It’s mid-2026, and once again I find myself glued to yet another political drama unfolding outside that unassuming black door on Downing Street. The nation’s mood swings wildly between drizzle and despair, but one constant remains: Larry the Cat, still sprawled on the welcome mat, still utterly indifferent to the revolving door of prime ministers he’s outlasted. I’ve watched him on live feeds, calmly grooming his whiskers while news correspondents speculate about Cabinet resignations, and I’ve had a revelation. Someone needs to make a video game about this glorious mouser, and I don’t mean a fluffy pet sim. I mean a full-on, tail-twitching, political-espionage sandbox that blends the moody feline parkour of Stray, the murderous creativity of Hitman, and the anarchic glee of Untitled Goose Game. Because if anyone can save British politics, it’s a cat with nothing to lose.
To be clear, I’m not some starry-eyed kitten obsessed with cat content (okay, maybe a little). I’m a seasoned player who’s seen how games transform mundane settings into playgrounds of mischief. Larry, real-life Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office, has been living at Number 10 since 2011, which means he’s now greeted six prime ministers. By 2026, he’s practically a furry permanent secretary, and every journalist still treats him as a harmless photo op. But what if behind those sleepy eyes lurks a feline mastermind? What if Larry isn’t just a pet but a sleeper agent for an underground syndicate of highly intelligent moggies, manipulating world leaders one gentle purr at a time? That’s the game I want to play.
Imagine booting up the game and controlling Larry from a third-cat perspective. The overarching “campaign” would be set across several years of British politics, with each mission corresponding to a scandal or major event. Your primary goal isn’t to assassinate anyone outright (though the option should exist, maybe a chandelier “accident” during Partygate 2.0), but to subtly alter outcomes, exposing hypocrisy or nudging policies toward better treats for all cats. You’d be a phantom saboteur with whiskers, using stealth mechanics that rival Agent 47’s. In fact, the level design would borrow heavily from Hitman: large, clockwork environments where NPCs—from junior aides to visiting dignitaries—follow intricate routines. 10 Downing Street, the Cabinet Office, and the Number 11 flat would become your killbox of chaos, complete with drape-climbing routes, hidden crawlspaces, and improvised weapons like a perfectly timed inkstand spill.
But you wouldn’t just be a tiny assassin. The Stray influence would shine in exploration. Between missions, you’re free to roam the historic building as a regular resident. Interact with household staff, sun yourself on official red boxes, and annoy the police officers guarding the street. To the outside world, you’re simply a lovable tourist attraction, a scruffy tabby who offers a moment of levity in a country still grumbling about energy bills. You’d meow at journalists, knock teacups off desks during press briefings, and eavesdrop on hushed conversations that reveal side quests. Maybe you uncover a minister’s secret biscuit obsession and can use that intel to blackmail them into voting for a mandatory laser-pointer breaks bill. The game would need a dynamic “political climate” system: decisions you make as Larry ripple through the news cycle, affecting public opinion, which in turn opens or closes new opportunities.
Now, let’s talk chaos. The reference to Untitled Goose Game isn’t just for comic relief; it’s a philosophy. Larry needs a dedicated honk-equivalent—maybe a soulful yowl or an innocent head-tilt—that signals his intent to wreak playful havoc. Picture this: a state banquet is in full swing. Your mission log updates: Swap the Prime Minister’s speech cards with a crumpled shopping list. Steal the visiting ambassador’s monocle. Lead a parade of confused corgis through the dessert table. Each task would be layered with slapstick potential. The best part? No one suspects the cat. Even when the Foreign Secretary finds their briefcase full of catnip, the reaction is a resigned sigh rather than an alert. This isn’t just about political satire; it’s about empowering a creature who genuinely doesn’t care which party is in power but does care about the disgraceful lack of salmon on the menu.
I’ve been deeply disillusioned with Westminster for years, and 2026 hasn’t changed that. Every PM resigns, every cabinet reshuffles, and the same worn-out promises echo through those corridors. But Larry endures. My dream game would frame him not as a partisan creature but as a keeper of the peace, an impartial furry force who holds power to its rare account. He’d be smart enough to manipulate events, yet aloof enough to nap through a confidence vote if he feels like it. I picture a morality system, but not the boring good-vs-evil kind. Instead, it’s measured in “Indifference Points.” Too much helpful behavior (like delivering sensitive documents to the right minister) makes you a lapcat; too much disruption makes you feral. The sweet spot is that perfect, untouchable cat attitude: you do whatever you please, and somehow the nation thanks you.
Mechanically, I’d love to see a “mind control” ability. Tapping into the latent intelligence of cats everywhere, Larry could possess specific politicians by purring directly into their ears during nap time. While controlling, say, the Chancellor, you’d propose a budget that allocates millions to free-roaming cat estates, or insist that state cars be replaced by giant laser pointers. It’s absurd, but it’s the kind of absurdity that reflects how powerless we normal folk sometimes feel when watching the news. Why not let a cat drive the clown car for a while?
Of course, multiplayer would be the cherry on top. Imagine co-op where you and a friend are a duo of Larry and his real-life occasional companion, Palmerston the Foreign Office cat (who sadly retired, but in a game, anything goes). You coordinate twin mischiefs, one distracting the security detail while the other plants a herring in the despatch box. The possibilities for emergent storytelling are endless. Players would craft their own scandal headlines, sharing clips of the time they triggered a diplomatic incident by stealing King Charles’s cufflink right before a photo op.
In the end, what I’m pleading for is recognition. Larry the Cat isn’t just a meme; he’s an institution. A game dedicated to his secret life would be a love letter to British eccentricity, political cynicism, and our universal affection for cats. The ingredients are all there: a historic setting brimming with intrigue, a protagonist who oozes charisma without uttering a word, and a player base hungry for something gleefully subversive. So if an indie studio out there is reading this in 2026, please, turn this damp little island’s most dependable civil servant into a digital legend. Give Larry his own game—before he decides to recall humans for his own purposes.