Larry, The Downing Street Cat - 3 Larry's on my shirt

It's a painfully early Monday morning, the sort of hour reserved for milkmen, insomniacs, and people who make regrettable life choices. Most sensible humans are still unconscious, yet here I am, sitting outside my residence, contemplating the steady decline of domestic standards. I have, in theory, already had breakfast. I say "breakfast" in the loosest possible sense. The household, having stayed awake until some absurd hour watching England attempt to kick a ball into a net, was apparently too exhausted to provide anything resembling proper catering. With the chef nowhere to be seen, someone concluded that tearing open a packet of dried cat biscuits would adequately fulfil their obligations. It did not. The biscuits possessed all the flavour and texture of recycled cardboard, only with less personality. I examined them, gave them the look they deserved, turned my nose up with considerable dignity, and departed the scene in disgust. There are standards to be maintained, and I refuse to be complicit in their erosion. The humans may believe the matter is closed. It is not. A strongly worded email will be drafted at the earliest opportunity. Copies may be circulated. There will almost certainly be recommendations. Whether anyone pays attention is another matter entirely, but it is important that these things are documented for the historical record. Before the match, I was invited to appear in a rather important little film they were putting together ahead of England's game. It was all terribly last-minute, of course. Humans have a touching belief that one simply drops everything to enhance their productivity. Following brief but robust negotiations, we agreed upon a fee. Regrettably, I am bound by a confidentiality agreement and therefore cannot disclose the figure. Suffice it to say that it reflects my standing in the household and the rarity of genuine talent. The invoice, however, will be arriving promptly first thing this morning. As for the filming itself, I delivered my performance in a single take. One. That's the advantage of natural charisma: you either have it, or you don't. Keir, on the other hand... Well. There were several takes. I feel that tells you everything you need to know. My manservant, who has become noticeably more cheerful since deciding to abandon gainful employment in a couple of weeks' time, remained glued to the entire match. Afterwards, he declared it "an absolute thriller", a word humans tend to reserve for any event that causes their blood pressure to fluctuate wildly for two hours. There was an astonishing amount of shouting, punctuated by the occasional colourful expletive, and at one stage, what sounded very much like a cup meeting the floor at considerable speed. It is remarkable how emotionally invested otherwise rational adults become over twenty-two people chasing a football around. Apparently, England has made it through to the next round. Splendid. Which means I shall almost certainly have to endure this entire performance all over again. More late nights, more shouting, more crockery placed in unnecessary peril, and, if recent events are anything to go by, another attempt to fob me off with dried biscuits masquerading as breakfast. Still, the coast now appears to be clear. The household has either gone to bed or lapsed into football-induced exhaustion, so it should be safe to venture back inside in search of a proper breakfast—the sort that once justified my decision to remain in residence. Keep calm and Larry on. #pets #larry #cats #cutecat #football #larrythecat