Ex-Cat

The Tree Faction Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic may have packed up the banners, having completed its mission to stir and entertain the faithful knuckle-draggers and window-lickers, but the noise it generated continues. Following the unholy shenanigans surrounding the pet cat who was used as an excuse to allow a criminally insane foreigner to continue his felonious career choice within these Northumbrian shores, the friendly, axe-wielding dispute between May Trees and the Supreme Clerk of Justice continues; the Rotund Buffoon with a devil-may-care attitude to life, justice and the price of magic mushrooms continues to maintain that there is No Way that a flea-infested moggy could be the sole reason for his continuing contribution to Northumbrian cultural life.

Now, it appears that the Viking harridan Thain War's Eye has weighed into the ruckus and sided with May Trees. And my whiskers detect Trouble in the air; already there are mumblings among the hallowed halls of the Witangemot, and I suspect that yet another catastrophic govern-mental knee-jerk is imminent.

You see, Dear Reader, these disinterested Paradigms of Supreme Wisdom and Mature Humanity have concocted a Plan. And - whether I like it or not - it affects me, which is what I find so so perturbing about the whole sordid and sorry business.

According to this proposal, every Cat in the Northumbrian Kingdom is going to be either killed (humanely, with an axe) or deported. Queen Herodia has decreed it, and who can stay her merciless hand? For me this means either a life on the run, or deportation to the land of my ancestry, which I believe is Catastan, somewhere in the forests of Central Asia. And reason for this? So that little fluffy kitties can't be henceforth used as a pretext by devious lawyers to keep psychopathic axe-murderers in their chosen profession on these sacred shores.

If I'm deported, I'll have to compete with myriads of other felines in a cat-eat-cat world to fill my stomach. Like the Israelites by the waters of Babylon, I will mourn the past times of tasty fish suppers, warm firesides, cosy laps and all the familiar certainties of Northumbrian life. I will probably be savaged by a hungry bear..

I've already spoken about this with the Abbess Hilda. She's on the warpath; woe betide any politico who crosses her. Their nemesis awaits..