Friday, 28 January 2011
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Friday, 21 January 2011
There's been a great deal of interest shown by the Northumbria soothsayers in the activities of various plain-clothed costumed thugs.
For example, it appears that one such gentleman infiltrated a group of naïve youths who are active disciples of His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the fly agaric-chewing religious leader of the Manmade Global Warming cult. These youths had been planning a raid on a major stockyard from which all supplies of firewood are obtained; their intention was to occupy the store, thus preventing tradesmen and householders from buying it to heat their workshops and homes. In this way they imagined that they would save the planet from apocalyptic desolation and destruction. Whatever.
The plain-clothed costumed thug joined their starry-eyed ranks, having cultivated the beard and the requisite amount of pustules. He grew his hair long, joined their meetings, wore the same kind of beads and clothes as his new friends, learned their patois and displayed the same measure of fanatical enthusiasm for their plans and objectives. He even formed serious relationships with some of the girls in the group – but I'm puzzled as to why the size of his feet didn't betray him..
In the meantime, he was busy secretly passing on information to other plain-clothed costumed thugs while discreetly visiting his old haunts. The project went disastrously wrong for the youths' plans when costumed thugs arrived at the stockyard and arrested them in the act of their trespass. They duly appeared before the Moot, but after a few days the case fell down with an audible thud when the plain-clothed costumed thug admitted before the Moot what he'd been doing. He felt sorry for them.
Justice had been compromised. The pimply disciples of Moonbat felt understandably let down and betrayed when this came to light.
The plain-clothed costumed thug is now the subject of an undue amount of interest, and the poets are already writing verses about his exploits. Caedmon isn't interested, however.
But it got me thinking about the Witangemot. After all, it's populated by the same kind of false friends, who win the trust of the populace by talking like them, pretending to be interested in them, and making all manner of empty promises. They hide behind their factions, pledging much but ultimately delivering their only commodity - disillusionment in cartloads - to the starry-eyed masses. They're like the maggot that Caedmon found in his apple the other day. Everything looked nice on the outside – until the inner activities came to light…
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
I've even seen households which have kept them as pets for children - although they're more sanitized editions, coming in colours like white, black and piebald; they're certainly cleaner specimens.
I have it on good authority that while a certain stooge of Beeby See was busy pontificating on his mistress' behalf outside Caedmeron's official residence the other night, a rat was observed to nonchalantly walk past the doorway during the course of his business. I had to smile when I heard that. It's gratifying to know that in the elevated world of human affairs - which has no time for God's creatures and the things of the natural realm - a creature regarded as vermin can wander by in relative safety.
But for every rat walking by the Ministerial Residence, there are hundreds who pass through the doors - and those of the Witangemot.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
In the parallel world of these overpaid fantasists, everything is moulded into contorted shapes, directed by their feverish imaginations. A bit like shamanism, I suppose. Chew the mushrooms and the special herbs, throw the bones, sing the same song for several hours and everything will look better. For a while..
Monday, 17 January 2011
Unfortunately there are so many things happening in the human realm that get my whiskers itchin' and my tail a-twitchin'. (And by the way, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the ways of the cat kingdom, a cat's twitching tail is generally a sign of hostility and annoyance - not the delirious expression of pleasure so beloved of the unreflective mutt community.)
Let me explain my unrest. Edweard the Milliner appeared in the sacred portal of the soothsayer Beeby See recently - a place that he and his ilk are known to haunt with monotonous regularity, given the more than evident sympathy that the allegedly impartial Beeby See displays for the Redistributionists. He was asked by Beeby's minor stooge Maerr whether the Redistributionist Faction accepted any responsibility for the state of the economy of Northumbria, since it was under the previous Red Witangemot administration that the financial collapse first manifested itself. An audible gasp was heard from all those humans who have a sense of perspective and aren't idiotised by the bread-and-circuses handouts of the ruling elite and the puerile knockabout of politics. Why were they shocked? Because Edweird the Milliner denied that the Red administration bore any responsibility for the mess of the Kingdom's finances.
As I recall (and Caedmon has confirmed this to me), the Red Faction held the Witangemot office for a full thirteen years. When they first took over from the Trees, who'd held office for years beforehand, the economy was thriving and the birds were singing. The good people of Streonaeshalch were going about their daily business, and life was comparatively good. This state of affairs continued for some time, and before long the Red chancellor - Guthmund the Brown - took the kudos for the stability of the Kingdom's finances. No more boom and bust. Whatever. In fact, he was simply claiming credit for the work of his predecessor, while selling off the Kingdom's gold to the Bulgars at bargain basement prices. After all - what did we need it for? Anyway, the money would come in handy for more diversity coordinators, pigeon psychiatrists and fish quota accountants. Full employment. Jobs for the pals. Big wages - loads of groats and fancy coats.
The moneylenders were given permission to do whatever they liked; life was good, and the living was easy. They started to take liberal doses of magic mushrooms, and consequently their collective judgement was impaired. They started to loan groats to goats and to sell debts to each other in an attempt to profit from these bizarre transactions. No. Really. After a time, things started to unravel - as they always do when the fantasy bubble bursts.
And now Edweird the Milliner (I'll spell his name this way from now on - you don't mind, do you?) has denied that the Red administration had anything to do with the calamitous state of the economy. I'll tell you something: Feaxede the fox doesn't believe him. My big mate Leo doesn't, either.
But I'd bet my whiskers on the notion that there are human beings out there who do believe him. But can he just rewrite history like that? I don't think so. Truth has a nasty habit of catching up with those who repeatedly invent lies. The Creator defines truth - because He's the objective Truth behind everything. The likes of Ed Weird can fool other thinking humans, but they can't fool a cat, a fox or a big cat. And if they think they can fool the Creator, they're even bigger fools that I first thought.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Yesterday, there was an election in Auldholme, one of our provincial settlements in the west of our lovely country. The reason for this was that the previous Redistributionist Witangemot member - Woodlouse - had been unceremoniously removed from office, thus leaving the place vulnerable and unrepresented. This tragic and appalling state of affairs could not be allowed to continue, so an election was duly called.
Woodlouse had been ejected from his privileged seat for doing what comes so naturally to members of the Witangemot in general - and Redistributionists in particular. He'd been found guilty of lying about one of his rivals. Since mendacity is as natural to the Witangemot as breathing and excreting, I'm struggling to understand why this is such a big deal.
The only slant I can put on it is that in this case, Woodlouse was discovered to have lied, when the prevailing culture in politics seems to value those who lie in a truthful way (if you see what I mean). Woodlouse had lied in a mendacious way. That's what I think - for what it's worth. Make of it what you will.
Anyway. The most important development arising from this is that today we've heard the results of the local Great Count (where each member of the electorate casts a stick into the bin marked with the name of the candidate he or she votes for). The Redistributionist candidate was duly elected to replace Woodlouse. Oh, joyful day. The soothsayers are very excited about it. The last time I saw such delirious activity was when Caedmeron farted loudly in a solemn public occasion - and then went on to say that the winds of change were coming to Northumbria. These two events were not deliberately connected, but the excitement generated was palpable and intense. The Witangemot correspondents were kept busy for several weeks; they actually had to work for their groats for once.
The Redistributionist leader - Edweard the Milliner - has declared this result to be an outstanding victory. A new era has begun. The loyal people of Auldholme have voted for change as a result of the general discontent regarding the public expenditure cuts. The noble people of Auldholme have spoken and have sent the clear signal to the Trees/Liberationist alliance that they are not prepared to tolerate the sight of fish quota accountants, diversity coordinators and pigeon psychologists languishing in redundancy and grinding poverty. Whatever.
In actual fact, the virtuous people of Auldholme voted for the Redistributionist candidate because - like oxen - they are creatures of habit. They've always voted for Redistributionist candidates. So did their ancestors in neolithic times. And - despite the extravagant claims of Edweard the Milliner, they didn't vote according to some grand intellectual process; they voted because of basic, instinctive and tribal loyalties. The Red rosette would have been enough. If a goat had been presented as a Redistributionist candidate - and wore the requisite colour - it would now be the Honourable Member for Auldholme. He would then happily contribute to the braying and bleating that passes for debate in the Witangemot chamber. I think he would be a noble champion of their cause, too.
Frankly though, it doesn't matter who wins in these elections. They're all dominated by the noblemen and the rich moneylenders, who throw groats at them and oblige them to carry out their predetermined programme - and foist it onto a remarkably docile and bovine public who are too undiscerning to know any better. They get what they deserve.
As I was saying to my feline pals the other day - this is what provides my entertainment. But they look blankly at me as if I've grown two heads...
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
What's also significant about this development is the fact that the political faction to which the injured young politician belongs is laying the blame for this unhappy incident at the feet of a rival faction. This comes in the context of fierce political rivalries, which regularly find expression in hastily chosen words and angry exchanges in (and outside of) their Witangemot. It's all part of the showbiz of Witangemot politics. The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd.
According to Alfmund's account, the young man responsible for this violence was a strange and disturbed soul, who on a previous occasion had asked the lady politician some rather bizarre questions. Perhaps he'd been chewing the magic mushrooms and drinking mead at the same time - but we're not sure about the cause of his insanity - or whether it's temporary or not.
Nevertheless, the politicians in the faction accused of provoking this incident are understandably angry at this unjust accusation - especially since the young fruitcake had no political or ideological affiliation with their particular cause. The accusing party have evidently run out of intellectual road. They deserve a lot of pity. There should be special care homes for them, poor dears. I'll have a word with Caedmon about this and see what he thinks.
It seems to be an unfailing trait of human nature to look for someone to blame. When Caedmon told me about the biblical account of the Fall in the Book of Genesis, he told me that when Adam was discovered by God to have disobeyed the one commandment given, Adam promptly blamed his wife Eve. She'd passed the forbidden fruit to him. It was therefore her fault. Eve in turn blamed the serpent who'd given her the idea in the first place. It was his fault. Neither of them actually put up their hands and said "It's a fair cop. My fault." Nuff said.
So. Somebody or something is to blame for this outrage. Let's look for someone, shall we? Where shall we start? Let's blame the crossbow manufacturer. If crossbows didn't exist, people wouldn't be injured or killed by them. We should ban them. Let's pass a law. The crossbow lobby would be up in arms about that.
But hang on a minute: crossbows are made of wood. If wood didn't exist, crossbows and bolts couldn't be made. It's the trees' fault. We must ban trees. Let's pass a law. The mucous-sleeved urban tree huggers would be up in arms about that.
This is getting silly. Let's blame global climate change, the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and the parents. Oh - and the Witangemot.
Friday, 7 January 2011
It's a word I often hear drip from the chops of the various Witangemot puppets who spout from the sacred portals of the soothsayers. The other day I asked Caedmon what he thought democracy was. His reply was that it was the rule of the people; it was devised by the ancient Greeks (has no one put the old gits out of their misery yet?). Now, I understand that the Northumbrian people carry with them a blissful illusion that they have a say in the way they are governed. They fondly think that their voice is heard - and that it carries some weight with the Witangemot government. They vote for their most favoured factions, who lavish them with eloquent promises about a better future, a classless and just society, greater freedom, more rewards for their labours and so on. And according to the plausibility of these promises - and the individuals who make them - they cast their lot to select their desired Witangemot representative.
As a moggy - who is able to explore various areas that aren't available to the common and garden human being - I have insights not available to the world at large. I gatecrash parties and meetings, purr contentedly around the legs of the assembled guests or delegates and eavesdrop their conversations. I amass the things I see and overhear, and cogitate incessantly until a conclusion drops into place with a deafening thud.
But this time no such thing has happened. I'm finding democracy to be a very strange idea, and this is why: people nurse the idea that Witangemot and other democratic institutions reflect the wishes and aspirations of the majority. The other day, I heard that in the Suffolk area of the land of the Angles, the people were invited by their local Witangemot to vote for the image they thought best identified what the county stood for. The loyal people of that area of the Anglian kingdom duly submitted their chosen icon, and after the deadline date, the votes were counted. The result was that the good people of Suffolk voted for a band of unkempt, unwashed and rebellious young musicians called the 'Cot Of Dirtiness'. Not my preferred choice, I'll have to admit - but that's what they voted for. Whatever floats your longship. The Witangemot leaders didn't like the choice however, so they agreed to adopt the image of a horse for their county emblem instead. So - what was that all about?
And that's not all. King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) presented the various nations with a new treaty, the acceptance of which depended on a popular vote. The people of Ireland voted against it. Fair enough, Joe boy. You can't win 'em all. So, what happened next? King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) waited until a particularly uncertain time in the Irish economy, and foisted the same vote upon them. Again. No kidding. And this time, the poor suckers voted in favour of the treaty. And now - as I write - the Irish are up to their ears in debts, poxes and innumerable calamities.
Democracy. What's it really about? Perhaps you can now understand why I don't get the picture - and why the mice are getting away...
Thursday, 6 January 2011
As a cat, I'm not a trained theologian - although Caedmon has catechised me thoroughly and given me a pretty good all-round picture of Church History. I do have a basic understanding of Greek, which helps me to get under the skin of the translated New Testament scripture. The monks at the Abbey have been most helpful - especially Brother Wenham.
So - what about these other gospels that people have been talking so excitedly about recently? There are various writings which have been discovered since New Testament times. Some were pastoral letters (like the 'Shepherd of Hermas', the letter of Clement to the Corinthians and of Irenaeus to the Ephesians); these were written to serve a particular purpose. They were never intended to supplement Scripture - although they contain themes that are reflective of New Testament teaching. There were also many cults around that time which were influenced by the prevalent Greek religious and philosophical culture, along with the Babylonian mystery religions. These are referred to as the Gnostics. They wrote many of the manuscripts which are causing so much excitement at the moment; the substance of their writings at times contradicts the scriptural record and teachings. They were not embraced by the early church Fathers because they weren't regarded as genuine. I don't suppose that St. Thomas would have known anything about the gospel attributed to him!
There's a recognised spiritual principle borne out in history: where the genuine testimony appears, a counterfeit one also arrives to challenge it. For example, when Moses used the rod to authenticate to Pharaoh his God-given credentials and authority, Pharaoh's court mystics used another rod to replicate the miracles that had just been demonstrated. Where the testimony of the Son of God appears, a false testimony also arrives on the scene - in fact, many of them. And their purpose is to cause confusion and divert attention away from the genuine message. This happens because genuine Christianity is involved in a spiritual conflict which spills over into the human realm; there are spiritual forces at play. This is what the Apostle John refers to in one of his letters when he speaks of the many antichrists that have gone out into the world. (Anti in Greek means 'in place of' - or substitute.)
The Book of Enoch is quoted in scripture in the Letter of Jude, but St. Paul (in Acts 17) also quotes from the Greek poet Epimenedes. As far as I know, no one has suggested that his writings should also be incorporated into Scripture..!
Contrary to some fantastic ideas in circulation, the Church hasn't been covering up some esoteric secrets - although that idea tickles the fancy of some. Must go. There are mice to torment and catch!
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
When I think about it, I'm all the more intrigued by the various invisible fences and walls that human beings construct. We live in a kingdom called Northumbria, but that is but one of several divisions within the landmass of this huge island upon which we live. There are the Mercian, Anglian and various Saxon kingdoms as well - as well as the areas where the Welsh and Scottish savages live. They too live within certain invisible boundaries. The humans here refer to them as 'chavs' - but I really wonder why. They have their fair share of wasters and ne'er-do-wells within their own camps.
As I understand it, there are certain physical features used to demarcate territory, such as hills, rivers and valleys. The previous occupants of this land - the Romans - built a huge wall to delineate the limits of their empire (and also to prevent their citizens from escaping over the line to the more Elysian Scottish side of the fence). But there are also lines of separation between one kingdom and another which are invisible to human, feline, canine and bovine eye. How would I possibly know if I'd strayed into another territory? Would the ground be of a different colour - or the grass a different shade of green? Apart from the differences in human speech, I doubt if there would be any appreciable distinction between one zone and another.
We cats have our territorial patches, too, but we lack the physical or mental ability to put up fences to keep other moggies out. We resort to scratching trees and wooden fences, rubbing our cheeks on physical objects - and of course the dump-and-spray techniques as a last resort to drive the message home to our contemporaries. But these boundaries aren't ever static; they're subject to constant re-negotiation through tooth and claw, usually when occupying cats either die off or up sticks and move elsewhere. I must however emphasise that these means are only reserved for those other cats who want - like some johnny-come-lately gangster - to push their luck. They get exactly what they deserve - which is usually a torn ear and a damaged ego. But our territories are constantly violated by humans, and we have to resign ourselves to this. My big pal Leo and his kind would probably stake their claim more aggressively, since they have more weight to throw about. Now that would be interesting..! My imagination runs riot.
Human landmarks and boundaries revolve around some cultural and tribal allegiance - or so I'm told - but I suspect that for the most part they exist for the sake of the wealthy noblemen as a means to corral and control humans. Very subtle they are, too; the ordinary men are prepared to fight and die in order to defend their patch. All because some numpty in a finely-woven tunic and cloak with a golden sword handle has told them to. Idiots!
Saturday, 1 January 2011
The snow has thawed and melted into the usual muddy mush; the passing of the winter solstice has brought out the customary changes in birdsong and apart from the onset of Epiphany, things are back to normal. The snow has left a dirty green and brown wasteland. What the ravages of winter have done to the land, the Witangemot has done to the people; the wasteland lies in their collective consciousness. Each new year those hopes and aspirations that oil the wheels of human endeavour seem to be in shorter supply - thanks to the combined efforts of the Witangemot and the vacuous and ceaseless chattering and scaremongering of the soothsayers.
I'm not going to let it all get to me - after all, I'm just a common and garden moggy. I'm just here for a few years before I join the celestial cat set and enjoy unalloyed feline bliss.
Nevertheless, between now and then there's a lot of things to explore, and a great deal of mischief to be made. I'm going to have fun! Lots of it!