As officials told taxpayers to mind their own business, hopeful felines polished up their CVs and descended on the Guildhall, rubbing their portly backsides up and down doorposts and statues and squirting their scents into every nook and cranny, and in one case all over the shoes of an unsuspecting Labour Councillor.

 

Sir Admiral Podge, an enormous Burmese that had to be pushed to Council HQ in a pram, said: “I’ve applied for Director of Housing, but competition is fierce. The successful candidate should possess “an amorphous, undulating belly of publicly funded lard,” “paws on the brink of collapse,” and “hungry, all-consuming eyes set deep within a smug, self-satisfied face, which itself must be stretched across a morbidly obese head like the fucked up idol at the heart of some sinister cult.”

 

“Then again, if you don’t fit the bill they’ll send you on a training course.”

 

A spokesperson at the Fat Cat Protection League explained how the public sector fat cat - or cattus giganticus lazycuntus - is almost entirely extinct, except in Hull.

 

“They refuse to die out in that part of the country, largely due to the local council believing it’s some kind of elderly cat-loving spinster compelled to keep these animals alive with food, warmth and a five-figure salary, not to mention a surrogate tongue to clean the arseholes the poor overfed darlings find it physically impossible to reach.”

 

But Arthur Adams, a political activist who frequently attends gatherings of like-minded people, said: “It’s time to take direct action. All the official regulatory bodies - Fat Cat Watchdog, Growl!, even Ofcat - have proved pointless. It’s time for a no nonsense leaflet campaign, an edgy, militant website, and plenty of stickers on lamp-posts.”

 

“And if that doesn’t work I’ll be luring the fuckers into a sack, throwing in a few bricks and driving to the Humber Bridge.”