Call of Duty

The formal exorcism of the protesting infants from the Yorvik Minster still rumbles on; it appears that these particular malign spirits are more difficult to extract from the sacred precincts of the Minster and the financial district. I suspect it's going to take a great deal of prayer and fasting - and a teeny weeny measure of brute force. But that's not my problem.

To be honest (and I wouldn't be otherwise), I'm getting quite bored with the whole thing; it's difficult to sustain any interest in the children and their indeterminate clutch of magic mushroom-inspired causes. Cats only have a finite attention span after all - it just happens to be longer than the average Northumbrian's..

What did awake my interest however was the story of a female cat called Duty who'd been stolen from her master - some Liberationist politico - and his family. This occurred several decades ago, and at the time it happened, everyone was terribly upset - particularly the young daughter of the affected family. The previous wife of the Duty's owner was observed to have been the cat-napper, but when questioned by the Costumed Thugs, she pleaded ignorance of the hapless feline's whereabouts.

This act of abduction was a screamingly obvious gesture of ill-will and spite on the part of the spurned ex-wife; had I seen her several years beforehand, I'd have counselled her never to consort with Liberationist in the first place. They have the most horrible table manners, and they're as promiscuous as tomcats. (And I should know.) Thus the Mystery of the Missing Cat graced the attention of the soothsayers, and the entire Kingdom went into mourning for five whole minutes. The cat burglar was subsequently fined a few million groats, and given a suspended sentence by the Moot. I'm not sure where - or over what she's being dangled..

But the glorious good news that has beamed its welcome rays in our gloom is that the kitty has been discovered! Hooray! I for one am so ecstatically pleased; after all, it wasn't the poor moggy's fault that she was caught up in some political shenanigans involving a Liberationist and his dysfunctional domestic arrangements. But I'm gratified to know that the cat was resourceful enough to mew pitifully at someone's door and obtain free board and lodging for her trouble. That's the way to do it! 

And - to add a further dimension to this tale - she's also recently had a litter of kittens. I can confidently tell you that nobody knows where they are; and I can also declare publicly are they're not mine.. I'm no Liberationist...

Occu-pants

Since their ignominious bell, book and candle dismissal from Yorvik Minster, the Child Protesters against fleas, flies and fevers as well as Big Groat Enterprises have decamped and re-emerged elsewhere in Northumbria's principal settlement. They're somebody else's headache now. Frankly, I don't care; as long as they're not mine.

It's been quite a revelation to witness their bleary-eyed and hung-over arrival en masse - early in the morning - to dismantle their temporary shelters, having returned to the Minster from the comfort and warmth of their homes and sleeping arrangements - not to mention fresh underwear and their bedtime stories.. Bless.

Nevertheless, their amorphous campaign and nebulous posturing has continued undaunted, and I hear that they succeeded in finding someone of their number who was unfortunate enough to be gifted with the skill of literacy. What astonishingly good fortune!

Consequently, they've united their disparate voices on a sheet of vellum, and moreover, drafted a letter of demands in a barely readable script, which they've then ceremonially presented to the Evil Moneylenders and market traders in the Yorvik commercial district. Having read it, I can reveal that their communication states:

Wee, the ninty nin precent of the peeple of this Relm, mayke the folowing dimands:

• The Big Grote bizneses own most of the munny. Wee don't fink thats fare. You shud shaire it out with uss. Havnt you got a conshens?
• The trayders in this kwarter hav there own sovrin stayt and they can do wattever they like. Wee want them to liv like us pore peeple and folow the saym rulls as uss.
• This afour sed kwarter hav there own costoomed thug fource. Wee want it to be part ov the Yorvik konstablery.
• Can you pleeze eksercise your charitabble mussel and giv uz sum magic mushrooms? Ta everso.

Yors sinseerly,


The ninty nin precent.

I must admit, I'm mightily impressed by the reasonableness of their demands (which display a high degree of intelligence and lateral thinking, not to mention sensitivity and diplomacy) - as well as the literary ability of their scribe. I wish I had such grammatical prowess... But I'm only a little white household cat - and I've never been to the Big School..

Having carefully read - and subsequently translated and digested - the contents of the protesters' epistle, I'm also sure that the market traders and high-ranking magnates of the Moneylending institutions will experience a crisis of conscience.

Intimidated by the ominous presence of the temporarily-sheltered bongo beaters, the overpowering fragrance of dog breath, canine colorectal statements and the deafening cascade of indifference from the Northumbrian public - they'll willingly and wholeheartedly concede and comply with every point.

Mark well my words. You read them here.

Aerial Warfare

The Witangemot's demolition of the Northumbrian peoples' wishes for a vote regarding continued membership of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) has caused something of an uproar in this beautiful Realm, as ordinary Northumbrians have started to wake up to the realisation that they're not being represented by their local politicos at all, but are being governed by a cadre of patronising, unprincipled and spineless placemen at the behest of the Evil Emperor King Jose Borracho and his vapid, half-witted henchman Hermit the Rumphole. My master Caedmon is quite philosophical and phlegmatic about it all, since he has a biblically pessimistic view of the nature of human nature and political institutions..

My good friend Feaxede the fox, on the other hand, is hopping mad about the sad and sordid business, and he's been passing on the news through his own vulpine corner of the Northumbrian vineyard, but sadly, none of his fellow-creatures seem to be remotely concerned or even interested. (However, despite their failure to grasp the implications of these issues and their apparent indifference to matters human, they do have more than a passing passion for the trivial fripperies of 'The Ð Factor' and 'Strictly Foxtrot.')

Even so, life is full of surprises - and surprising ones at that. I learned today that the avian members of the created order are already primed to take action - and they mean serious business. I'm particularly referring to the Seagulls, who adorn the cliff faces and roofs of Streonaeshalch - as well as the municipal dump, where they carry out their own assiduous research. These birds are fearless, cheeky, intrusive and can grow to considerable sizes. I stalked and killed a small gull once; I won't ever repeat that folly, as it took several days for my injuries to heal: they have very sharp beaks. And the taste wasn't worth the battle anyway.. You live and learn.

The greatest asset of these greedy, noisy and aggressive birds is their aerial eloquence in making weighty statements from a considerable height. As I've mentioned elsewhere, they're also known to coordinate their efforts and make their pronouncements in choro. Which is just as well, since the politicos have been recently deeply concerned about their growth in numbers, and consequently have been plotting to reduce their numbers through proposed programmes of population control and Herodian slaughter.

A campaign of aerial warfare against the Witangemot is therefore now in operation. Squadrons of the blessed birdies are already descending upon their Moot Hall in clusters of several thousand, gaining ingress to the inner chamber and giving the politicos the benefit of their colorectal opinions. Repeatedly. With bells and whistles.

What the seagulls deposit on the heads, shoulders and benches of the honourable members is a great deal more desirable than the foul stuff they habitually serve up. I don't feel at all sorry for them; I'll be cheering from the wings. Bring it on, boys!

Dismissing The Masses

Ite - missa est
(The concluding words of the Latin mass)

In the beautiful settlement of Yorvik, the encampment of youthfully naive protesters - complete with their pacifiers, bongos, dog breath and magic mushrooms - has grown considerably. Word has got around the disaffected yoof of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria about the Protest against Hard Work, Moneylenders, the Holy Groats, the Accursed Public Expenditure Cuts, soap, Brussels sprouts and castor oil, resulting in an an enormous newly-sprouted community of tents and assorted temporary shelters outside the Minster, which sadly just happens to be situated in the Yorvik commercial and financial district.

The odour emanating from this new municipal development has been deeply offensive and distressing to the tender noses of the local populace, who have had to struggle to make their way through myriads of stools fresh from the alimentary systems of the protesters' stray dogs, and gingerly pick their way through sprawling youngsters with pimples and dirty feet, who've been idly playing with apples and blackberries. Children always seem to love to play with their food...

At first, the monks at the Minster were quite happy to see the young ne'er-do-wells, since their malodorous presence added a certain frisson to the otherwise tedious ecclesiastic activities. Some of the more pious-minded of the monks even thought it was a golden opportunity to carry out the teachings of the New Testament - ministering to the needy, the poor and the sick. Some of the monks found common cause with the humming masses, and identified with whatever it was they were protesting about. The picture still isn't too clear as to what the purpose of their protest really is..

Tragically, the dead hand of officialdom came to rest upon the proceedings, and the doors of the Minster were obliged to be closed for the first time since they were last shut. Thus the illicit and foetid encampment of vagabonds and dharma bums put a temporary end to the public worship of the God-fearing gentlefolk of Yorvik. Shame.

Since then, the Minster collections have diminished, and the monks are finding the already spartan facilities of the Minster even more difficult than ever, since they're unable to afford any firewood or food from the Shambles. So the Abbot has ordered the protesters to leave the surrounds of the Minster and to depart from the sacred precincts of the Holy Church. When he announced this to the stinking congregation before him, he had a whip in his hand. He was certainly prepared to put part of the New Testament into practice..

But never mind. No doubt Parly Toywasp and her Guardy-Ann cult followers will be more than happy to have them camp out in their own splendid front gardens. They can have a lovely time, feeding and entertaining them and celebrating the Redistributionist mass - if Good Lady Toywasp and her toffee-nose pals can put up with the smell..

A Fleeting Beating

Just as one rebellion in Cyrene has finished (resulting in the final removal of psychopathic khat-chewing Murmur O'Daffy, and the birth a wonderful new land where De-Mockery-Cy can flourish), another insurrection has broken out here in the lovely country of Northumbria. No - the peasants aren't revolting yet; there's a severe shortage of spears, swords and assorted weaponry because the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration has decided that they're surplus to requirements, so they've either beaten them into ploughshares or flogged them at a bargain basement price to the Bulgars and distant kingdoms in the Levant. Nevertheless, the land is buzzing with talk of rebellion and sedition, since the Witangemot recently gifted the majority of politicos with a golden opportunity to hone their skills in betrayal and duplicity.

This all began when a substantial representation of ordinary Northumbrians humbly petitioned King Alhfrith for an opportunity for the ordinary people to vote for or against continued Northumbrian participation in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Since the poor old King was overwhelmed with the number of petitioners, he decided to pass the matter on to the Chief Cock And Bluebottle Washer Dagwald Caedmeron, the High Celestial Panjandram and Demigod of the Tree Faction, and Esteemed Leader of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. (Phew. I'm glad I managed that..)

For fear of appearing to be mean-spirited, Caedmeron had little choice but to comply with the wishes of the populace, so a debate was arranged in the Witangemot - but not before he'd given strict democratic instructions that his fellow Tree Faction members must vote against the request of the Great Ignorant Unwashed and Unworthy. Were they to vote in favour of the peoples' request, the offenders would be severely whipped. This threat was also lovingly made by the Redistributionists, Liberationists and the Hedgehog Liberation Front.

To their credit, a sizeable number of politicos from all factions voted in defiance of the whips for the motion, but sadly, alas and alack, to no avail. They're having their wounds treated right now - and it ain't pretty. Fear and cowardice won the day, Dagweird the MilliCaedClegge won the vote, and the Northumbrian people once again were defeated. As a special prize for their efforts, these Noble Faction Leaders will each be permitted to personally kiss the ring of King Jose Borracho, the psychotic, khat-chewing Holy Roman Emperor, and to exchange pleasantries and nibbles with his half-witted accomplice, the colourless Hermit the Rumphole. Sounds like a great deal, boys. Enjoy.

In the meantime, as I wander through the streets of the lovely settlement of Streonaeshalch, surveying my own feline kingdom, I see queues of men forming outside the blacksmiths, and I hear the sound of roaring flames and beating metal..

A Gruel Twist

Pondering recent developments here in the lovely country of Northumbria, it seems that there's a theme that pops up with some regularity, and that is Getting Rid of Undesirable Elements, or GRUEL for short. Just as it's vital for the the alimentary system to purge out waste colorectally-generated matter for its continued health, so the Cyrenians have deemed it necessary to remove the crazy, khat-chewing despot O'Daffy from their midst. Having been discovered and summarily beheaded in a suitably affectionate fashion by his compatriots, he's no longer around to grace the Cyrenian shores with his demented brand of tyranny. In a similar manner, the genteel and Deeply Concerned residents of Rosedale have found it imperative to drive out the foul-smelling and illicit encampments of Redistributionist and Liberationist ne'er-do-wells from the nearby Farm, thus enabling them to diffuse their malodorous and squalid habits like an evil smelling flatulence throughout the Realm. It's a wonderful world.

Yet here's a twist: there are other issues where undesirable elements aren't being so eagerly expunged; the hordes of deranged children who are encamped around the markets of Yorvik and other settlements in our beautiful realm are becoming a perfect nuisance as they get in the way, barking and encouraging their dogs to randomly pound their bongos, chewing magic mushrooms and mindlessly intoning slogans against those Evil Makers of Wealth whose groats - through the magical medium of taxation - help to subsidise their indolent and illusory career choices. Despite the fact that their campaign (whatever it is, no one really knows) isn't making any impression upon the industrious Northumbrians or the Moneylenders, nobody seems to be intent on driving out these herds. No mobs of farmers have arrived with wagon loads of pig manure with which to beautify them. The Witangemot haven't sent in the Costumed Thugs, either. I simply don't understand why not.

And I don't understand why the politicos seem so reluctant to remove that other Evil-smelling Encampment in our midst - the vice-like grip of the Holy Roman Empire, which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire. There's already been an unholy stink about the Evil Intergalactic Federation among the ordinary Unwashed, but the politicos are either ignoring the voice of the people they pretend to represent, or they're making mealy-mouthed promises to them which are as valuable as the stool I dropped and buried in Caedmon's garden this morning...

Why are some undesirables being removed while others are being kept? I can only suppose that it suits the background Workers of Iniquity to let them carry on. They must be up to something..

Whips-a-Daisy

As the eviction of the malodorous Chavvostani community from Rosedale Farm rumbles on, other exciting things are happening here in the lovely country of Northumbria. If I'm perfectly honest, I find it difficult to keep up with it all, but I do have the valuable services of Lareow, the Chief Rat Brefriender and Mouse Czar of the Caedmeron household. He's the only feline civil servant I know, and I really don't know where I'd be without him. Owing to the elevated circles in which he operates, he drops some very tasty titbits of information my way. And I also have the invaluable assistance of my good friend Feaxede the Fox, who, despite his obsessive interest in research in the Streonaeshalch municipal landfill site, is also very politically astute - despite his bias towards the Redistributionists - for no better reason than the fact that some years (and tears) ago, they banned fox hunting. That's not sufficient justification to support them in my book. But hey, nobody's perfect.

The latest gossip I picked up from Lareow is about a potential vote coming up in the Witangemot regarding Northumbria's continued servile involvement in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). The unpalatable fact that most politicos seem to deny is that our beautiful Kingdom is no longer a Sovereign Power, but has been relegated to the status of a vassal state or mere provincial trash-can to the power-mad Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman Hermit the Rumphole.

The feeling of the majority of ordinary Northumbrians is very antipathetic towards the Evil Empire - if not downright hostile, since it has generated little or no benefit for the average artisan or baker - although there's been a considerable increase in the number of foreign residents here, and traders in wagons from Westphalia, the Kingdom of the Franks, Vikings and the Bulgars. They come over here to sell cheap clothes pegs, and to buy in return top quality jewel-handled Anglo-Saxon swords, spears, bows and knives, which have been sold on behalf of King Alhfrith, since they're no longer deemed to be necessary, as we're all one big happy family with our cuddly friends and neighbours in the Empire. Whatever.

Most politicos are more than happy with our cosy but deadly embrace from Joe Borracho and his legions of overpaid, corrupt civil servants and satraps; they receive very favourable favours for maintaining Northumbrian servitude, as well as keeping the lid on the boiling cauldron of resentment in the unwashed populace. Soothsayers like Beeby See and Guardy-Ann are valuable mouthpieces for the Evil Intergalactic Federation, since they assiduously try to implant the idea in the public that anyone who is against the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) must be either a glassy-eyed lunatic or some slavering idiot - or even both.

So there's a considerable chasm between the political elite and those people they pretend to serve and represent. But hooray for De-Mockery-Cy and Fair Play! There's going to be a vote in the House Of Horrors, and the Northumbrian people are going to see their anti-Borracho sentiment crystallise into decisive action. The cavalry draws nigh.. Bye bye, Borracho.

Well, nearly.. There's going to be a gang of hatchet-faced politicos, armed with whips in the Witangemot; if any of their brethren appear to err and stray from their appointed path, they'll be granted a friendly flaying. Thirty nine times each.

The only hope for the Northumbrian people is to somehow distill and bottle up the fragrance of the Rosedale Farm mob: thousands of crusty, unwashed feet, dog breath and evil armpits, combined with the fragrance of canine colorectal statements and cooking beansprouts. If a flask of that were dropped in Emperor JoBo's palace, he and his entire entourage would die. Horribly.

Exorcising The Demons

I realise that a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, but do you remember the illegal encampment of the Liberationists for their Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic? Well, since those heady days of rhetoric, sweat, sacred shrooms, mountebanks and bongos, the main show dispersed to resume their blissful but cretinous delusions elsewhere. However, a hardcore of Liberationists, Redistributionists, yoof and indolent armchair revolutionaries from the ill-named Redistributionist Workers' Faction remained on the site at Rosedale Farm. They were intent on making a statement, but what they succeeded in expressing was quite different from what they intended to convey.. It's such a shame. I blame the fungi.

The landowners were anxious to evict these squatters from their fields, because they were getting rather cheesed off with the constant noise, which consisted of sacred Viking mushroom war chants, drumming, barking and the habitual yapping and the enthusiastic antics of ill-behaved, flea-ridden and libidinous dogs. They were also fed up with the smell emanating from thousands of crusty, unwashed feet, dog breath and evil armpits, combined with the fragrance of canine colorectal statements and cooking beansprouts.

They were also deeply concerned and unhappy at the fact that the presence of these ne'er-do-wells was deterring more refined members of the Anglo-Saxon classes from moving to this highly desirable part of Northumbria to take up residence, and the price of the land was consequently plummeting. Something had to be done. So the landowners appealed to the local Moot for a ruling to evict the interlopers from their ground - naturally, with the smiling cooperation of the local Costumed Thugs. Tragically, the Moot ruled against this, since the happy campers had already appealed to a higher Moot which had ruled in favour of a postponement of the eviction - until they could collect enough groats with which they could persuade the Moot to rule permanently in their favour. Sadly for the malodorous encampment, because of the dearth of money in the Kingdom, they didn't manage to muster enough of the readies, so the eviction is now going ahead. Hooray for Anglo-Saxon justice! Three cheers for the highest bidder!

Amid a great deal of shouting, fisticuffs and lunch, the temporary citizens of Rosedale Farm are being routed and rerouted to the highways of the Realm, from where they will have to peddle their clothes pegs, sharpen saucepans and make small fortunes by telling imaginary fortunes and lobbying for Edweird the Milliner and his shadowy Witangemot cabinet. The mess they leave behind will be gargantuan. But then, the mess the Redistributionists and their country cousins the Trees and Liberationists have left behind is worse by far. And nobody has evicted them yet..