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.