A Letter from Feaxede To Caedmeron

Once again I've been asked to perform my duties as scribe to one of my illiterate fellow creatures; the transcript follows:

Dear Caedmeron,


I take a close and personal interest in the matters of governance in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, as my own existence as a living and intelligent creature fashioned by our Creator is very much bound up with those of the allegedly cleverer human contingent. I need your chicken carcasses, and you require my scavenging services to tidy up after your feasts. Quid pro quo, and all that.

Although to you I probably have little (or no) significance, there is one inescapable fact that is common to us both: we all breathe the same air, and have to pass our time peaceably and constructively within our limited years of earthly existence.

I am writing this letter (or - rather - CC is) to ask you a simple question, and it is this: what are you actually doing?

I understand that you are the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Witangemot, and I realise that you play a leading role on the political stage. But I know what a role is, sunshine - and it doesn't exactly suggest sincerity in action or purpose. It speaks of deceit - or showbiz and frothy entertainment. What troubles me (and also my white cat pal CC, who is also intently interested in these things) is that behind this facade of seriousness, you are having a laugh at the expense of those under your charge. For example:

You continue to burden your bovine and longsuffering people with excessively high taxation in the name of the Great Deficit, so that they all struggle to keep body and soul together, and yet you are giving them nothing in return - least of all reason to trust you;

You claim to be rectifying the damnable mess bequeathed you by your psychotic fly agaric-led Redistributionist colleagues, who successfully turned Northumbria into the devil's playground - and yet you are hiring diversity co-ordinators and fish psychologists as quickly as you are removing similar non-jobs elsewhere;

You are talking about the Big Community Idea, but nobody has a clue what it really is; it sounds to us that you have been eating too many magic mushrooms yourself. Do you normally start building up a house with the roof?

Honest men are working in the fields and the forests, the workshops and the forges; their women are raising children, cooking and grinding corn for their daily family bread. You and your fellows are disdainfully lording it over them, living off their labours and wearying them with your patronising drivel. It will not always be thus. Mark my words: sooner or later people will wake up and realise what you and your crew are up to. It won't be pretty when you have to explain yourself to them.

This is what CC and I think you're doing: you're just carrying on the fine demolition job on the Kingdom that your psychotic fly agaric-led Redistributionist predecessors did. You are handing over the reins of the Kingdom into the hands of garlic-breathed Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) satraps over the water. Furthermore, we are of the opinion that you and your self-important friends across the factional divisions are serving the interests of people who are far wealthier and cleverer than you - and these are people who don't give two hoots about anybody outside of their own narrow, debased and greedy horizons. You can fool humans, but there are some creatures who can see through you and your kind.

When are you going to play the man and lead? Are you ever going to? Humans are not asking you this question, so I thought I should. I can get away with it - after all, I'm only a fox..


Loads of love

Feaxede (fox)

Written by Caedmon's Cat (amanuensis)

Goodnight, Cyrene

The wheels of idiocy continue to turn; the placid serenity of everyday Streonaeshalch in this lovely Kingdom of Northumbria provides a marked contrast with the furore that has recently erupted in the Witangemot. This surrounds the current rioting and unrest in Cyrene – a North African country once a noble outpost of the defunct Roman Empire, now populated by Berbers and Arabs.

As in Carthage and Egypt, the local population of Cyrene have decided that It Would Be A Good Idea to rise up and challenge their eccentric and malevolent king – a khat-chewing psychopath called O'Daffy, who has benignly oppressed and tormented his subjects for the last ninety years. O'Daffy has been the darling of the Redistributionist politicos, who in previous years have visited his kingdom on jollies fact-finding missions to pay him sycophantic homage and drum up more trade. He has been regarded as the very embodiment of Redistributionist thought; he efficiently redistributed the entire nation's wealth into his back pocket, while living in a smelly Bedouin tent. (This was rumoured to be merely for the purpose of amusing and entertaining his lickspittle visitors – he returned to his sumptuous palaces once they'd disappeared from sight.)

After so many years of oppression by O'Daffy and his cadre of self-serving and vicious henchmen, the people of that Kingdom have decided that they've had enough of being exploited in grinding poverty and being easy prey for his torturing pals. So there has been a bloody stand-off; many Cyrenians have already been killed by O'Daffy's army, who've had no qualms about cheerfully murdering their own countrymen.

There's always been a large community of foreigners living in Cyrene; these have been Franks, Irish, Danes, Westphalians and Anglo-Saxons who've been more than happy to feast cheaply on lavish Cyrenian fare despite their knowledge of O'Daffy's vicious grip on his people. When the rioting first started, the Franks, Irish, Danes and Westphalians quickly acted to send ships and horses to evacuate their subjects and take them to somewhere safer. The uproar has been about the perceived delay in getting these feckless people out of danger. The Anglo-Saxons over there are understandably worried, since no help whatsoever has arrived from Northumbria yet. But I've just heard that they needn't worry any longer: Walthelm the Hag – the eggshell blond Foreign Secretary of the Witangemot has arranged for an ancient boat to pick up the hapless Anglo-Saxons. It'll get there in 3 months with a right wind – if it doesn't sink first…

Census Working Overtime

 

Every ten years, Anglo-Saxons are required to fill in a census form to let the Northumbrian authorities know that they’re still alive – and that they know their own names and addresses. This year is Census Year. Hooray!

This piece of imbecility was devised by previous kings so that they could keep track of their loyal and happy subjects, thus enabling them to boast to their fellow monarchs about how many people they were exploiting, oppressing and patronising.

It was decided to impose the census upon the population despite the hard lessons that King David had to learn after he’d carried out a headcount of his own Israelite people in disobedience to the specific command of the Almighty. Some king lessons are never learned…

This year, our noble King Alhfrith and his aristocratic cronies have taken the decision to extend the scope of the census questionnaire this time. Predictably, their highly-paid lackeys in the Witangemot are reassuring the public through the soothsayers that there is no reason for alarm: everything will be simple and the information supplied is guaranteed to be safe. Whatever. My pal Feaxede the fox is safe with the chickens...

For the impressive number of illiterates in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, this census poses both a threat and a farce, since there are severe financial penalties for those who don’t fill the form and submit it; the result is that those blessed with the gift of literacy are burdened with the responsibility of asking the feckless idiots the questions they’re unable to read, and then to write the entries to the form on their behalf. Needless to say, a great deal of money is to be made by enterprising scribes. I’ll be helping Caedmon out when he does his bit for the hapless. He does it out of Christian charity, so he charges nothing; despite this, he’s rewarded by substantial draughts of mead and ale from the grateful parishioners. Things can get rather interesting after a couple of home visits…

What questions are they going to ask Northumbrians this time? Well, apart from the usual name, address and number of kids guff, they’ll be asking things like:

What do you eat for breakfast? (Sheer idle curiosity. Serves no useful purpose.)

How much do you weigh? (To find out those who are fat so that they can mock and shame them)

What colour is your skin? (Silly question, since most poverty-stricken Northumbrians don’t know how to wash, so they all look a dirty brown)

How many cats do you own? Are they licensed? (To raise more money through fines)

Do you spread butter or dripping on your bread? (To find out whom to bully and lecture about eating habits)

How many horses or donkeys do you possess? (To assess the means of transportation)

Do you ride them – or use them for work purposes? (To decide which tax to levy on the animals)

Have you eaten any rabbits in the last ten years? If so, how many? (To work out the number of bunnies consumed in the Northumbrian diet)

They’re also going to ask what each person’s religion is. In the future this will enable the King - when he’s in an oppressive mood – to round up all the Edda-reading Vikings and pen them up somewhere and beat the living daylights out of them. As you can imagine, the Vikings are writing “Atheist” on their forms.

Those who write “Christian” on their census forms are likely to be marked for persecution by the aggressively irreligious, fly agaric-chewing secularist psychotics who are working hard to eradicate the Christian Faith from the public consciousness.

So, why are there so many questions on the census? There are two simple answers.

First of all, the Northumbrian State is overbearingly intrusive, and thus wants to gather as much information as possible from its people by force so that it has more means by which to intimidate, patronise and bully the people.

Secondly, to create more non-jobs for the out-of work pigeon psychologists, fish quota accountants, cat license administrators and diversity co-ordinators that have been cast into the outer darkness of unemployment by the Tree/Liberationist Alliance government. What the State takes with one hand, it gives with another. In this way, the data can be assiduously collated by the mindless slaves. Some of them will certainly go mad as a result.

I can hardly contain my excitement...

Beef, De-brief and Outcast Chief

Those are my principles, and if you don't like them... well, I have others. (Groucho Marx)


At long last, I've heard from my fellow feline Láréow! After a seemingly endless wait, I had a brief tete-a-tete with him, and he was able to tell me that he's happily settled into Caedmeron's sumptuous residence. The physical and mental scars from his minor surgery have passed, and he's getting used to life in the upper echelons of power. He said that the publicly-funded food is gorgeous - especially the beef. He gets a saucer of publicly-funded ale for his troubles as well. Well. I am surprised...

When I first asked him for some tasty goss from the inner sanctum, he was rather reticent at first; this was because he feared that he was subject to the Official Secrecy Law - but I assured him that only humans were bound to such silliness. After a few minutes he was in full flight.

It appears that the powers that be are in a tailspin because there's been a series of violent demonstrations against various Middle Eastern potentates. This new phenomenon started in Carthage;  following some determined opposition from thousands of downtrodden merchants, artisans, goat and camel herders against their cruel and oppressive master, they succeeded in forcing him out of the country. He's now living in the lap of indecent luxury in Constantinople, mourning the lack of people to oppress. Sad, but true.

Since the Carthage incident, a number of other Middle Eastern Kingdoms are experiencing similar outbursts of popular revolt against greedy and tyrannical despots. It's been happening in the ancient land of Egypt, and even in Cyrene. Caedmeron is very worried about what's going on in these unstable regions.

I asked Láréow why this was of such concern to Caedmeron and the top brass. He told me that they were anxious because these cruel despots had all been very close friends of both himself and his psychotic predecessor Guthmund the Brown. It's always been official policy of Redistributionist and Tree/Liberationist governments to be buddy-pal with these creeps and to keep them sweet, so that they could bribe them to trade Anglo-Saxon junk for fine exotic silks and spices. Whatever. They're scared witless that they're going to look like unprincipled, duplicitous fools and idiots as sordid truths about these tyrants come to light. I've got news for them; they don't need to worry that they look unprincipled, duplicitous and idiotic: they already are. End of story.

And now it's coming to the notice of the politically aware Northumbrians that our great and glorious leaders aren't as honest or as scrupulous as they would like people to suppose - and they're not very fussy about the company they keep either. They're terribly relaxed about rubbing shoulders with all manner of pondlife like Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy, many of who are excessively predisposed to kill and maim people who dare to defy them.

I can't say I'm at all surprised - especially now these dear, dear friends of our Witangemot have suddenly become pariahs and the scum of the earth to our all-wise rulers.

I bet you're wondering about the rats, aren't you? I didn't forget to ask Láréow about his endeavours. He hasn't caught a single one - he never expected to - but he's had some interesting conversations with them. He has obligingly given Mrs Caedmeron a few scratches and gatecrashed some high-powered meetings, demanding food. And the mice are plentiful and delicious..

Lucky beggar! If only....

A Letter To King Alhfrith

The things you have to do for your friends... This is a transcript of a letter I was asked by a fellow-creature to write on his behalf (he can't write, as he hasn't had the benefit of a Christian education):


Dear King Alhfrith,


I am writing to you to inform you that as yet, I am still not in receipt of an invitation to the forthcoming wedding of Prince Walthelm and the Lady Gytha.

I understand that this oversight may have escaped your notice (I appreciate that in your capacity as Supreme Monarch and Formaggio Grande you are occupied with matters of national importance), but I  certainly should be grateful if you would kindly rectify the matter - or at least delegate the task to some lesser being who is up to the job if you are too busy to attend to it personally.

For your information, I have no dietary preferences, so my presence at the festivities will afford no difficulty for the catering staff. I also give you my word that I will conduct myself with all the decorum and dignity that one should expect from a creature made by God.

I am looking forward to your earliest reply.

Your humble servant

Feaxede (Fox)

PS

I'm very partial to chicken carcasses - if this makes menu choices easier.

PPS

May I discreetly request a guided tour of the Royal Dump? - I would find it most interesting, and I would be eternally grateful.

F x

Fixes and Trickses

'Politics is the entertainment branch of industry.' (Frank Zappa)

Although I have a vested interest in the cat and vermin situation in the corridors of power in Northumbria (sad to say, I haven't heard anything from Láréow yet - still waiting), I have to admit that I'm getting sick and tired to death of hearing all about it from the soothsayers: they've been warbling on about it for ages. It's getting silly.

Nevertheless, it all makes for a tidy distraction while the dirtier and seamier political processes grind relentlessly on. I received an insight about this the other day; we had a middle-aged traveller lodge with us at Caedmon's place. He was passing through Streonaeshalch on the way to Yorvik. It turned out that he was an entertainer - a magician, in fact. Although Caedmon isn't the type of human to take much of an interest in the wacky world of showbiz, he was very interested in the tricks that the traveller performed for him. For example, he made coins vanish and suddenly reappear in unlikely places; he pulled a white rabbit from a hat. Naturally, Caedmon asked him how he did these remarkable things, since he doesn't really believe that this stuff is achieved through supernatural or mystical powers. The magician - a friendly fellow - told him that it was a closely guarded secret; only other magicians know how to perform them. Nevertheless, he told us that the art of the conjurer depended on common psychological techniques: a swift and subtle hand movement here, a theatrical gesture there. The secret (without giving any of the tricks away) is to move deftly and create carefully staged distractions to avert the viewer's gaze, so that they don't actually notice what you're actually doing to create the illusion.

Following our visit from this fellow, I started pondering about what he told Caedmon, and I quickly realised that this is exactly how the Witangemot works. It all made sense! I'd already come to the conclusion through my observations that the whole political business is one carefully orchestrated stage show - and that the main characters are merely actors, putting on a show to entertain the clueless majority. The real business goes on while lesser distractions are taking place. Clever, eh?

At the moment there's currently a lot of hot air about an alternative voting procedure, and Beeby See and her merry soothsaying cronies are crooning about it as if it's the best thing since sliced bread. Whatever. While the oblivious and bovine Northumbrian people are distracted about whether they support casting one stick for the candidate of their choice - or different colored sticks for each contestant according to their order of preference - you can bet your boots that there's other stuff boiling on unnoticed in the background. Unbeknown to the serfs, the Kingdom of Northumbria is steadily being handed over to the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) and His Royal Highness Jose Borracho, the megalomaniac, fly agaric-chewing potentate and his half-witted Flemish Hermit buddy. That's how these politico illusionists work. And when (or if) I get my information from Láréow, he'll only be confirming what I already know...

Spy In The Caedmeron Camp

I've been eagerly awaiting intelligence updates from Láréow - the cat pal of mine who is engaged in a Mission of National Importance in the beating heart of Northumbrian governance. As my post yesterday intimated, Láréow has been appointed to sort out the rats which have been infesting the higher echelons of power. I haven't heard anything yet, but I'm quietly optimistic.


Now, let me lay my cards on the table. I don't think for one moment that Láréow will be equal to the task. By saying this, I don't wish to demean him; as I already stated, he's a friend and he's one mean kitty as far as the mice are concerned. To catch mice is one thing however, but to destroy rats is quite another. In my wide experience as a hunter and predator, I can count on one tail the number of rats I've actually caught and killed. It was as I recall an asthmatic runt - and I felt no great flush of pride at my achievement; the poor thing ran out of breath and gave up.

Despite their bad press from the human world, rats are charming and intelligent creatures, and those inhabiting the cesspits of the Witangemot are veritable brutes. They feast on the finest scraps and occupy themselves with their physical exercises. Láréow has his work cut out - that's for sure.

Despite my pessimism as regards his ability to do the business, I still have high hopes for him, though. Even if he never catches a single rat during the Tree/Liberationist term of office, he'll have carved for himself a nice little niche in the corridors of power. Let me explain: should Caedmeron decide Láréow's simply not performing to the required standard, he won't part him his exalted status. Why? - because his plastic wife and children will be so attached to him that the prospect of his removal will cause even more domestic disharmony than he already has. It simply won't be an option. Besides which, I know for a fact that he's a cat of the old school - I've seen his charm offensives and hear him exercising his chat-up lines with the females of the species. With these qualities in his favour, he'll be a valuable asset as a vital source of information regarding the dirty business of illusionist politics.

As for the problem with rats - quite honestly, I couldn't give a monkey's about Caedmeron's problems. There are meaner, viler and nastier creatures stalking the corridors and pulling the levers of power, and they don't get a moggy appointed to sort them out.. Although I know one mean moggy who would eat them for breakfast.. Nuff said.

Oh, by the way - I hear that Láréow was subjected to the indignity of the 'chop' before moving in to his new residence - and that he subsequently took a chunk out of the leg of a soothsayer's lackey. That's my boy! If anyone did that to me, I'd be in a foul mood as well. And anybody that does damage to the legs of a soothsayer's lackey gets my vote.. Láréow for Faction Leader! I can see the headlines already. I'm so excited! Bring it on, children.

Caedmeron's Counteractive Cat

Since my post about rats the other week, I gather that things have been happening in the high-flying world of Northumbrian Witangemot politics. Decisive and shrewd as ever, Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance government - has taken matters in hand and hired the services of a cat to sort out the rat problem in his official residence... (Suffice it to say that I'm not going to repeat my comment from last time.)

It just so happens that the moggy in question is a good mate of mine: he is a tabby and his name is Láréow. He excitedly told me about his forthcoming appointment the other day. He will be paid in kind, and there will be generous expenses available for him to claim - all from the public purse, of course. He is a formidable mouser, but I don't know how he's likely to fare with some of the fat rats down there. I've heard that those rats work out at the gym every day and take regular baths in the governmental cesspits. I have to admit that I don't envy him; the stink from the Witangemot is bad enough as it is.

Although I get around and find out a great deal of what's going down on the street, I don't have the opportunity to eavesdrop on exalted ruffians like Caedmeron, so I asked Láréow if he would pass me on any useful titbits of information he gleams in the course of his duties. He has kindly agreed to do so. Result!

Watch this space, people. It goes without saying that if I hear anything of interest from Camp Caedmeron, I'll pass it on to you. You have my word. Eat your hearts out, Beeby See and Guardy-Ann!

Pig Society

Rivers of inane drivel continue to steadfastly stream out of the Witangemot and the various toadying soothsayers. For some time, Caedmeron – that shifty, uliginous creature who heads up the Tree/Liberationist ruling faction - has been pontificating about the Big Society. It started some time last year, as I recall; he mapped out to the Northumbrian corner of the Anglo-Saxon realm his Big Idea for the future - a future, it would seem, without busybodies eavesdropping on private conversations in the marketplaces. He spoke of a future featuring small government. No. Really. It will be a future with no diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychiatrists, fish quota accountants, tree wardens and cat license administrators – all of which have been subsidised through oppressive tax burdens, imposed upon longsuffering working people. The myriads of psychopathically draconian laws railroaded onto the statute book by the fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction in the previous administration will be repealed, thus relieving the people of the burdens of being classed as common criminals. No longer would elderly ladies be violently seized by costumed thugs for allowing their pet dogs to leave brown statements on the streets of the villages and towns. Get ready, people - paradise is on its way. Whatever, Caddy boy.

What the beloved Dear Leader has been really telling his loyal swivel-eyed drones is that he's going to remove one set of burdens from the Northumbrian population and replace them with a new – and heavier - deluxe version. While levying yet more taxes on firewood, fish, spelt and suet to pay for the aforementioned non-jobs, he's going to reduce the number of jobs subsidised by the public purse, and instead encourage loyal, naïve idiots and dolts to do the work for free. Lovely lateral thinking, Slimeball. How do you do it?

Is everybody excited at the prospect of supporting big this new idea? Hmmm.. I've yet to meet one of the thousands of people who – so they tell us - are just dying to do voluntary work for the Witangemot for free, gratis and for nothing. If they are keen, it's because they're chewing magic mushrooms – or they're simply demented.

Maybe there are some willing men and women who are looking forward to being pigeon co-ordinators, tree diversity wardens and fish psychiatrists; I could be completely wrong for casting doubt on this new hallucination. But I can't help wondering if this is just another conjurer's trick to provide the gullible and unreflective majority the illusion that things are actually improving in Tree-Lib Land. Caedmeron may be slimy, but unlike his fly agaric-led Redistributionist friends, he isn't stupid. He just assumes that everyone else is.

This all sounds suspiciously like a blueprint for an Animal Farm-style Pig Society. The porcine drivellers implementing the agendas (set for them by the bigger swine at the top) are burdening the lower-order animals. But while cutbacks are made to pay for this enormous (imaginary) debt that has conveniently been presented to the serfs, the pigs will continue to feast off the fat of the land and prosper while the lower orders get poorer by the hour.

I actually like pigs – at least, the proper pigs. Although they're rather smelly, they're delightfully affable and honourable creatures; it's the human ones that make me want to heave…

Excuse me a minute – I feel rather nauseous...

The Prince And The Porkers

This is such a busy week for your moggy; I was really hoping to take some time out - you know, catching mice and kitty stuff like that - but once again, I've been provoked by yet another episode in the continuing saga of our window-licking superiors. Why can't they simply let a cat have some peace for once? Pah!

This time we've been hearing about our esteemed Prince Ethelbert, who recently appeared in pomp and splendour before the Supreme Soviet of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire). Prince Ethelbert has given a speech. Whoop-de-do. Hold on to your hats, people.

Now, if there were any sentient beings bearing the slightest vestige of human resemblance who certainly do not deserve the natural gift of communication, then this man must surely be one of them; in fact, it is this cat's considered opinion that he should be confined to a field somewhere, feeding pigs, mending fences or doing other constructive things. Over the years, this aristocratic buffoon has ably demonstrated to the rest of humanity - as well as those of us of the feline realm (and of course, not forgetting my mate Feaxede the fox) - his unbounded capacity to offload his phenomenal ignorance and spout complete rubbish. He's already successfully carved for himself a career by upsetting people infinitely more knowledgeable and experienced than he.

Our Clown Prince - at the invitation of the pig-faced Emperor Jose Borracho - has this time demonstrated his lack of knowledge and understanding of Climate Science; his expertise in this delicate subject can be considered to be inversely proportional to the size of his ears.

In his speech to the assembled adoring herds hordes, he suggested that all those people who cast doubt on the Holy Climate Change Dogma (taught by His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the fly agaric-chewing sage and spiritual leader of the drug-crazed World Climate Disaster Cult) should be held accountable. How will they face the next generation? Great question, Princey boy.
 
Guess what he's been chewing, guys..

Well, I never. Who'd have imagined that such a delicate petal of this lovely realm of Northumbria should come out with such imbecility?

It underlines to me my suspicion that this fellow and his wealthy associates have more than a vested interest in the success of these magic mushroom-inspired theologies. Methinks he and his family want to use the good offices of the crazed and deluded Bishop Georges Moonbat and his wild-eyed acolytes to keep the underlings poor, deprived and hungry. Such is the measure of their esteem for their subjects. After all, if honest men are no longer allowed to light fires and burn wood for their hearths and their forges for the sake of 'saving the planet', how are they going to keep warm, cook food and make a living? The irony of it all is that the Prince lives in unspeakable luxury and wealth, and has thousands of log fires to keep his houses and his lackeys warm. Bring up some more standards, boys: we haven't got enough to go round..

Lash the serfs a bit more - keep 'em under the whip and squeeze more groats out of them. Whatever.

It's often said in these parts that it's better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. Prince Lugfest Ethelbert is a living demonstration of the wisdom of this saying.

I'd love to pay him a visit in his sumptuous residence. I have something to offer that would enhance his refined palate...

Giving 'Em Gip

Returning to reality from my dream the other night - in the ancient land of Egypt - famous for the Sphinx, the Pyramids, the Pharaohs, Moses and Joseph - there has been an uprising of the people against its long-serving Pharaoh President, Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy. (This must be true: Beeby See and her strange fly agaric-swallowing stablemate Guardy-Ann have told us all about it.) Rioting has been taking place in the Old Bazaar in Cairo; costumed thugs and uniformed bandits have been clashing with hordes of protesters. It’s not been pretty, and feelings have been inflamed to fever-pitch.

Mubarak O'Barmy has ruled over the region with an iron fist for millennia; the long-suffering natives have recently woken up to the realisation that they don't have to tolerate heavy taxation and other forms of ill-treatment by the president and his self-serving political henchmen – not to mention the legions of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychiatrists, costumed thugs, cat license administrators and fish quota accountants, who have wallowed in the riches of Croesus while lashing the natives with bullwhips to make them more co-operative, productive and poor. It’s a strangely delicious irony that Edweird the Milliner and his fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction were until recently devoted ideological supporters of Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy and his Egyptian Peoples Faction. They’ve recently distanced themselves from them. Funny, that…

But – shrewd political operator that he is – Chesney Mubarak O’Barmy has been using the predictable ‘Divide-and-Rule’ trick, and has managed to gather a small, but influential and well-paid crowd of khat-chewing, hashish-smoking devotees to rally to his noble cause. The consequence of this is that there have been clashes between the protesters and these self-serving sleazeballs noble patriots, who have dutifully been knocking seven bells out of each other.

I’m glad that the Egyptians are making a stand against their oppressors; they’ve suffered injustice too long, and I wish them well in their struggles. But I worry about them, too. Despots like Mubarak O’Barmy use cruelty to keep the lid on various evils – some of which are likely to be worse than they are. When Pandora opened the famous box, all kinds of fleas, flies and fevers escaped, and once released they couldn’t be caught and restored to their original container.

Egypt is famous for the plagues that befell it in the Bible account. It’s also renowned for its flies and Gippy Tummy. What fleas, flies and fevers are waiting in line to plague Egypt if Mubarak O’Barmy crawls down his exotic bolthole with his ill-gotten gains?

Leo's Dream Diet

I awoke this morning from a very strange dream. Rather than the usual fare of twitchy cat-and-mouse chases, this dream was quite different. This is what I recall:

I was walking around our lovely country of Northumbria with my old pal Leo, who to my surprise was no longer confined to his caged enclosure. Leo told me that he was hungry, so he wanted to go for a snack. So we came to a large, plain daub-and-wattle building and wandered inside. There were hundreds of people there - including Clegge - the Deputy Supreme Allied Commander In Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Witangemot. We'd evidently wandered into their headquarters. "Yummy - breakfast!" was Leo's delighted exclamation. He tucked into a nearby Liberationist politician,  enjoying every bite.

In my dream we then wandered down the road until we came to another large daub-and-wattle building; this edifice was bigger and grander than the previous one, as it had been built by prosperous merchants. This one was certainly the headquarters of the Trees Faction; I recognised Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander In Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Witangemot - among the hordes within. "Goody - lunchtime!" was Leo's cheery cry. He helped himself to a rotund Tree politician, savouring every morsel with a relish not normally associated with large cats.

After Leo's repast we walked further, and after some time arrived at the Command and Control Centre of the fly-agaric-led Redistributionist Faction. I recognised the building immediately; it was a magnificent palace, since it had been built at public expense. "Wonderful! Teatime!" was the delighted response. So we wandered inside, and Leo helped himself to a Redistributionist politician. He ate enthusiastically and quickly, and after his tea we then left to resume our journey. It soon became apparent that Leo's digestive tract was suffering; the gurgling and the flatulence following his last meal was intense. He had been eating bad meat - I wasn't at all surprised. That's why I'm more fastidious than he is...

As daylight faded we approached a modest dwelling. "Supper, Leo?" - I tentatively suggested. "Let's see what's on the menu," was Leo's reply. We looked through the doorway. Inside the house was a number of people, shouting at - or knocking seven bells out of - each other. It was a veritable battlefield. "What d'you think, Leo?" I asked him. "Nahhh," he said. "They're Libertarians; if they can't agree among themselves, they certainly won't agree with me."

And thus the dream ended. I wonder what it all means?

Motleyculturalism

I hardly get the chance to catch a tasty morsel of mouse before yet another piece of political imbecility reaches my ears. Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief of the Tree-Liberationist Alliance government went to see his partners in crime politics in Westphalia – one of the continental regions of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire).

While he was there, he made a speech to the assembled window-lickers dignitaries in which he announced that multiculturalism in Northumbria has failed. As soon as these words reached my ears, I knew that they sounded familiar: only a matter of weeks beforehand, the Westphalian Senior Apparatchik had said the same thing with regard to the conditions in her own country – to the applause and adulation of the assembled knuckle-dragging hordes. Funny, that – I thought she’d been part of the problem..

What has been happening? Well, it’s apparent that for some considerable time, doors have been held wide open to the conquering hordes from Barbary, Tartary, Kievan Rus, Bulgary, Ultima Thule, darkest Anatolia and the Levant. They’ve arrived in boatloads and cartloads, bringing with them their strange hats, esoteric religions and bizarre customs. They’ve settled with others of their own communities and set up shops to sell the sloppily-butchered cuts of unknown animals with unpronounceable names. They’ve wandered in their national garb through the streets of our lovely Northumbrian towns, expressing themselves by means of guttural grunts and glottal stops. They’ve demanded the right to pursue their own foreign ways and customs (at Northumbrian public expense) without the need to assimilate themselves into mainstream Northumbrian social life. And - without so much as a challenge – the Witangemot has granted their every request. No kidding.

One consequence of this is that these influxes of foreign invaders have caused a great deal of anxiety among the aboriginal Anglo-Saxons. Even the Vikings are getting nervous about this development.

Another effect of this cultural barrage is that Anglo-Saxons are starting to ask themselves why this has been allowed to happen. Some are even wondering what it means to be Anglo-Saxon – which is quite odd really, since they were two separate cultures once upon a time..

Furthermore, this been happening elsewhere, too – hence Caedmeron’s slavish imitation of the Westphalian senior apparatchik’s address to her lackeys. To me it sounds like empty posturing designed to reassure those gullible enough to be taken in by it. For sure, nothing will ever be done. That’s politics – wind and words.

So – what’s it really all about? I asked Caedmon about it, but he had no perspective on the matter. So I spoke with Feaxede the fox; he’s a shrewd character, and he’s pretty switched on with regard to the devious ways of the theatrical business of politics. His take on it is that the Witangemots of the respective nations in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) are being forced by the kings, moneylenders and nobles (who pay the politicians’ wages) to allow these foreign hordes to come into the various places in a bid to dilute and undermine Westphalian, Frankish and Anglo-Saxon culture; it makes it so much easier to control them when they’re suspicious of each other – and at each other’s throats.

I think Feaxede is smart to reach this conclusion; he’s obviously given the matter some thought. I hope that the Northumbrian people are as clever as he is – but I’m not holding my breath…

Berserkers and Bug-a-Boos

I was hunting mice within the blessed portals of Beeby See earlier today, when I heard yet more hilarity and cheerfulness from our beloved soothsayers: there are fresh warnings of a rash of attacks by Viking extremists in the Kingdom of Northumbria. This may be designed to coincide with the 90^th anniversary of the accession of King Alhfrith to the Northumbrian throne. Or perhaps it's the forthcoming Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) Games, which are scheduled to run in Yorvik next year. Or perhaps it's simply been decided by their astrologers as a favourable time for such activity: I don't know. Whatever.

This piece of disinformation propaganda fantasy information has been published by the secretive MCD (Ministry of Cloaks and Daggers) through the services of Beeby See, Guardy-Ann, Maelstrom and others. The clinking of groats into greased palms is audible from here. Somebody is going to be dining well tonight. For me it will be fish as usual – but I'm not complaining.

But – we're constantly advised – there's absolutely nothing to worry about. Everyone is being taken care of by our wonderful Witangemot, which is the best government that money can buy. No evil will ever befall us. They are our protectors. Whatever.

Whenever I hear warnings like these, I get a déjà entendu feeling. We've had these warnings so many times before, and nothing has actually happened. Occasionally solitary Vikings have been on the rampage. They've chewed magic mushrooms, thus working themselves up into a state of high excitement; they've then run through crowds of Anglo-Saxons in public places, wielding axes and screaming like banshees. Sometimes innocent people have been killed or maimed in the process – but the offenders are usually overpowered by the costumed thugs before this has happened. When such atrocities occur, no warning precedes them - like my bowel movements when I've eaten some bad meat – they're completely unscheduled.

Most Anglo-Saxons are suspicious and wary enough about the Vikings already – without such outbursts of unwarranted violence. Their Norse religion revolves around their gods and their heroic legends from the Eddas - their sacred writings. Their fanatical devotion to their traditions is something that the Anglo-Saxon character finds difficult to comprehend.

When the soothsayers issue advance warnings about such incidents, I wonder how their mysterious sources know this. Do they have a hold on the Vikings and their demented priests? Do they have a book where such incidents are scheduled like appointments? Or is it just that they want to keep the ordinary people of Northumbria in check by keeping them in a state of anxiety? After all – it's easier to manipulate those who are already worried. You can get away with all sorts of injustices if people are too worried to notice what you're up to.

I may just be a cat, but I can smell a rat from a distance of several miles because I have a refined sense of smell. And there's a fat rat here…

Led By The Nose

Each new day bears another eloquent testimony to the knuckle-dragging imbecility of those donkeys who pretend to preside over the governance of this lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

As I've previously explained, the Kingdom has a monarch and a cardboard-cutout constitutional democracy, which is designed to pacify naïve natives and impress visitors; it's currently administered by a combination of 2 otherwise rival political factions: the Trees and the Liberationists. This state of affairs – or so we are told - arose because the battered and bewildered Northumbrians failed to vote for any one faction in convincing enough numbers to secure an overall majority (despite the extensive and assiduous vote-rigging which went on in some Redistributionist circles). Horse trading therefore ensued between the respective faction leaders, resulting in the seemingly blessed compromise solution presented to us. Whatever.

Naturally, when 2 factions hold the reins of this fantasy coalition government, each side is obliged to abandon its original political objectives; manifestos are torn up before the ink is even dry. (It would be misleading of me to suggest that they are forced to abandon their principles, since it's evident that they don't have one between them.) Each faction in the alliance counterbalances the other; this inhibits any of the fanatical and bizarre ideas that might otherwise have taken shape as policy with which to bludgeon and afflict the long-suffering populace. The fact that the ratio of Northumbrians represented by the 2 colluding ruling factions doesn't correspond to a 50-50 split has no bearing on the matter; the Liberationists only represent an insignificant percentage of doddery ancients and wild-eyed eccentrics, but for all this, they wield considerable power over the otherwise bizarre and fanatical aspirations of the Trees.

With all this in mind, it strikes me as rather odd that the seedy and disreputable honourable and esteemed members of the Redistributionist faction – now outnumbered by the paired factions in government - have recently adopted the habit of referring to the present administration as 'the Tree-led government.' This new tactic is probably intended to lay the blame for any disasters squarely at the feet of the Trees, who are sworn enemies of the Redistributionists.

In view of the fact that the Trees – like themselves – don't have the full weight of public support, this epithet flies in the face of reality. The Trees are in no position to lead anything. (Although I'm given to understand that at the end of the morning the Tree Leader Caedmeron is usually the first man out of the Witangemot assembly hall, and he leads the way so that he gets his lavish and expensive public-funded lunch before anyone else.) But as the Franks often say, 'Noblesse oblige.'

I'm not sure that Edweird the Milliner has enough influence to lead himself out of a paper bag - let alone the faction he heads up, so he has no room to talk.

So from now on I'm going to refer to Edweird the Milliner and his cohort of slavering drones droning slaves cronies as the Fly Agaric–led Opposition, since that seems to be the active ingredient behind their incoherent and delirious blitherings.

Just thought I'd let you know…

Breaking Ranks and Breaking Out

I was very intrigued to hear the ruminations of one of Beeby See's former stooges recently. Sigismund was until recently one of her principal front men, and we Northumbrians have become accustomed to the sight of him delivering the daily dose of despondency with the kind of gravity associated with elderly theatrical gentlemen.

What caused my ears to prick up was that Sigismund – now he's retired from his position as Senior Soothsayer at Beeby's house – has admitted that there is a secret cult working under the surface of the soothsaying institution. Now, in saying this, he's not telling me anything I didn't know already; nevertheless it's quite gratifying to hear from the horse's mouth that your assumptions have been correct. It would appear that Beeby See's house is dominated by a secretive inner circle of fly agaric-chewing disciples of His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the crazy but influential global warmist (who repeatedly declares that our cold winters are caused by an excessive number of bonfires and wood burners). The result of this is that every piece of information, news and advice dispensed by the beloved Beeby has to be vetted by this secretive cult beforehand.

Not content to take this at face value, I decided to investigate for myself, so I wandered down to Beeby's place and climbed in through an open window. I wandered unnoticed through the many rooms of Beeby's place, all of which were humming with frenetic activity. I came to a door marked with the word 'Private' and decided to wait for an opportunity to slip in. I heard the low droning of voices which were coming from the room.

After 20 minutes or so, a middle-aged woman with a roll of vellum in her hand came to the door and knocked loudly. 'Who is it?' came a voice from within. 'Frithswith of Brus' the woman replied. 'Enter' came back the response. The door opened, and I quickly ran in past the woman's ankles, and hid behind a large chest in the spacious and sumptuously-decorated room. From where I was hidden I could discern a group of a dozen or so enrobed people who were sitting round candles, wearing garlands and swaying gently to the sound of discordant humming. Frithswith was talking with one of the assembled devotees. 'I've no idea what to do with this story. What brief do you have for me?' she asked tersely. 'There's no brief needed, dearie,' came the jovial reply. 'Have a look at yesterday's Guardy-Ann: you'll get enough for your brief from there.'

This was sufficient to confirm to me that what Sigismund had said was true. Beeby was getting her information and opinions from Guardy-Ann – who's one of the most rabid supporters of Bishop Georges Moonbat - and the bizarre Redistributionists and their leader Edweird the Milliner.

I decided to leave a calling card before I slipped away. As I sauntered jauntily through the door, I heard the same man say, 'Frith – have you farted?' 'I most certainly haven't!' came the brusque and indignant reply. I made a rapid exit, trying not to laugh out loud.

I felt satisfied that I'd done a good job. Since they're good at spreading ordure, they can tidy some up…