Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Watch My Apocalypse
Well, it was as I suspected: The End Of The World didn't happen - at least, not for Harold The Campsite and his loyal followers in that fantasy land I refer to as Ultima Thule. Perhaps there were so few of the raptured ones taken upwards to Heaven that their disappearance hasn't been noticed yet. But somehow I doubt it. I imagine old Harold is scratching his head at the moment and experiencing an existential crisis. He and his ilk really ought to read their bibles properly and give what they read careful and prayerful thought - and not simply look at the pictures. Caedmon - or any of the monks at the Streonaeshalch Abbey - could have set him straight for nothing and ultimately spared him and his acolytes a lot of hand-wringing; but some people are disinclined to approach the Church about these things, and prefer to either trust their own addled judgement, or heed the half-baked counsel of the likes of Archbishop Georges Moonbat, the fly agaric-chewing head of the Global Warming cult. He'd get quite a different theology from him - based around rising tides, melting icecaps and poor little polar bears. Some people just never learn.
It's not insignificant that so many of these barmy ideas seem to proceed from Ultima Thule.. One of them is visiting The Emerald Isle today, in an attempt to upstage His Majesty King Alhfrith...
Nevertheless, as far as certain people are concerned, it is the End Of The World.
Take old hoary-headed Húne - known as 'Horehound' - for example. As a political shining light, he had a sparkling career in the inner sanctum of the Witangemot, darting to and fro from expense-funded environmental summits abroad, talking the talk and quacking the quack. He could play a pantomime dame in the Witangemot theatre with the best of them - oh yes, he could - right behind you... But it would appear that this man - now a fugitive from the relentless machinations of Northumbrian justice - is desperately trying to recover what minuscule credibility he has left, but the case against him is stacking up impressively. The word 'toast' springs to this cat's mind...
I think it's also the End Of The World for those who think they can continue to hide their dirty misdeeds behind a cloak of legally-imposed secrecy and get away with it. While we may have the best legal brains and politicians that money can buy, they can't suppress the truth for long. And it comes back unexpectedly to bite them in the back parts - just like the real End Of The World will..
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