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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...

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

Klaxon Call

The gripping events surrounding the forthcoming Northumbrian Great Count are unfolding before our eyes, and your Cat has been enraptured by the fascinating interplay of rhetoric, ideas and ideologies being played out to the populace through the able and completely unbiased services of Beeby See and her half-baked country cousin Guardy-Ann. For me, it's been somewhat akin to a slow-motion circus with interminable pauses between the acts for deep meditation and sleep.

However, the occasional shaft of light finds its way through the soporific gloom, and recently the developments around the career of the Jar-faced Klaxon have grabbed the attention of all Northumbrian humans.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is an entertainer under the employ of Beeby See, whose purpose is not only to soothe the public with horror stories, scaremongering, climate scams, miserable diseases and other delights, but also to entertain. This is Beeby's appointed role by Royal Decree, and her services are similar to those of King Alhfrith's court jester, but on a significantly larger scale.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is employed to take the most modern carts and chariots available and to test ride them in the most exotic places. With two henchmen who are similarly occupied, he makes his business to entertain in the most outlandish ways, and to express his thinly-veiled contempt for the conventional forms of behaviour and speech. His acts of derring-do and his opinions - which are pungent and as contrary to the pink and fluffy bias of Beeby See as is humanly possible - have won him a widespread following among the adoring Northumbrian people, and have by the same token brought him many enemies among the delicate Redistributionist flowers of the Beeby See establishment.

Thus the impasse - adored by many, and hated by a precious few. However, recent events have proved to be a gift to his detractors, since he allegedly thumped a Beeby See flunky up the bracket. Needless to say, the Jar-faced Klaxon has been removed from office.

But as you Cat writes, the predominant sounds heard in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria are the hammering of the blacksmiths, as citizens take up arms in defence of their disgraced hero...

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

On Your Marks

You may have observed that your Cat has maintained an eloquent silence over these last few weeks. Please accept my apology for this. My explanation (and not excuse, I might add) is that Feaxede the Fox and I have been completely mesmerised by the unfolding drama which will eventually culminate in the Great Count in the merry month of May, in which the entire Northumbrian human population – along with throngs of non-existent names in certain Redistributionist-held areas – will be casting their votes to decide the Great Administration for the next five years. The campaigning has already begun, with all the theatrical dressing up, silly hats and make-up, the carefully crafted and rehearsed speeches, and not to mention surprise epiphanies of the major Faction leaders in all sorts of unexpected places. All of this showmanship has been in the eager anticipation of swelling numbers of acolytes, admirers, devotees and window-lickers. 

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Supreme Icing Of the Tree Faction Cake – has been giving solemn warnings to his carefully selected audiences of the potential perils of an elected Redistributionist government, along with apocalyptic images of desolation, abomination, ruin, bankruptcy and biscuit

Edweird the Milliner, aided by his side-kick, the mendacious and well-fed Edweird the Millispheres, have been in similar fashion alerting the hand-picked hearers of the likely deprivation, abomination, ruin, poverty and biscuit if the electorate are foolish enough (perish the thought) to elect a Tree administration – with their vicious and gratuitously vindictive cuts to public expenditure. 

Nickwald the Clegge has also been visiting the various faithful congregations of his dwindling Liberationist diocese, warning of the certain perils of Tree stringency and Redistributionist profligacy with public money. 

On the other hand, Nickwald the Forager – the fast-talking, slow-walking, hard drinking Chieftain of the Northumbrian Independence Faction has been cheerfully waving two-fingered salutes to rented crowds of feckless Redistributionist hecklers and commanding adulation among his growing number of supporters. It all has been so exciting…. 

Sorry – I was just thinking about herrings. What was it I just saying…?

Thursday, 22 January 2015

Wrapping It Up

Although the title of this post might convey the idea that I'm intending to pull my claws in (and the absence of recent posts would go far to nurture that idea), This is not actually the case. Your Cat has been delighted and thrilled to hear of the next hare-brained scheme planned by the Northumbrian Tree/Liberationist Administration.

Water is a commodity that is necessary to the well-being of all Northumbrian humans - as well of course as all members of the animal kingdom. Naturally, it has its own merits and demerits; the average fisherman, artisan, soldier or street trader will find little advantage in this elemental fluid if he (or she) wishes to temporarily forget about the cares, woes and worried foisted upon their shoulders by the politicos and other species of vermin. Good foaming ale - or a stout flagon of mead - is far more helpful in conveying one to the banks of the river Lethe. Furthermore, water can be potentially hazardous; it can drown the hapless individual who falls into a lake, and even when gently babbling crystal clear though the brooks of the Kingdom, it can bear toxic and brackish substances that can bring the poor drinker to death's door - or at least, seriously ill.

In view of these potential dangers (and also in a bid to protect the children), some politicos have decided that Something Must Be Done. What is proposed is that all water within the Realm should be packaged in plain wrappers. This may seem absurd, but given the intimate relationship between the politicos and certain members of the Northumbrian business community whose company they perpetually seek and nurture, this is a most creative and ingenious enterprise. The task of the operation is vast, since the storage of it in barrels and butts - not to mention its manifestation in brooks, lakes, streams and wells - is a fearsome undertaking. The task of covering up some glass bottle or jug doesn't compare with the feat of shrouding an entire lake in some bland blanket. But, as you and I will agree, it's worth it for the sake of the younger generation, who could so easily fall foul of its dangers.

And think about the benefit of the businesses who gladly agree to execute such a decision at the Administration's behest. The financial benefits are little short of miraculous. And who will be paying for all of this? Look no further than the pockets of the average Northumbrian artisan, fisherman and street trader...

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Honours Among Thieves

In my morning rounds, it's my custom to wait by a particular fence for a few minutes; I've found by observation that there's a particular hole underneath the aforesaid fence providing a convenient route for passing mice, whose footprints have steadily worn a small trackway. And I'm never disappointed if I wait there, since some hapless rodent is certain to pass by.

In a similar fashion, my annual routine at this time of the year is to join with my vulpine friend Feaxede the fox in the blessed anticipation of the Northumbrian New Year Honours. We eagerly listen out to the ramblings of Beeby See and other soothsayers to catch news of the eagerly-awaited Awards. We can hardly contain our excitement as the names of the nominees is put forward, and our hearts simply burst for joy! Happy days!

These Honours are awarded by the Supreme Monarch of Northumbria, the ancient King Alhfrith, although I shouldn't hestitate to point out that the Great Chieftain doesn't actually play any part in the selection of those nominated to receive these awards; such labours are infra dignatem for such as he. Fortunately, he has a legion of politicos, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and sociopaths to take up the menial process of selecting the recipients.

There are three separate categories of awards: Distinguished Order of the Northumbrian Kingdom [DONK], Hero Of the Northumbrian Kingdom [HONK] and Bachelor Of the Nothumbrian Kingdom [BONK]. Each individual nominated to receive such an honour is supplied with a reason for his or her award; this is usually prefaced with either the phrase "For services to.." or "In recognition of..."

Most of the recipients are names unknown to the Northumbrian populace, since most of them are people who don't actually exist, but whose inclusion provides some measure of proof that the selectors have actually been doing something to earn their Holy Groats. However, some are awarded (with fanfares) to leading celebrity drunks, homeopaths, luvvies, vermin, politicos and criminals. Those servants of the public who've managed to set one particular community at the throat of another (for example, Vikings against Caledonians) are granted an honour in recognition to their services to the Great Goddess of Diversity. And so it goes. On occasion awards are even granted to ordinary members of the public who've given their time in the service of others or who have performed some outstanding act of courage.

Such excitement for these awards as ours isn't restricted to members of the animal kingdom, either. I went on a fact-finding mission to find out what the average Northumbrian thought about these New Year Honours, and I was suitably impressed by the response I found. One fisherman I asked was so animated about it that he spat; fortunately I wasn't within the trajectory of the fluid utterance. A market trader I questioned look blankly at me, leaned over to one side and sent a noisy explosion from his hind quarters, accompanied by a noxious invisible cloud of colonic gas.

I can emphasise enough how exciting these awards are; even the humans have a visceral affection for them!

Tuesday, 30 December 2014

The Pox Docks

Your Cat hopes that you've had a very good Christmas; mine was spent in the usual territorial wanderings, but none of the usual threats to my Kingdom could be bothered to stir their idle bones to challenge me, so it was a relatively peaceful day, with a respectable catch of mice and a haddock supper to make it complete. All that remains now is the forthcoming festivities for the New Year, which, in the Northumbrian Kingdom, is a suitable pretext for excessive mawkish sentimentality and drunkenness. Your Cat will go to ground; I value my peace and quiet.

Not so the soothsayers, who are currently very excited at the sudden arrival of the Wibbler Plague – the latest illegal immigrant to these shores. As your Cat is given to understand it, the Wibbler Plague is an exotic friend of Guardy-Ann, the self-awarded Soothsayer Of The Year for the thirteen thousandth time in succession. With a shared hatred of the human race, and being no respecter of godliness, creed, colour or biscuit, Guardy-Ann and the Wibbler Plague have a great deal in common, although to be fair, at least the former commands some loyal following and affection among the bongo-playing unwashed, yogurt weavers, arty luvvies, magic mushroom-chewing Redistributionists and the kindergarten educators of the Realm, whereas the latter is no man's friend, piggy-backing its way around the places it infests, hopping aboard the hapless humans who unwittingly carry it over to their social circles. In this manner the Wibbler does its grim work.

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Principal Nosedrop of the Tree/Liberationist Aliance Administration – is wringing his hands and wondering what to do, since the constant jabbering of the soothsayers seems to strongly suggest that the pestilential pox will engulf and overwhelm the entire Kingdom within a few days, leaving a trail of death, dog droppings and destruction in its wake. Various incantations and herbal remedies have already been tried by physicians in specially woven gowns in order to combat its malign influence, but these have so far failed to bring its nefarious activities to an end.

However, your Cat has already come up with a solution to the Wibbler Problem, and its execution is both simple and elegant. All that Caddy Boy needs to do is to have a quiet chat with Ruswald the Brat and ask him nicely to give the Pox a ride to the self-styled Valhalla Viking Republic of the Levant, who are running berserk in that neck of the woods in an orgy of throat-cutting and bloodlust. He'll do the most valuable service to Northumbria. After all, Guardy-Ann needn't be told a thing...