyed to oiks below her with a glazed look that suggested a recent close encounter with a sherry decanter. Then, the vegetable wrapped dough ball tottered across the podium, dropped down and swept up one of the corgis up in her arms.

Icabalde's eyebrows dropped a full centimetre in disgust. Protocol had been breached; the Corgis personal space had been violated. The thing was an outrage, the woman was like a grenade thrown into a septic tank. Peter Porter needed to get her defused before she went off.

There followed a short scuffle as Palace security wrestled with the PM's men to retrieve the dog. The French Team and MI5 threw confused glances at each other and retreated. Thinking it was all about to kick off, SO9 bounded up the steps and began pushing various dignitaries around the stage.

Icabalde lifted his doughnut from his plate and took a bite. Strawberry jam. Just perfect.

For a moment the French President appeared at the front of the melee. Breathing heavily, bearing the corgi in his arms he held his trophy aloft in a Napoleonic display of French triumph over their pie scoffing neighbours. This show was too much even for the most robust of English sensibilities. The teams from MI5 jumped up on to the stage, quickly followed by French security desperate to preserve their man's ill- gotten gains.

Suddenly, like the waves parting in the Red Sea, the crowd split in two. At the back of the platform squatting in a plant pot with a Regal air of indifference over the fracas in front of it, sat a black cat doing its business.

Seeing the moggy, Thelma gave out a screech so loud it suggested someone had asked her to pay for her outfit. She lunged sideways and tried to volley the creature off the planter. Her intention, it appeared, was to skewer it up the rear end with the pointy end of her Jimmy Choo's but the tightness of her dress meant she kicked her other foot up in the air and she cartwheeled backward into the melee.

Icabalde, entranced, paused mid action biting into his jam doughnut.

The Queens bodyguard, unnerved by Thelma's scream bundled the Queen inside Number 10. SO9 unaware that this panic had been precipitated by nothing more than an indisposed cat began tackling to the ground any unfortunate personage they had not yet assaulted. French security, sensing the unfurling flag of British insurrection, felt the need to re-enact the storming of the Bastille by waving their pistols in the air and shouting in intelligible French to each other.

As one of the corgis darted toward the cat, a single gunshot rang round the street. Everyone scrabbled for the ground. The only man left standing was the PM, waving one of SO9's revolvers around in the air.

Their followed a short, ghastly silence before a howl of pain induced anguish rang down the street. A moment later a blaze of camera flashes lit up the stage.

It only took Icabalde a second to understand what had happened. Both of Icabalde's eyebrows went up in unison and stayed there.

He reached down and picked up the phone. 'Leslie, would you get the Chief Whip on the line for me, there's been a bit of a faux pas down here that he needs to be aware of. And Leslie, after you've got him, could you call an ambulance. The PM has just shot the French President in the derrière.' He involuntary sniffed the air. 'Mon Dieu!'

Looking down at the scrummage outside, he allowed himself a waspish smile. It was not quite what he had in mind. But it would do.