A Parallel World

What's reality? - That is the question that some fly agaric-chewing sorcerers in the sacred portal of Beeby See were asking yesterday. They were talking the usual guff about parallel universes; they were telling us that our view of reality is by no means definitive; the dark arts of sorcery and the cranial somersaults of the wizards are producing strange numbers from which even more bizarre theories are now hatching. This is the kind of cleverness that strays into the fantasy land of the demented. To be honest, I wasn't taking too much notice of their ramblings; I've heard their sort of La-La Land claptrap before. Many times. In my book, reality is a cosy curl-up in front of a warm fire. It's singing feline shanties with my mates at full volume outside Beeby's mansion at dead of night. It's a mouse within striking distance of my paw - and a dish of cooked mackerel, bought fresh from the quayside of Streonaeshalch. Reality is certainly not the abstract and obscure ravings of the seers and sorcerers that Beeby See and her lickspittle friends favour so much.

Why does Beeby want to share this idiocy with us? Apart from the fact that Beeby is buddy-pal with the Witangemot, (who pay her vast numbers of groats, extracted by force from the unwilling vassals and fiefs of Northumbria), I suspect there's a more fundamental reason. It's become evident to all thinking humans beings - and to this cat - that the Northumbrian State is distancing itself from the influence of the Christian faith, which hitherto has shaped the way of life and the values of human - ahem - civilisation. I referred some time ago to a de-Christianised Christmas; this outburst of folly is to my feline reckoning just another manifestation of the same foolishness. It's also the same kind of  frothy-chops folly that Edweird the Milliner was spouting yesterday. It's an escape from the truth. The pedestrian facts, which are so boring and so wretchedly inconvenient.

In the parallel world of these overpaid fantasists, everything is moulded into contorted shapes, directed by their feverish imaginations. A bit like shamanism, I suppose. Chew the mushrooms and the special herbs, throw the bones, sing the same song for several hours and everything will look better. For a while..
Idiots.