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Thursday, 16 July 2015

Caedmeron's Great Escape

Dagwald Caedmeron really doesn't know what a charmed life he leads.
Since my last posting, there's been a dramatic change of direction in the Tree Administration, and consequently the proposals to reintroduce fox hunting have been put to one side - to the palpable relief of my bushy-tailed friend Feaxede.
Without any attempt to take the credit for such a development, your Cat would modestly like to point out that he has been the catalyst for this monumental volte face.

While contemplating the Creatures' Council proposal I outlined to you the other day, it suddenly occurred to me that Caddy's attempt to turn animals into fair game wouldn't obtain a sympathetic hearing from the Caledonian Independence Faction, whose sole existence in the Northumbrian Witangemot is - as the significant minority - to present a belligerent and largely incoherent problem to the Northumbrian Sassenachs, whom they courteously loathe, despise and detest. Since everything that the Sassenachs do is repugnant to their brutish and uncivilised eyes, I thought I might go and pay Caedmeron a casual visit. If he were to heed my counsel, he could save himself a great deal of embarrassment, since it doesn't look too clever to be losing votes as a newly elected majority faction. Besides which, the hassle of calling a Council of the Kingdom's animal population would be a logistical nightmare, and I'm at the age where frankly, I really don't need the aggravation.

After a gentle word in his shell-like ear, I departed and left common sense to finish the job in Caddy's addled noddle. The result is the Great Climbdown, which was deliriously slobbered over by the soothsayers.

Caedmeron has saved his own skin - not only from the machinations of the haggis hunters, but from the teeth and claws of legions of badgers, weasels, foxes and stoats...

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Feaxede's Foxhunting Phobia

I'm sorry I've not been blogging for a while, but I've been terribly worried about my vulpine friend Feaxede – particularly since the results of the last Great Count, which saw the return to power of an invigorated Tree government under their Great Panjandrum Princess Dagwald Caedmeron, along with a nascent and brutish Caledonian Independence group – much to the chagrin of a reduced Redistributionist representation and a now practically extinct Liberationist Faction.

To be perfectly frank, Feaxede – my fellow creature and co-watcher of the human political sphere in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria – never really recovered from the humiliating defeat of the Redistributionists. Even though he'd courted their magic mushroom-driven ideology and agendas to the point of becoming a member, he soon became disenchanted with them and their idiosyncratic ways and beliefs and bade them farewell. Be that as it may, the old hankerings and mental habits have persisted, and my old friend still exhibits some of their pink and fluffy sentimentality. I can't say that I'm altogether too surprised about this – especially in the light of the Redistributionists' ban on the sport of fox hunting some years ago under the grinning dominance of their now fallen arch-demon Tondvig the Blur.

Feaxede's present state of acute anxiety, angst and biscuit has been the proposal by the Tree Faction – now uninhibited by the shackles that preciously bound them to the corpse of the Liberationists – who've declared their intention to reinstate the barbaric practice. The principal rationale stated for this is that these fine creatures are pests, and hunting them on horseback with packs of hungry dogs is an efficient and caring way of keeping their numbers down. With the majority of Northumbrians, this will render the government deeply unpopular, as their natural affection for the ruddy, bush-tailed creatures is undiminished. (The majority of Northumbrians don't keep chickens.)

Even so, I can see the reason for Feaxede's worry and sympathise with him; if the Trees reintroduce fox hunting, how long will it be before they also legitimise cat hunting for pleasure and profit? Or weasel hunting? Or dormouse hunting?

One idea I've had to counter Feaxede's great concerns is to call a General Council of all creatures in the Kingdom and put to them a practical and workable suggestion.

Politicos are the human equivalent of vermin. They serve no useful purpose, and along with their theatrical gesturing, chronic mendacity, lavish expense accounts and their pathologically habitual lawmaking, they're an enormous drain on the resources of the long suffering Northumbrian population.

I think you know what's coming. And I know I'm backing a winner...


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

Relics

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

Aftermath

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.