Monday, 15 August 2011
I'm finding it difficult to sleep at the moment; ever since last week's Annual Mass Convention and Picnic of the Feeble-minded, the Feckless Gangsters and the Criminally Insane, I've been constantly kept from the soothing arms of Morpheus by the sound of horses bolting, followed by the creaking of closing stable doors. Heaven knows, things were bad enough after the rioting hordes of the flower of Northumbrian Youth had their moment of glory, but this hastily-arranged assembly of the Witangemot was just too much for this Cat to take.
Caedmeron - the smooth-talking, duplicitous, irreligious and deeply unprincipled Chief Cock and Bluebottle-Washer of the Tree/Lib Administration - has promised to deal with some notion he vaguely refers to as 'Broken Northumbria.' Following the well-worn example of a distinguished line of predecessors in the Hot Seat of Northumbrian La-La-Land politics, he's once more intoned about the desire to implement a 'Zero Tolerance' policy against all criminal activity, and furthermore promised to engage the services of a distinguished Costumed Thug called Gambinus - an elderly rogue of Sicilian descent, who had (until recently) carried out similar things in Ultima Thule. This distinguished fellow had successfully managed to sweep criminal gangs of Vikings and assorted Barbarians off the streets of his own settlement, thus shunting the problems to another district, which hitherto had been infested with with law-abiding people. I believe the proper name for this process is 'Recycling.'
Jedweird the Milliner - now furnished with a shiny brand new nose, and flushed with a string of imaginary political victories - has called for a Public Enquiry. On hearing this, the entire Kingdom resounded with gasps of incredulity and amazement; such a thing has been unheard of in this Realm - or, at least, since the last one, which finished about half an hour ago. Public Enquiries are worthy endeavours to solve a problem by convening a series of meetings and hearings - usually presided over by some judge or other. They usually last for months, or even years, and they cost a vast amount of money. I've been given to understand that these talking shops are funded by Jedweird the Milliner and Edweird the Spheres out of the unfathomable depths of their own pockets and the goodness of their own hearts. One can only fail to admire their altruism.
On top of all this frenetic activity (better known as talk), I was privileged the other night to watch a sport that is well loved in this Sceptered Isle; it's similar to Bear-Baiting. In this case, a couple of Redistributionist knuckleheads and a Beeby See disciple set upon an elderly and distinguished history teacher who had the temerity to suggest that the looters and thieves who had gone berserk last week were influenced by Viking culture. Had he said that they were the Victims of repressive Tree-led Cuts, he would still be alive today and teaching Roman history..
As for me - all I want is forty winks. Is that too much for a moggy to ask for?