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…
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