Saturday, 20 June 2015

On The March

In the aftermath of Dagwald Caedmeron's astonishing and unpredicted defeat of the Redistributionist Faction in the Northumbrian Great Count, those of the Redistributionist mentality have been busy, either licking their significant wounds, fighting and arguing amongst themselves about the future (downward) direction of the Faction. This area of conflict has been primarily centred around the election of their next Great Leader and who the future chieftain should be. All of this to-do has been most entertaining for your Cat - especially since the most popular potential leaders selected are those whose intake of hallucinogenic mushrooms is the highest.
Although the fly agaric chewers have been particularly self-absorbed with their manifold problems, the charge can't be levelled at them that they've been idle. Despite the current pre-occupation of their priests with their burning questions, their laity has been busy, creating their own kind of unholy stink throughout the beautiful Northumbrian Kingdom.
Today has been a Great March against the demonic Tree god Austerity, whose devotions have consumed the Tree - and erstwhile Liberationist - Administration for the last few hundred years. Following the years of profligacy, wild borrowing and biscuit of the Redistibutionists under the witty, smiling and charming Guffmund the Brown, the Tree Faction was - and not for the first time - left with a mountain of unpaid bills and unforgiven sins. Upon their election, the Tree Faction solemnly pledged themselves to make reparation for the inherited waste and to placate the god Austerity by sacrificing valuable resources and treasures as offerings. Sadly, Austerity is an avaricious deity, and the donations to its altar was evidently regarded as mere breadcrumbs. The oracle of the god therefore declared that more offerings were required, and in view of this, more stringent sacrifices were planned and executed. However, the sacrifices proposed have never actually been of sufficient seriousness or severity to cost the politicos anything from their own personal treasuries; this honour has been confined as usual to the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayer.
Surprisingly enough, the marchers against this god and its cult aren't Northumbrian taxpayers; they're a broad affiliation of magic mushroom devotees, diversity coordinators, yogurt weavers, bongo players, pigeon psychologists, professional idlers, layabouts, loblollies, lunatics, soap evaders, members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction (whose business is not to be gainfully employed). The odour of dog breath, unwashed armpits, posterior sighs, lentils and bean sprouts headily permeates the air around the marchers, and is gently wafted by the breeze in the direction of the innocent bystanders. It's all so very sad.
Naturally, Caedmeron isn't terribly worried about this - although the aroma is causing a significant health risk to the wider populace. At least it's keeping them out of trouble, and giving them some other pointless way of occupying their time...

Tuesday, 2 June 2015

Bladder Wrack

The entire civilised Dark Ages world is reeling; these are dark and foreboding times, dear readers. The soothsayers have been chirping and bleating about the same matter for ages now, and in reaction to their latest outburst, the entire Northumbrian population is wandering in a state of ashen faced bewilderment, barely comprehending the gravity of the news that has so suddenly imposed itself upon their consciousness.

Schlep the Bladder has resigned. Weep, ye heavens, and be amazed. Blow your nose.

After a reign of thirteen thousand years upon the Holy Roman Empire Football Association - a realm characterised by steadfast righteousness, integrity, honesty, humility, civility and biscuit - Schlep has been deposed by a cabal of power-hungry ruffians, mountebanks and professional bribe collectors after falsely charging him with being an incorruptible good egg.

The entire world is waiting with baited hooks and breath, wondering what is going to happen next.

Your Cat is wondering how this news is going to affect the feline population. I've worried about it for all of fifteen nanoseconds...

Wednesday, 13 May 2015


The Northumbrian Kingdom is slowly crawling out from the devastation, desolation, destruction and biscuit unleashed upon the populace following the Decisive Victory of the Tree Faction in the recent Great Count. The sound of whining can still be heard from the divided ranks of the Redistributionist Faction, Beeby See, Guardy-Ann and their myriads of hangers-on, who, in uncharacteristic bitterness and rancour, accuse the Northumbrian population of crimes against humanity for failing to share their magic mushroom visions of free money, lavishly salaried unemployment, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists, bongo drumming, dog breath, ethically-sourced lentils and beansprouts. It's all so very sad, and despite my feline nature, I'm finding it very difficult to stifle a tear or two - my claws are quite sharp at the moment.

Despite the gloomy picture I've tried very hard to portray for your doubtless fertile imagination, dear reader, I should also inform you that all is not lost. Despite Dagwald Caedmeron's swift summoning of his newly appointed henchmen (most of whom have undergone a precipitous career change, substituting broomsticks, black cats and cauldrons for ministerial responsibilities), some remarkable events have already taken place.

Much to the amazement of astounded onlookers, the Arthurian prophecy has already come to pass; Nigwald the Forager has emerged from his two-minute sleep of the centuries, and as their resurrected Leader, has promised to restore the Kingdom to its rightful heritage - unshackled from the bonds of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). His legions of acolytes - who are diffused throughout the Realm, though only having one champion on the Witangemot talking shop - are enthralled that their Supreme Mentor has emerged Phoenix-like from the ashes. Merlin, however, is nowhere to be found…

Edweird the Milliner has fled the Kingdom, and has gone into a self-imposed exile on the Isle of Patmos, where he hopes to receive similar apocalyptic visions to those of St. John. He'll be lucky if such an experience comes his way, since his industrial scale consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms has squeezed any notions of godliness from his psyche. For all that, he leaves behind a curious legacy. Your Cat has already witnessed legions of devout Redistributionist pilgrims purchasing fragments of his shattered monolith. It seems to give them some measure of comfort, and it's great business for those entrepreneurs who saw the opportunity for a quick Holy Groat. At least it makes a change from the usual rabbit's foot charms…

Monday, 11 May 2015


These are grim and grimy days, my dear readers. The Kingdom of Northumbria is recovering from the results of the Great Count, and along with the sound of incessant whining from the Redistributionists, there can also be heard the sounds of wailing in the hallowed halls of Beeby See - as well as her bitter and twisted soothsaying sister, Guardy-Ann. The shovelling of the shattered fragments of Edweird the Milliner's slab of unattainable promises into waiting carts also breaks the stony silence of  the Northumbrian air.

Since Edward the Milliner fell on his sword following the demise of his dearly departed friend Edward the Spheres - the mendacious and charmless confectioner of magic mushroom delights - the Redistributionist camp has retreated into paroxysms of grief and bitter regret. A great deal of energy has been spent on their part in the process of soul-searching, wondering why the feckless, unwashed masses who comprise the electorate have chosen Dagwald Caedmeron and the Tree Faction instead of their own hallucinogenic, hand-wringing fantasies. All manner of fantastic explanations have been proffered by their shamans as to why their confident augury promising resounding victory was false. (It has never occurred to these dear and troubled souls that the majority of Northumbrians have sufficient nous to realise that Caedmeron's leadership was an infinitely better prospect than another five years of bankruptcy, high taxation and biscuit - despite Beeby See's relentless and tiresome prognostications of evil cuts, death, doom and desolation. Bless.)

The Liberationist Faction have also suffered heavy losses, and the sight of a remaining politico from their contingent is now worthy of a crowd of excited, pointing onlookers. Nickwald the Clegge has also decided to impale himself upon his sword, thus making a lasting testimony to his dedication to his faction and their extinct principles. It's all so very sad. The Alliance Administration is no more, and requiem masses are to be held throughout the churches of the Realm. Ding dong.

Nigwald the Forager - the charismatic ale-swilling, fast-talking leader of the Northumbrian Independence Faction - has also joined the ranks of the dear departed, and has hinted that - like King Arthur of British legend - he may return from Avalon to restore the Kingdom and rescue it from its Holy Roman Empire enemies. Until then he will sleep of the just failed.

However, Caddy Boy is hardly in a position to stamp his indelible footprint on the face of the Northumbrian body politic; the heavy losses on the part of the Redistributionists have been also inflicted north of the border by the Caledonian Realm Alone Praetorian faction, headed up by their sinister high priestess, Nickwealth McSprat. These people are by no stretch of the imagination either reasonable or civilised… Caddy and his crew have their work cut out.

As for your Cat - frankly, I couldn't give a rat's raspberry. I'm hungry, and I want some fish.

Monday, 4 May 2015

Edweird the Milliner's Magnum Opus

As the day of the Northumbrian Great Count approaches, the springtime air - puncuated by the mellifluous sounds of birdsong - is being permeated with the sounds of frenetic activity. This - I might hasten to add - is not only the increased amount of rhetoric, rhubarb and biscuit proceeding from the frenzied chops of the major faction politicos, who are all desperately vying with each other for a coveted slice of the Northumbrian cake: there's another noise ringing through the air. It's the sound of hammer and chisel.

Edweird the Milliner - the High Priestess of the Redistributionist Faction - is carving his magnum opus on a stone tablet, which he desperately hopes will adorn his view of the rear garden, should he be fortunate enough to assume the mantle of Prime Politico in the next Northumbrian Administration.

Upon this stone he's carving out the plethora of magic mushroom-fuelled promises, guarantees and an assortment of fantastic objectives that he's set himself in the hope of winning over the hearts and minds of the long-suffering Northumbrian electorate. Good luck with that, Eddy. (Bless.)

In the light of the previous record of the Redistributionist Faction in bringing the Kingdom to the point of bankruptcy under the benign and cheerful tutelage of Guffmund the Brown (whose objective was to rescue the entire world from the jaws of prosperity and solvency: a mission that he successfully accomplished in cahoots with his moneylender friends), it's highly unlikely that the electorate will be sufficiently impressed to cast a decisive vote in the favour of his gawky successor. The more likely outcome will be an indecisive one, where the balance of conviction on the part of the voters will be shared among all of the competing factions, which includes the Caledonian National Faction, led by Nickwealth McSprat, the successor to their Chieftain Emeritus Angus McTrout (why do they have fish names? your Cat wonders), and Nickwald the Forager, the fast-talking, slow walking, beer-quaffing impresario of the Northumbrian Independence Faction. The Liberationists - headed by Nickwald the Clegge (why do they have names that have connotations of theft? Your Cat wonders) - are destined for blessed annihilation as a punishment for reneging on their promise not to introduce Kindergarten charges for the legions of trainee pigeon psychologists, diversity coordinators and beehive accountants . A lot of bartering will take place with Dagwald the Caedmeron to decide who shares the executive decisions.

At the very least, Edweird the Milliner's monolithic enterprise will stand as a reminder for future generations that he actually existed. More likely it'll be his epitaph. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Your Cat is as excited as the soothsayers about the forthcoming result. I'll let you into a little secret. Although I'm a mere Cat, I'm still able to cast my vote along with the humans. And in these days of moulting my winter coat in readiness for the summer months, I've already cast my vote at the feet of Dagwald Caedmeron. And I feel so much better for having done so, too.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Hildabrand's Heavy Hit

Your Cat hasn't forgotten you - despite the lack of posts lately. As befits this special season in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, I've been absorbed by the current battle being waged by the politicos for the hearts and minds of the human population of this beautiful part of the world in the run up to the forthcoming Great Count.

Feaxede the Fox - my dearest friend - has really been quite concerned for my welfare, and I've endeavoured to put his mind - as well as yours - at ease.

During this season, the aspiring factions have been vying with each other to spin tales of alarm and despondency, ruin, desolation and biscuit about their rivals in the race to the coveted seat of authority in the Witangemot assembly of the wise. In their zeal to portray their opponents as the personification of evil has required no small amount of imagination, coupled with a patronising view that the average Northumbrian is stupid and unreflective enough to be mesmerised by their propaganda and to accept it without question. Without doubt, there are those who are lazy enough to allow their preferred politicos to do their thinking for them, but these constitute a relatively small proportion of the population. The remainder simply don't give a rat's rear end.

Today, the Redistributionist Faction wheeled out one of their most formidable weapons in their warfare from the astounding assortment of luvvies who adore them and share their taste in hallucinogenic fungi. The weapon in question is Hildabrand, a corpulent female who answers to the vague description of a court jester - although her humour is a matter of considerable debate among most humans, who really can't decide among themselves whether or not it actually exists. Naturally, the Redistributionists think very highly of her, and pretend to understand her humour.

Hildabrand rose to the occasion by criticising the evil Tree Faction, and blaming them for the alleged crisis in the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, along with the well-worn, tired and tiresome suggestions that these malevolent entities have been trying by stealth to dismantle it with a view to selling it to cartels of their robber baron cronies.

On the basis of this latest manifestation of this astonishing magic mushroom-fuelled performance, your Cat will make a prediction. Edweird the Milliner - the Redistributionist Grand Mufti and intrepid Nose Explorer - will be in a different job following the Great Count...

Thursday, 19 March 2015

Green and Cabbage-Looking

Your Cat - in his customary fascination with the current race for the coveted Seat Of Power in the forthcoming government - has been fascinated by the latest developments in the political climate of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.
Apart from the usual and traditional runners and riders - the Tree Faction, the Liberationists and the Redistributionists - there are newer political trends coming to the fore.

One of them is the Northumbrian Independence Faction, headed by the ale-swigging, charismatic and slick-talking man of the people, Nigwald the Forager, whose political group is gaining a great deal of attention by virtue of its professed concern at the burgeoning increase in the numbers of Bactrians, Phrygians, Moors, Huns, Cyrenians, Cappadocians and other exotic nationalities, whose dietary, religious and linguistic habits and traditions are at variance from the plain food, religion, manners and speech of the indigenous Northumbrians. His following is noticeably at its highest in those areas of the Kingdom located nearest to the ports, where shiploads of these foreign hordes disembark daily to find a comfortable living away from their ancestral lands. Owing to the popularity of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, the Tree, Liberationist and Redistributionist Factions and their hangers-on and camp-followers have mounted a vigorous campaign of opposition, since the Forager's followers are painting apocalyptic pictures of overcrowding and strife, and growing national groups in an increasing population compete among themselves for the services of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service and the benefits coffers. Since this doesn't mesh with their pink-and-fluffy view of brotherly harmony and biscuit, they feel under some measure of threat, and for this reason they do their utmost to paint them as a Faction of xenophobes.

However, the most surprising development is the advent of the Green Faction, led by a female citizen of the as yet undiscovered land of Antipodea called Nutty Bandit.
The Green faction - named after the legendary Green Man, a representation of the infernal Prince of Darkness - is a collection of disenchanted Redistributionists and other masticators of the hallucinogenic fungus whose principal ambition is to forbid the lighting of bonfires and the cutting down of trees in the interests of their Green goddess, Mother Earth.
These beansprout-chewing bongo players are prepared to make any sacrifices - of other people rather than themselves - in the interests of their fantasy-fuelled religion.
The Green Faction is gaining a large number of disaffected followers of the feckless Edward the Milliner, who - according to their twisted theology - is not doing enough to save the polar bears in the allegedly melting Arctic regions.
With such growing interest in this new and fanatical religion, it must be a great comport to their acolytes that their beloved leader doesn't even have a command of such pedestrian issues as facts and figures when questioned. The mushrooms are evidently doing their work...