Noxious Vapours And Nuptials

Amid all the recent delirium about the peaceful riots in Yorvik this weekend, it hasn't escaped my attention that the soothsayers have been busy, flying in the scaremonger stratosphere with stories of noxious vapours emanating from the secretive, distant Oriental Kingdom of Japan.

Since the tragic earthquake and tidal wave which afflicted those distant shores a few weeks ago (resulting in severe loss of life and property), reports are spreading like wildfire of noxious humours, fumes, poxes and plagues emanating from midden heaps that were displaced and damaged by the seismic disruption. Since we're all subject to the moods and whims of the climate, winds have reportedly wafted around these noxious fumes, leaving trails of desolation, distress, despair and disease in their wake. No. Really.

And now, Beeby See and her pimpled companions have been spreading gloom and despondency stories about wind-borne contamination reaching our shores here, and the Northumbrian public are consequently quaking with fear while the soothsayers are joyfully telling them of an oncoming outbreak of some plague, pox or whatever. The bodycount is going to be enormous. The stench of death is going to be ubiquitous. The gravediggers are going to have their work cut out for months to come. The apothecaries are going to be running out of potions and poultices for the hapless people. Woe, woe and thrice woe. Whatever.

As a result, there's a burgeoning market for entrepreneurs who are selling nosegays on the streets to the gullible; they're selling like hot cakes. They have all kinds of miraculous powers to protect and heal, apparently. Whatever. There's never a shortage of suckers and people sharp enough to take advantage of their anxiety. Sleazeballs.

Frankly, I'm getting bored with hearing this scary stuff in its infinite variations - and it doesn't seem to let up, either. The only genuinely noxious vapours are those which continually emanate from Beeby See's various orifices. She and her pals are in continual production.

Among the foreboding clouds of gloom and disaster, a bright light has come to beam its benevolence upon us. Edweird the Milliner is going to marry. Hooray for Eddy boy! We're all ecstatic with joy here in Streonaeshalch. The bunting is already being washed in readiness for the great day when he and his female companion tie the knot. At least five of their snot-caked children will also be participating in the festivities, which will be held in the Danegeld-dominated Mercian settlement of Snottingham.

I hope it's not going to upstage Walthelm and Gytha's grand royal beanfest at the end of April: that would be most unfitting. I do hope the noxious vapours are kind to them on the occasion of the Milliner wedding; if Eddy's juvenile brother Dagwold is to be the best man, he'll have to compete with other vapours, though. I believe pulses, leeks and onions are going to be on the menu at the great feast afterwards...

Flying, Lying and Crying Hughie

Another exciting incident that saturated my little feline head this weekend was the news about Guthmund The Brown - previous Chief Psychotic of the Redistributionist Faction and former Pontifex Maximus and Bankrupter of the Northumbrian Witangemot.

Since his demotion to the ranks of ordinary Witangemot representative, Guthmund hasn't been idle; he's been working hard on his memoirs, which will doubtless be the usual farrago of fantasies and evasions that politicians of self-significance like to publish for the entertainment of their window-licking admirers. I've often wondered why they bother writing them, but apparently there are enough idiots literate and (paradoxically) stupid enough to purchase their vellum tomes and read them to make the enterprise worthwhile. Some of them recite extensively from them at parties. They are not popular people, and they frequently receive sharp blows to their kneecaps.

But that isn't all that Guthmund has been doing. Not content to merely feather his own nest with the ill-gotten royalties of his seedy and fantastic tales, he's also been travelling throughout the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman or an empire) giving pompous lectures to those who are deranged enough to take him seriously (which usually means people of a similar psychopathic ilk). Again, this must be an attractively lucrative business, since he's only put in at the most a couple of appearances at the Witangemot since the Tree/Liberationist Alliance took office. Move 'em out - move 'em up. I feel sorry for his constituents, who must feel like orphaned puppies, pining for their mother. Whatever.

I hear that on a wagon journey from one of his money-grubbing bore-fests, a heavily pregnant young mother-to-be was asked to yield her comfortable seat to Guthmund by one of the sycophantic heavies who are hired to guard him (at taxpayers' expense, of course). The poor woman subsequently was obliged to sit in some uncomfortable seat above the axle of the cart, and consequently was hear to be gagging and heaving periodically. I do hope that Guthmund wasn't too distressed by the sounds and smells of puking. Poor chap.

Heartwarming stuff, isn't it, people? It restores one's faith in human nature... Bless.

Look Left, Look Riot

Monday again - and I'm pooped! It's been such a busy weekend, what with helping Caedmon to fill in the Census forms for a number of poor illiterate Streonaeshalch residents and everything. At least that's over. I managed to persuade Caedmon not to fill in the 'religion' slot on his own form. He reluctantly agrees that it makes sense. Fortunately, kittycats are exempt from filling the forms in, so I haven't had that dubious pleasure. However, I did manage to put 'Brain Surgeon' down as the occupation of one large and intellectually-challenged gentleman. I was relieved that Caedmon didn't notice - otherwise my intestines would now be gracing a stringed instrument somewhere…

Census aside, there's been such a lot going on lately. My poor little feline brain is reeling from the relentless cascade of events that have been taking place this last couple of days.

On Saturday I heard all about the Big Protest down in Yorvik, the Capital City of Northumbria. Myriads of diversity coordinators, schoolmasters, pigeon quota accountants, fish psychologists and assorted environmental administrators converged on the city, waving placards bearing unintelligible and badly-written slogans damning the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration for their brutal cuts to public expenditure. They were accompanied by assorted partisans, artisans, labourers and hangers-on from the various trade guilds (skilled and unskilled), schoolchildren, toddlers, university students (complete with with bibs and comforters) and - to everyone's surprise - representatives of the concerned gentlefolk from the leafy shires and hundreds. An uneasy alliance, I suspect.

They headed en masse for a large area of common land where people usually put horses, pigs and sheep to graze, and they were addressed in grand style by - among other tub-thumpers - Edweird the Milliner, the Dear Leader of the fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction. What a day it was! There were celebrity luvvies, musicians and picnics, and the mead and ale flowed freely. The sound of jaws masticating the magic mushrooms broke the occasional tranquillity of the afternoon. Until Edweird spoke. And the faithful followers weren't disappointed. He loudly proclaimed that this was a fateful day, and that he was Boadicea the Briganti Warrior Queen, who was once regarded as a British heroine. As the rhetorical dams burst, he went on to  proclaim that he was a Berliner (which is a kind of Westphalian doughnut) - and the crowd roared its approval. (I wonder what flavour the jam was? My preference is strawberry.) Those mushrooms must have been wonderful, Eddy boy. How's your guts and your head today?

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Yorvik, other protests were happening. These protesters were a less sedate and civilised bunch. They were young thugs, dressed in black and waving clubs and anything they could lay their hands on. They set buildings alight, and scuffles inevitably ensued with the Municipal Costumed Thugs. These protesters were mainly zealots of the Redistributionist Workers Party - a chandelier-swinging, halfbaked offshoot from the official political faction, which has designs on a worldwide Red empire. I don't know why they name themselves as Redistributionist Workers - most of them have no idea what work actually is, as they're too busy plotting the downfall of the established order, chewing hallucinogenic fungi and drinking mead and ale at the expense of the public purse.

After the magic mushrooms wore off, the rioters were either arrested or allowed to go home with a thick ear to their anxious mothers, where a warm bowl of porridge awaited them. How nice. The poor citizens of Yorvik are picking up the pieces and tidying up the mess. Once again.

But what these imbecilic window-lickers have failed to accept is that they themselves are the reason for the financial crisis that have made the expenditure cuts necessary, since they've all been cheerfully draining the taxpayers' money on their frivolous, illusory enterprises for centuries. But I don't think they're listening. Their brains aren't wired to accept unpalatable things like facts. That's why the magic mushrooms are so popular, I suppose...

Beeby's Tinkers for Mushroom Thinkers

Oh dear me: things are getting quite out of hand here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. Here was me thinking that yesterday's Oswine Budget was exciting enough (I'm still recovering from my prolonged attendance at the local Streonaeshalch celebrations), but this - my dear reader - takes the biscuit. It appears that our despised trollop and soothsayer Beeby See has been sticking her greasy, blackheaded conk into the Census business, and has been reporting to the open-mouthed, fly-catching populace that religion in this Kingdom is in decline. Duhhhh. And she gets paid to tell us that? Pah!

As far as I can see, the exercise of Christian duties has been in decline in the Kingdom for some considerable time; the Anglo-Saxon folk are so accustomed to a constant stream of trash from the soothsayers, who - in the most entertaining ways possible - speak peace to their addled consciences, while the reality is that peace of mind is a commodity rarer than rocking horse dung. Faith has been systematically redirected from the teachings of Bible and Church to the theatrical slobberings of shamans, who authoritatively pontificate about the beginning of the Universe, and assertively tell the gullible that they descended from worms, hedgehogs and other wild animals. And they keep a straight face, too. I don't know what the mushrooms are that these shamans are chewing, but it's certainly powerful stuff...

The decline of true religion in this Kingdom has been a project dear to the heart of the nobles and the other powerful figures who pull the strings and provide the groats and mushrooms for their willing lackeys. After all, the fear of a King greater than Caesar (or our ancient King Alhfrith) simply won't do; loyalties are divided when the fear of the Almighty dominates communities and the relationships that make them stick together. No man can serve two masters, as the Redeemer said. Our eminences grises want a single loyalty, so they've decided that the fear of God must go. Dream on, turkeys. Of course, that's not the only factor in this equation. The pride of kings and princes is a monkey's imitation of the pride of Lucifer, who was driven out of Heaven for his brazen cheek and selfish ambition. We know where that inevitably leads...

But perhaps this outburst from the old tart has something to do with the forthcoming Census, which asks the hapless denizens of the Kingdom what their professed religion is; perhaps she wants to influence the response of the public by sowing the seed into their vacant minds. The Northumbrian Godless Society are very anxious to rule the Christian religion out of existence - and it's my suspicion that they also enjoy the generous financial and (im)moral support of the power-crazed King Jose Borracho, his half-witted henchman Hermit and the legions of princes and satraps in the burgeoning Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). After all, if you don't believe in a God to whom you're personally accountable, you can do whatever you like - or, at least that's how their thinking works. But any fool knows that God - like reality (over which He presides) - simply can't cease to exist when you close your eyes.

Caedmon tells me that he's going to write 'Christian' on his Census form. If I were in his shoes, I'd leave the question blank - or write something caustic. It's not the business of the powers that be what our beliefs and convictions are...

Imbeciles!

Oswine's Bellicose Budget Bunfight

'Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities' - Voltaire

Today is a lovely day here in the lovely country of Northumbria. I'm not merely saying this because of the spring sunshine, which is causing the early flowers and leaf buds to emerge; it's a wonderful day because Oswine - the Supreme Treasurer and Dogsbody-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist administration - and Caedmeron's right hand man - is announcing the Budget. Hooray for Ossy! Everyone is so happy!

I know this because I wandered through the town of Streonaeshalch earlier to watch the fishermen unloading their catches and sorting them on the quayside. (I often get some fresh titbits from those of them who are kindly disposed towards cats.) Everyone seemed to be very animated about the Budget. I've come to the conclusion that they're all looking forward to making a greater contribution towards the good of the community at large - and the politicians in particular. I'm also sure that they're thrilled at the prospect of increasing degrees of impoverishment as the cost of bread, suet, ale, mead, oats and firewood increases once again.

Without a doubt, Beeby See has had a valuable part to play in setting the general mood of optimism for the populace; as the country's most favoured soothsayer, she cheerfully rabbits on about the cuts in public services - and like some modern-day Jeremiah, she vividly describes the apocalyptic desolation to come. Everyone loves to hear her pronouncements, and eagerly hangs on her every halitosis-breathed word. The Tree/Liberationist administration also contributes to the general happiness of the population by declaring that there's no more money in the Kingdom, because the magic mushroom-led Redistrbutionists took great care to ensure that the Kingdom was brought to bankruptcy in their last Witangemot administration under the maniacal Guthmund The Brown. To do this they created legions of fantasy jobs for their fellow fantasists in order to promote their support and loyalty. Caedmeron is now repeatedly telling all and sundry that hard decisions have had to be taken to bring the country back to a place of solvency once more, and funds for important social and welfare projects are being slashed.

There's also a degree of excitement about the Cyrenian War initiated by Caedmeron the other day, and the soothsayers are being eagerly sought for up-to-date information and comment on what's happening. She cheerfully regales her audience with tales of bloodshed and various heroic deeds of carnage.

Everyone wants to see the khat-chewing, chandelier-swinging O'Daffy deposed from power, so that the hapless Cyrenians can enjoy the same blessings as the Anglo-Saxon Northumbrians. I assume from this that they would also like to enjoy lovely Budget Days like ours. That'll be nice for them; they can share the experience of ever-increasing taxation to fund the lavish lifestyles of their new democratic political masters. And I'm sure they would also love to have diversity coordinators, pigeon psychiatrists and tree quota accountants to further enrich their existence.

But it's all very peculiar: while there's such excitement about these current budgetary and bellicose activities, nobody has yet explained to me where the money for this Cyrenian war is coming from. Is it from the back pocket of King Jose Borracho, the power-crazed thug chieftain who - with his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit - heads up the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)?

Something doesn't add up...

Out For A Duck

The river Esk gently burbles its way through the North Yorvik Moors, which occupy much of our part of the lovely country of Northumbria; it gradually widens and often deepens, picking up tributaries as it makes it way down to its mouth at Streonaeshalch, from whence it empties itself into the brine of the North Sea.

The river is a magnet for all kinds of life – especially voles and water fowl, but it also attracts humans as well; men are particularly fond of fishing by its banks in the hope of catching a trout. It also attracts mothers and small children, albeit for different reasons, I suspect. There's a serenity to be found at a riverside that is restful for the distracted soul; mothers like to seek some respite from the hectic activity of parenthood and find serenity in the tranquility of a riverbank; it's not insignificant that it was by the River Chebar that the prophet Ezekiel encountered his vision of the Almighty and His angelic cohorts and their fiery wheels. The young children love watch the ducks, geese, moorhens, coots and swans which often frequent the scene.

There is less noble form of life recently found to grace the riverbanks – especially where people are likely to gather: a declaration has been issued by the Witangemot stating that the water fowl are becoming too numerous because they're being fed so well by children bearing handfuls of stale bread, so they don't need to forage for themselves. Therefore the feeding of ducks is forbidden. As a consequence – as well as the rats and other scavengers attracted by the breadcrumbs - heavily armed costumed thugs are also to be found in large numbers by the riverside, spears and swords in hand, ready to terrify and intimidate any small child attempting to feed the ducks. Any young transgressor caught in the act is summarily seized and separated from its screaming mother and frogmarched to a young offender's institution, from which it emerges (if it's fortunate enough) as a gibbering piece of human flotsam several years later.

I find this incomprehensibly savage. Where did this draconian mentality come from? It appears that not so long ago, little children could feed the ducks in the Esk without fear of governmental oppression, but since the consolidation of the grip of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) on the Northumbrian Kingdom, there is a barbarism that is encroaching on the liberties of ordinary people. But nobody is making a fuss; they don't want to miss the Big Wedding and the entertainments that the soothsayers are laying on for them.

Bread – or circuses? There's the choice. But the bovine Northumbrians haven't woken up to this yet…

All's Fair In Love And War..

Despite the fact that I'm a cat - a member of the animal kingdom - I'm nevertheless intimately familiar with the language, social habits and values of humankind. This is attributable to the fact that I've spent the greatest part of my life in the company of humans - and Caedmon in particular. I owe to him a great deal of my understanding of what makes people tick, and I've consequently acquired the ability to observe people and form my own conclusions.


Anglo-Saxons are - for the most part - a noble breed, with a highly developed sense of justice and fair play, and unlike their more excitable continental counterparts, they possess a disposition which is markedly reserved and undemonstrative; they're also masters of understatement, which is usually accompanied with a subtle hue of underlying sarcasm. Less reflective foreigners perceive Anglos to be placid and taciturn, but this isn't generally the case. Of course there are always exceptions to the rule; every settlement has its resident hothead or blabbermouth.


All this considered, I've found it not a little surprising that Cyrstréow of Blodfag, the wife of previous Witangemot leader Tondbert of Blodfag has recently publicly divulged quite intimate details about her relationship with husband. As a result, the soothsayers have been twittering endlessly like awakening birds in the Dawn Chorus. One consequence of this is that Caedmeron - Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Head Cock and Bluebottle Washer of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has suddenly decided to singlehandedly declare war of the land of Cyrene and its demented, psychopathic, khat-chewing despot O'Daffy. Perhaps he wants to inspire admiration in his missus too: stranger reasons have underlined military and political decisions…


Following the Mesopotamian and Bactrian military fiascos which deprived countless people of their lives, Tondbert of Blodfag deservedly earned for himself (and his fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction) a reputation for bloodlust, rapacity, duplicity and treachery - all achieved through a silken tongue and a stage presence worthy of an accomplished actor. To give him credit, Caedmeron hasn't resorted to subterfuge to justify battling with O'Daffy and his psychotic cut-throats; the Anglo-Saxon sense of fair play appears to be the principal motive. The revenue from Cyrenian olive oil, silks and spices may incidentally have some bearing on it - but nobody ever mentions that. On the other hand, this could simply be the implementation of a devious plan by the power-crazed megalomaniac King Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman Hermit to bring yet another country under the yoke of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)..


For my part, I don't give a monkey's about the Blodfag marriage or - how it works; it appears to me that they're displaying the prurient mentality of the vile soothsayers - and the imbeciles who lap up their scatological offerings..


I'm sure they have earned a great deal of awe and respect from the window-lickers. They've earned none of mine.

Les Miserables

The knuckle-dragging members of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance administration have allegedly been anxious about the general state of the morale of the population, and, using methodologies more obscure than a drunken alchemist's notebook, they've attempted to quantify the level of happiness in the Kingdom. This half-witted idea was initiated by Caedmeron, the deluded, self-styled Chief Cock and Bluebottle Washer of the Tree/Liberationist government. I've come to hear the shocking news that the Misery Index in the Kingdom of Northumbria is at an all-time low at present.

Frankly, I don't understand it. The good people of this lovely country should be deliriously happy - given the fact that they have first-class entertainment from the soothsayers, and they're treated to the constant sight of politicians, posturing, lying and developing ingenious ways of demonstrating their hypocrisy...

It all goes to show that Anglo-Saxon people are so ungrateful and miserable, doesn't it? They simply don't count their blessings. I'm so glad I'm a kitty..!

Royal Flush

It's gratifying to learn that the King of Wessex has decided to grace the village of Wodetun Bassett (it takes all sorts..) with a royal title. This small settlement in the woody plains of Wiltshire is a staging post for military personnel, and - sad to say - has been (and continues to be) the regular witness of cartloads of the cadavers of noble Anglo-Saxon soldiers slain in the Levantine, Mesopotamian and Bactrian kingdoms. In the interests of Anglo-Saxon imbecility and greed, they were sent to the battlefields to wage wars which have so far proved to be unjustifiable, wasteful and unprofitable.They've benefited no one - except those unscrupulous politicos, merchants and moneylenders who've generated good business from them. Nevertheless, the loyal local folk of Wodetun Bassett regularly line the streets to pay homage to the fallen - which I suppose is why it's just been granted such an honour.

But this isn't the only reason why towns and villages receive royal status; there are various places within the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms which have received royal titles simply because a monarch has happened to stay there overnight. Or perhaps the king of the day has taken a liking to the place for its charm and its landscape and has visited regularly. Or perhaps a royal personage has just happened to take a long-awaited dump there, and stopped for supper (after having washed his hands, I trust) and stayed the night in a local inn. There are also towns renowned for the healing properties of their waters; these are favourite places for potentates to pose and posture in their power and prosperity; these are usually prefixed with a 'Royal' and suffixed by a 'Spa' - but I've never heard of anyone sparring there, but there are market stalls bearing the same name..

Here in Northumbria, we have no such exalted titles to our settlements. Old King Alhfrith has been on the throne for ninety years, and he doesn't get out and about much.The foul-mouthed Queen Hillida is marginally more sprightly, and often travels through the realm, where she parades her impressive ignorance by pontificating about things of which she has no knowledge, or telling dirty jokes and frightening or upsetting those of a nervous and sensitive disposition. Suffice it to say, she's universally despised; she doesn't have the clout to adorn the name of any of the villages she's been known to frequent with a 'Royal' appellation.

As for me - I simply don't give a rat's rear. It's all human vainglory, anyway; the real King makes His presence known regularly when the monks meet in the Abbey for worship. No title will ever beat that.

Deferred Retribution

Never a dull moment here in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria... the soothsayers are currently in ecstasies over the seismic and tidal catastrophes in the distant oriental Kingdom of Japan: it appeals to their unwholesome and ghoulish preoccupation with the sufferings of others - which are repeated ad nauseam to those unreflective enough to heed their whinings and mindless opinings. If I understand - and if the Holy Catholic Church teaches - Divine Writ correctly, they're in for a fair measure of torment themselves - unless they repent. Caedmon often says that the mills of the Almighty grind exceedingly slow and exceedingly small...

While we're on such retributative matters - Walthelm the Hag - the eggshell blond Foreign Liaison Officer of the Tree/Liberationist Witangemot - has been getting his knuckles rapped by a senior prelate. And rightly so: the man doesn't have a gnat's whisker's worth of religion in him, and his palpable lack of Christian belief and principles is impacting on the decisions he takes on the Kingdom's behalf.

Recent history has clearly revealed to those who are willing to learn from it that wherever and whenever this Anglo-Saxon Kingdom militarily and politically tinkers in the political affairs of oriental, heathen lands, the native Christians always suffer as a consequence. In fact, it seems to have become a historical law. The adventures in Mesopotamia in the recent past are a prime example of this historical principle; before the previous tyrant had been overthrown and beheaded, the Maronite and Assyrian Catholics were left to themselves. Since the well-meaning Anglo-Saxon idiots have played their part to make the land between the two rivers more desirable to their own taste, the inhabitants have turned against the Christians as if it were all their fault. Most of them have had to flee the land for their lives - if they haven't been killed already.

But Haggy boy and his politico pals don't give a gnat's dump about that. He'll have you know he's obeying the orders of the Great and the Good. Except that they're neither: they're ignoble and evil - the playthings of the devil, and they're assiduously doing his dirty work for him. Their rewards for their misdeeds are momentary and as elusive as mist.

I hope that the Cardinal sorts Haggy and his pals out and persuades some true religion into them. If he doesn't, I know one mean moggy who'll get them down on their atheistic knees in prayer. I'm studying that cage door, and believe me, it's only a matter of time...

Libs, Bibs and Glib Fibs

Spring is starting to make its mark upon the Northumbrian landscape. The birds are singing, leaves are sprouting, early flowers are making a colourful appearance, and everywhere is bathed in a characteristic soft golden light (but only when the sun's out on occasions). It's a lovely time of year to appreciate being alive! The Liberationists have been holding their conference, but I don't really think that they're particularly full of the joie de vivre at the moment...

Until the forming of the present Tree/Liberationist administration last year, the Liberationists hadn't had a sniff of political power since Adam were a lad. Time was - in this beautiful realm - when the main factions dominating the Anglo-Saxon scene were the Liberationists (known in those days as the 'Syrups') and the Trees. Once the fly agaric-driven, maniacal Redistribution ideas (which had been floating in the ether like disembodied evil spirits, looking for something to possess) had formed themselves into a political faction, the Liberationists were squeezed out, and the Trees were confronted by a new enemy. Great Witangemot leaders like Walthelm Gladrags were forgotten and relegated to a bygone age.

From that time, the Liberationists were populated by a mishmash of unconventional elderly folk, swivel-eyed fanatics and muesli-munchers; there have always been isolated pockets of the Kingdom where ancient electoral habits die hard, and the populace returns a Liberationist to the Witangemot for no better reason than the fact that their genetic predisposition couldn't permit an alternative.

But since the momentous Great Count last year, the Liberationists have had to take part in (supposedly) running the realm with their Tree partners. It's an uneasy alliance, as it's actually a melding of two factions with entirely different ideologies. The problem is that no one has managed to work out what these ideologies actually are; even within the Tree and Liberationist ranks, there are rumours circulated by Beeby See and other brain-dead soothsayers reporting constant battling and bickering over policy. The squabbling between the ruling parties has been equally intense, and at times nothing short of acrimonious. One problem has been regarding the price of schooling for the comforter-sucking, bib-wearing children at the universities. Before the Great Count, the Liberationists faithfully (and with a straight face) pledged that there would be no increase in nursery education if they were elected. Naturally, they assumed that no one would ever elect them, so it was a cheap and easy promise to make. Wrong...

Since then they've had to cave in to the demand from the Trees that the fees be increased. This has invited a great deal of rancour and venom from many grass-roots supporters of the Liberationists - not to mention the bib-wearing schoolchildren themselves. So there's trouble in Paradise...

But the Liberationists have always been enthusiastically in favour of our membership of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Blaeck Clegge - the boyish, unprincipled and uliginous Liberationist leader himself - has demonstrated his allegiance to this monolithic criminal corporation by marrying an Iberian pig farmer's daughter from Asturias.

Since their allegiance to the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) is taken as read, the Liberationists should already be aware that the directions for all the policies of the Northumbrian administration proceed directly from the slavering chops of the power-crazed megalomaniac Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted Flemish henchman Hermit. What on earth do they expect? Democracy? Give me a break...

Golden Shred

The current financial crisis - skilfully manipulated into existence across the entire Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) - has been rumbling on for ages. This isn't at all surprising, since the local Witangemots - paragons of virtue that they are - are making an industry of cutting back on their public expenditure - much to the glee of Beeby See, Guardy-Ann and the other soothsayers and prognosticators of doom and nonsense. Naturally, the magic mushroom-led Redistributionist administrations are making sure that they cut the supply of groats to those areas which have the greatest impact on the lives of ordinary Northumbrians - and do the most damage. By doing this, they ensure that the national Witangemot - led by Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Chief Cock and Bluebottlewasher of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance factions - will get all the opprobrium and hatred from the unreflective and bovine herds of electors. And then - at the next Big Count - a Redistributionist government. Pass the mushrooms, Edweird. I need to go somewhere for a while...

One of the reasons for the (engineered) financial collapse that gave rise to our current woes was the crazy profligacy of the Moneylenders, who partook of the sacred fungi too enthusiastically and frequently, and consequently lent groats to stoats, goats, as well as members of the human race who had no means of paying back the generous sums advanced to them. Eventually, this occasioned a run on the moneylending institutions, and the Witangemot of the day - led by the psychopathic, dribbling Guthmund the Brown - stepped in and pledged kazillions of groats to the moneylenders (at the expense of the public purse, of course) to rescue the poor benighted moneylenders from the consequences of their infantile foolishness. Heaving an audible sigh of relief, the moneylenders congratulated each other for their successful performance and promptly awarded themselves vast golden sums of cash for their slavering imbecility and incompetence.

One of the previous leaders of the Moneylenders was a man called Thread. I'm not permitted to give his real name, as this gentleman - as rich as Croesus as a result of his (not insignificant) contribution to the nation's present bankruptcy - has appealed to the Highest Moot of the Kingdom and asked that he should no longer be described as a moneylender. This means that anyone calling Thread a 'Moneylender' will be slapped into prison and have to take his or her place with drunks, murderers, people who pull the wings off butterflies and elderly ladies who allow their dogs to park brown colorectal statements on the pavements of the realm. Disgrace indeed.

So from now on I'm going to refer to this gentleman as Thread the Needle. One small prick can burst a bubble...

Planet Ban-It

Whilst still reeling from hearing about the slimy, sinister and subversive subculture which has insinuated itself into the Northumbrian political and social institutions, I've heard that the Witangemot has decreed that the promotion of alcoholic refreshments should no longer be permitted. If you want to buy your ale and mead, you're first of all going to have to guess where it is, because it's no longer going to be displayed in the market stalls, taverns and inns of the realm. The exercise of purchasing a flagon of the finest foaming is going to turn out be an interesting puzzle - especially for those whose powers of logical deduction are questionable...

This should come as no surprise to anyone but the most feckless and moronic watchers of the political scene; there's been a concerted campaign of propaganda against the partaking of alcoholic beverages for years; a torrent of drivel on the subject has proceeded from the mouths of multitudes of shamans, who have been paid handsomely by the State to manufacture the evidence required to justify a total ban on its public accessibility. Needless to say, the enticement of loads of groats and fancy coats has been sufficient to give these Judases the inspiration to faithfully perform their dark arts and contrive the required evidence - wrapping it up in the most obscure and flowery language. Most of it has been quite inventive and entertaining - worthy of publishing under the genres of "humour" or "fantasy fiction." Most of the case against the public availability of alcohol has revolved around the issue of passive drinking. I've already given my two ha'pence worth, so I'll won't bore you and pontificate about this any further.

But as I muse over these seemingly random events, I'm forced to draw to some conclusions. First of all, it's more than apparent that the Northumbrian Witangemot have a seething hatred for ordinary people. They must have: why else would they want to make life so much more difficult for ordinary labourers, farmers, fishermen and artisans? As it is, they're already paying over the odds for the few pleasures available to them in the grimy, gritty grind of everyday life. Taxes are high and rising steadily and the chronic budget deficit is used to to justify the increases. Whatever. To this cat - who is impartial because he doesn't care much for alcohol - such measures are nothing short of vindictive.

But there's also a measure of hypocrisy here (yes, I'm surprised, too). These jumped-up toads who lord it over hapless humankind are immune from the very strictures they joyfully inflict on lesser beings. They can drink as much as they want of the finest mead, ale or vino collapso from Charlemagne's finest vineyards. Free. Gratis. For nothing. Baksheesh. At the taxpayer's expense. Sooner or later the docile herds are going to cotton onto this - and there's going to be an almighty showdown. I can feel it in my water.

But in the light of my discovery yesterday, another perspective opens up. This piece of legislation is also being foisted onto hapless Franks, Danes, Irish, Westphalians, Greeks, Bulgars and dozens of other nations as well. Coincidence? What's the common denominator, people? Is it not the machinations of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) - headed up by the power-crazed Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman Hermit - implemented through the snake-like UFO? It all adds up...

UFO Sightings

Each passing day seems to disclose yet more hidden treasures of human imbecility, greed or some other vile quality in the political life of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. I never cease to be amazed at the apparently bottomless pit of foolishness and depravity that lurks beneath the surface of Witangemot life.

Harsh words from your friendly neighbourhood moggy, perhaps. But I've no better way to summarise what I've discovered. It came to light yesterday: I was about to set off on the customary tour of my territory with some tasty mice in mind, when Feaxede the fox loped my way at some considerable speed with a piece of vellum in his mouth. This was a familiar event, and I thought he'd once more uncovered the King's Speech from Christmas. Of course, he wanted me to read it, as - unlike me - he hasn't had the advantage of a Christian education. I expected to read the same drivel as before, but this piece of vellum was different. Most of the writing was smudged beyond recognition and was unreadable, but I managed to discern a few words and phrases amid the inky mess on the dirty manuscript. I saw the words "Beyond Authority" and "United Factional Organisation." As before, Feaxede wanted to know what was written on the fragment he'd so lovingly uncovered. I told him what words and phrases I could make out, but I told him I couldn't make head or tail of it. Sorry, Feaxede old pal. No can do. So after the parting courtesies of friends, my foxy friend returned to the dump from whence he came to return the manuscript and continue his research.

Although the words were meaningless, I didn't forget them; they did somersaults in my hyperactive mind; my feline curiosity was awakened, and it simply wouldn't give me rest. I didn't bother to ask Caedmon, as he was busy with the herd he tends - and although he's a knowledgeable and wise human, he doesn't concern himself with political matters.

As Providence would have it, I met my friend Láréow - who is my secret agent in the corridors of power. As chief rat-catcher and pet to Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Chief Cock and Bluebottlewasher of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance factions, he has privileged access and insights into the shadowy world of politics. After the usual opening greetings and banter, I asked Láréow if he was aware of "Beyond Authority" and "United Factional Organisation," having explained to him the circumstances by which these terms came to my attention.

To my great surprise, he told me that he knew a great deal about them. In fact it's a secretive cult known as "UFO" that has its slimy fingers in every strand of Northumbrian life. It has its tentacles in the local and national Witangemots, the administration of justice through the Moots, the Costumed Thugs, the schools, the Church and pretty well every sphere of activity that directly impacts on the lives of the unsuspecting and bovine public. He told me that it pretends to be a charity, but its objectives are far from charitable. Despite the farthings that dear old ladies drop into its tins, it's actually a hidden front to increase the grip of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and fuel the insatiable ambitions of the power-crazed Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman Hermit.

When I asked him about the words "Beyond Authority" he told me that was a watchword among its sinister and secretive members: they were to use their guile and deceit to subvert the existing authority structures in the Kingdom. The intention is to hand Northumbria, Wessex, Mercia, the Kingdoms of the Angles and the Danegeld into the treacherous hands of foreign devils who will turn the country into an amusement park for the wealthy, who can then come over and shoot starving peasants for fun.

I haven't see my friend Leo for ages. I think he needs some exercise; things must be very restricted in that cage of his. I wonder what I can do to get him out? I've got a job for him to do...

Rinsing The Prince

Things seem to be abnormally quiet in the weird and wacky world of Witangemot politics in the lovely country of Northumbria. In fact, it's all too quiet; it causes me to wonder what other unfruitful works of darkness our political masters are up to while our attention is directed elsewhere.

That isn't to say that all is quiet in the land; the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her fellow fantasists - have been ceaselessly pontificating and gossiping bout the Cyrenian civil war between the criminally insane Redistributionist O'Daffy and his murderous sycophants on the one hand and freedom-hungry but ill-equipped Cyrenian goat herders and market traders on the other.

Another interlude amid this unfolding tragedy is the fact that Caedmeron gave a speech to his adoring followers yesterday. Whoop-de-do. I wonder what they were thinking about while he was dishing out the rhetoric and the ninety-third rate oratory? If I were a betting cat, I'd put my groats on absolutely nothing. Political enthusiasts and faction members of all opinions have a glazed expression on their faces while engaged with their favourite subject; this suggests to me that their faculties for thought have been somehow disengaged, and the smile, clap and cheer reflex has automatically kicked into operation to replace it. But I digress.

The most interesting and revealing sideshow to the Cyrenian narrative is the unfolding scandal of yet another unhealthy relationship involving O'Daffy - this time between Andweard - prince of the Northumbrian Realm, middle-for-diddle son of King Alhfrith and the foul-mouthed Queen Hillida. His Royal Highness Prince Andweard - heavily involved in high-flying Anglo-Saxon trade deals around the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) has a reputation for gracing lavish parties and ladies with his dashing and wealthy presence, and he is content to spread his particular brand of happiness wherever he travels. Sadly, he's not very fussy about the company he keeps, and he has been known to frequently visit O'Daffy to provide him with bribes and assorted kickbacks in exchange for lucrative trade deals for Anglo-Saxon trash. But that isn't all: Andweard has also been associated socially with a fabulously wealthy gentleman from Ultima Thule. This gentleman - despite his considerable fortune - has an unhealthy predisposition for pulling wings off butterflies. He is not a nice person, and were he to be dropped into the Streonaeshalch marketplace on a busy day, he would certainly be torn asunder by angry but decent Northumbrians who - despite their bovinity, hate all forms of nastiness and purveyors thereof.

Needless to say, Caedmeron has publicly stated that Prince Andweard has his undying support. If ever there was a kiss of death, then surely a politician's support must be it...

Ill-gained Groats and Berneslai Votes

As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. (Proverbs 26:11)


It's been a busy week for your Cat; there seems to have been a lot of stuff going on here lately in the lovely country of Northumbria. Of course, I wouldn't want it any other way: I've been blessed (or afflicted - according to my prevailing mood) with an abnormally high degree of curiosity into the realms of human political and social activity, and the knuckle-draggers haven't failed me yet. Boredom will simply have to wait, people.

Yesterday in the South of our Northumbrian Kingdom was yet another local election: this one was in the grim and grimy settlement of Berneslai. Readers will recall that there was a similar event a couple of months ago. And the coincidence doesn't stop there: this election - like the previous one in Auldholme - was also occasioned by the ignominious departure of a crooked politico. In this case, the previous incumbent - Slíðelic (pronounced 'Slitherlick' for the sake of the uninitiated) - hadn't told porky-pies about his fellow contenders; he'd simply fiddled and defrauded his way to wealth and happiness. Evidently his Witangemot allowance hadn't been sufficient to sustain his taste in cheese and fine Burgundy wines from the vineyards of Charlemagne. His happiness and wealth - along with his reputation - are somewhat depleted at present, as he currently languishes in gaol at King Alhfrith's pleasure. I hope the gruel is to his liking: it's certainly not pleasing to my refined palate...

But I digress. Slíðelic committed the unpardonable sin amongst politicians - his misdemeanours were discovered. And the coincidence doesn't stop there, either: he was also a Redistributionist representative. There appears to be something in the ethic of politicians in general and the Red Faction culture in particular that appeals to the criminally inclined - especially those who are greedy for groats.

But the coincidence doesn't stop there, either: the serfs of Berneslai have once again returned a Redistributionist Faction representative to the Witangemot. This time they've chosen a greasy-haired young opportunist with a fake semi-cultured accent. I'm surprised his diction didn't put the Berneslai electorate off - their gritty speech and ways are a marked contrast to his sophisticated silken tones. Whatever.

In similar fashion to the Auldholme people, the electorate of Berneslai have done what their prehistoric ancestors have done: they've seen an object with a Red rosette on it, and their highly-developed sense of logic has led them to conclude that its wearer was living and breathing - and also a card-carrying member of the Redistributionist faction. Presented with this evidence they've cast the stick in his favour. He could be an axe-carrying psychopath, but as long as he's wearing the right colour, he's their man. Caedmeron and his Tree cronies (predictably) didn't come anywhere in the running - and Clegge's Liberationist contender shared a place in the rankings with the frothy-mouthed, burbling members of the eccentric and frivolous Stuff And Nonsense Faction. The happiest with the outcome are the delusional, fly agaric-led Redistributionists. For them is has been a resounding triumph over ... err... something or other - and of course a slap in the face to the Tree/Liberationist Alliance. Whatever.

But the faction that has the most reason to be happy with the outcome are the Solely Northumbria Independence Faction (SNIF), who want to get the lovely country of Northumbria out of the clutches of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire). They came second. The vote-rigging didn't work too well, it seems...

BeeSky's The Limit

Nothing ever stands still in the weird and wacky world of Northumbrian affairs. While Cyrene is riven by internal fighting and the hoo-ha with O'Daffy's Redistributionist fellow-travellers rumbles on, more ordure is being spread over our green and pleasant land. Not that we need it, mind - there's plenty enough of the malodorous brown stuff on the fields already...

One of the biggest purveyors of soothsaying services in the Kingdom (and elsewhere) is a man called Ruprecht Evil-Merodach; he is an ancient wrinkled fellow, who has his finger in more entrepreneurial pies than Simple Simon could ever lay claim to. He is the Emperor over a vast empire of soothsaying, sport and entertainment services to keep feckless and idiotic Northumbrians err.... feckless and idiotic.

For all this, so far he has failed to purchase the soothsaying services of the pantomime dame Auntie Beeby See and her bizarre, magic mushroom-chewing bosom pal Guardy-Ann, but nonetheless, he has an impressive portfolio. If there's a singer or a dancing fool suddenly brought to prominence, you can bet your boots that Evil-Merodach had something to do with his (or her) meteoric rise to fame and fortune. Old Rupie is also the single reason for the opulence of that football club Madcaster United, which has the highest paid and flatulent slob footballers in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). He virtually owns the entire realm of football, which he uses to promote his various business interests. The pies and ales sold at his teams' games are tastier than anyone else's.

But sadly, the gods of greed, money and power are insatiable, and Rupie has recently put in a bid for a 100% stake in Beeskybee - one of his many interests, over which he had a minority share. Unfortunately for this avaricious tycoon, he's unable to buy the business outright, owing to of the risk of falling foul of the overpaid, work-shy Monopolies Ministry bureaucrats. (I've never understood this. If Caedmon happened to buy the last loaf of bread in the baker's shop, why the dickens should he have to apply to the Witangemot for permission to own it - simply because there are none left?) Whatever.

The Witangemot have predictably feigned horror about this and have obliged Rupie to wait until they had a long deliberation with the Monopolies Ministry bureaucrats about this. They rustled some papers, farted and coughed a few times, told a few jokes - and they have now pronounced their considered judgement. Ole Rupie can buy Beeskybee outright, but on condition that he sell his Skynoose soothsaying empire. Hooray!

I'm so pleased for him. He obviously needs the increase of self-esteem and groats. What I fail to understand though is why so many Northumbrians are turning into ignorant slobs and chavs. Is there any connection with the burgeoning number of oversized dinnerplates attached to the exterior of their hovels? They evidently don't use them to feed the birds, as they attach them in perpendicular fashion. Bizarre - or what?

Cyrene and Herd

Following my recent post concerning the unhappy goings on in the troubled land of Cyrene, more worms are crawling out of the bag. I was made aware through the intelligence gleaned from my feline colleague Láréow (who is Caedmeron's honorary rat-catcher) that the powers that be are in what the Pictish barbarians over the border would call "a wee fankle" because of what has been emerging consequent to these dreadful upheavals.

There's a prestigious educational establishment within the Northumbrian capital, which has historically been the playground of the fly agaric and psilocybin-chewing children of wealthy Redistributionists; it is called the Yorvik School Of Esoterics. Well-heeled (aren't they all?) Redistributionist politicians, pundits, bandits and others who like to be imagined to be intellectuals send their spawn - complete with soothers in their mouths - to this school to be indoctrinated into the sacred teachings of Redistributionist ideology. Over its history, the school has produced more than its fair share of deranged Redistributionist shamans, who subsequently spend their adulthood either dossing around at their parents' expense, talking total rowlocks - or infiltrating the various institutions of Northumbria yet to be contaminated by their wild theories.

It would appear that there are certain influential people attached to this august academy who have been found to have profited substantially from O'Daffy - the chandelier-swinging, crazy Cyrenian despot. O'Daffy has bought a string of degrees from the Yorvik School Of Esoterics, sent his son Biffy there to cheat his way through his studies and has given generous amounts of money to his beloved academic friends for the privilege - most of whom it appears are leading figures of the Establishment. Loads of groats for fancy coats. Now that O'Daffy is no longer the flavour of the week with the Powers That Be owing to his recently discovered unpredictable and psychopathic behaviour, the true allegiances of these money-grubbing frauds is coming to light. Redistributionists love the O'Daffys of this world, as they embody everything that they want to inflict on the denizens of this lovely country of Northumbria. It's starting to filter into the consciousness of the bovine and the unreflective herd that there are unprincipled maggots in the apple. Duhhh...

So - what's Caedmeron going to do with these groat-grabbers in view of these scandalous developments? Is he going to throw them to the dungeons or leave them naked to perish on icy windswept crags? Is there going to be an uprising of the indignant to overthrow the vile and contemptible? Pass the magic mushrooms, Caddy boy. I'll give my verdict in a few minutes...

Fostering Lost To Posturing

...If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do? (Psalm 11:3)

As much as it grieves me to have to do so, I have to make a confession: I'm getting world-weary and fed up. I attribute my existential ennui to my excessive and morbid interest in the realms of human institutions and politics; there seems to be a flow of drivel coming from the Witangemot, its representatives and the soothsayers - and it's an unrelenting and toxic mixture of disinformation, dissimulation, hypocrisy and cant, with more than a fair share of random goalpost relocation. It's small wonder that humans are so apathetic about such things - unless, of course they become politicians themselves; when that happens, all sort of exciting vistas open up and the world suddenly takes on an unreal glow...

Let me give you a recent example of the cretinous world of human life in this lovely country of Northumbria. Some time ago a godly couple decided that they would like to extend their Christian charity and foster a foundling. (In our morally lax day and age, it's commonplace for loose-living young women to anonymously dump their newlyborn spawn onto the doorsteps of the Abbey or some church and expect some charitable soul to take the tiny mite in and give it a sound upbringing - if the poor bairn doesn't die first.) Since the time when the malevolent Northumbrian State was first involved, the whole process has been gradually and steadily politicised - in keeping with their idiotic social agendas. Because of this, the couple in question had been legally denied the right to foster the child they'd kindly taken to their home and hearts. Why? - Simply because they refused to compromise their Christian beliefs and principles and teach the child that it's perfectly natural and acceptable to lie, cheat, say that white is black, and wrong is right - and to pull wings off butterflies. (There are other issues that I won't go into - this is a family show...)

In other words, the Northumbrian State - ruled by our noble King Alhfrith and administered by the Witangemot government (headed up by Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Chief Cock and Bluebottlewasher of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance factions) hates the values from the teachings of the Bible and the Holy Catholic Church and prefers to see generations of children grow up to be as twisted as he and his friends are. They must hate the Almighty as well. That's perilous ground to be on. You don't mess with Divinity - unless you don't give a rat's ass for your eternal soul...

Oh - and by the way - the child at the heart of this controversy is only an infant...

Caedmon is deeply unhappy about this, and so are the monks. So is the Abbess Hilda - she's furious: I could hear the explosion from a mile away. I reckon that the Bishop of Jarrow is going to get his ear bent imminently...

As for me, I'd much rather it were Caedmeron at the receiving end of the Abbess' verbal lashings. I'd love to help: I have a feline friend called Leo who would love to impart the fear of the Almighty into these secularising fools...