The Milliner's One Momentous Message

There's been a wonderful succession of feasts recently; the season of Advent, culminating in the Feast of Christmas, immediately followed by the Feast of St Stephen, the first Martyr. It's a significant relief that these holy festivals take place at the midpoint of the winter, when the days are at their shortest and bleakest; the proliferation of candles casts a welcome glow in the churches, mead houses and hovels of Streonaeshalh - and, of course, the cliff top Abbey. No Christmas would be complete without the candle-lit masses, the feasting of families and friends - and the inevitable entertainment proceeding from the annual oration by some political dunderhead, equipped with a large mouth and a pathologically inflated view of his own significance.

This year the lot has fallen to Edweird the Milliner - the Great Fallen Star and Pantomime Dame of the Redistributionist Faction has - in the interests of the Kingdom - delivered an oration in which he's made some solemn pledges to those who are take him seriously enough and give an ounce of credence to the moisture-laden words that drip from his chops. SInce Eddie is the Chief Shepherd of the Opposition, he enjoys the blessed prerogative of bleating whatever he likes, unfettered by the harsh realities of decision-making - provided, that is, that it'll serve his political advantage and convey his fantastical image as a caring, compassionate and thoroughly honest broker. Which of course, he is. Excuse me - I need to visit my litter tray rather urgently... I think it's something I've eaten...

Edweird the Milliner - so mercifully bereft of the ravages of conscience and principle - has promised not to forget those who have been forgotten, overlooked, ignored or forsaken by the ruling Tree/Liberationist Alliance Faction. In order to tug at the heart-strings of the gullible, he's promised - in line with his One Kingdom hallucination - to give a thought to those who have been disadvantaged by the Great Cutback policies of the present administration. Which means that if we're to take Edweird the Milliner at his word (and we can choose any one of several million), he's going to remember everyone. That's a tough gig. But I don't think that Eddie's endeavour to bind the entire population in perpetual remembrance includes his fellow politicos, who are never out of their own collective consciousness. In the unlikely event that he were to fulfil this undertaking, the question that insinuates itself into my feline mind (such as it is) is, how long would he remember the Great Forgotten for? To gauge opinion on this, I asked various friends of mine to hazard a guess. Brockwald the Badger predicted that Eddie would remember for a full hour. Feaxede the Fox - who, to be fair, has had some previous experience of the Redistributionist Faction - suggested that he would remember for half an hour.

I give him about three nanoseconds...

The End - Yet Again

While the politicos have been getting on with their sordid business of covering up their foul misdemeanours and subjugating the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria under the benignly malevolent yoke of Sacred Arch-Cheese Emperor Joe Borracho - the self-appointed Grand Sham of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Caedmon's socks, Roman as a frankfurter and not remotely resembling an empire), the soothsayers have been getting excited about yet another Grand Distraction. It earns them a crust, I suppose..

According to the Mayas - a magic mushroom and peyote-fuelled ante-diluvian civilisation from the as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule - the world was due to come to an abrupt end today, on the Winter Solstice. This ancient people constructed large and interesting pyramid structures, doubtless inspired by a visit by their seers to the land of Egypt to see how it was done. They also devised what was latterly understood to be a circular calendar and almanac upon a large stone, from which all manner of interesting predictions have been extrapolated. (The circular structure was actually an elaborate dinnerplate for their fat high priest, but such a prosaic and banal explanation doesn't make for exciting stories and wild predictions, does it?)

In view of this devastating apocalyptic prediction, all kinds of unusual people - clothed in muddy off-white robes, holding harps and ram's horn trumpets - have been swarming for the last few days in hordes of herds to the sacred mountain of Pen-y-Ghent, expecting that particular place to be the focal point of the Great End. Many of them have sold their possessions and have made the one-way pilgrimage there in expectation of being translated to another realm. It's all so terribly sad.

Astonishingly enough, just as with the eschatological predictions of the venerable Harold the Campsite, the Great Wind-Up Of The Ages hasn't happened today; consequently the great unwashed multitudes are once more taking the tedious journeys back to their hamlets and hovels - doubtless to the grinning sarcasm of the sceptics who stayed on to get on with their work.

Meanwhile, Edweird the Milliner - the Grand Macaroni of the Redistribution Faction has been busy. Today he's called for a Public Enquiry into this significant disaster. This is the thirty thousandth request he's made for one since breakfast. I wonder why it's of such burning interest to him? - I bet he'd placed a wager with some dubious character somewhere, and he's lost..

Night And Day

As I perambulate through my considerable empire, fending off aspiring feline successors and enjoying the thrills and spills of the small rodent hunt, I'm privileged to observe the human condition in all its fallen and faded glory - and believe me, it's not pretty. One thing I've noticed of late is that the Kingdom of Northumbria is in a state of turmoil, distress, woe and biscuit. Of course, I ought to declare that this is the state of normality in the human realm - except of course, in the hallowed cloisters of Streonaeshalh Abbey, where a serenity and deep calmness prevails.

The latest contribution to the present distress is a new piece of legislation proposed by Dagwald Caedmeron - the Most High Palooka and Archbeacon of the Tree Faction and Principal Dogsbody of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration, who has decreed that from the beginning of next year, the term 'day' should be renamed 'night', and conversely, 'night' is to be renamed 'day.' Despite the inevitable confusion that this new change will generate in the human world of communication - not to mention the massive backlash of public opinion against such an absurdity - Caddy Boy is determined to push this new piece of ground-breaking legislation through. The reason for this - and he has thus declared it - is because he is a Tree. Moreover, further terminology changes can be expected next year as the terms 'good' and 'evil' 'right' and 'wrong', 'black' and 'white' and 'dog' and 'cat' are also imposed upon the Northumbrian populace. (I hereby solemnly swear and declare that if any human being -regardless of age, rank, gender or socio-economic group refers to me as Caedmon's Dog, I will personally pressure test my needle-sharp teeth on his or her anatomy.)

What has mystified the majority of people - who've always commonly assumed that 'night' referred to the sunless portion of the day - is why Caddy Boy has decided to decree something so mind-rottingly stupid - especially since the Tree Faction previously represented those traditional, handed-down cultural values and were notoriously suspicious of change. But my feline friend Lareow (Caddy Boy's Rodent Czar-In-Chief) has confided in me that his holy employer is so frightened of being typecast as a boring old fuddy-duddy, and is pathologically desperate to be perceived of as being hip, cool and trendy, just like his worthless, money and time-wasting Redistributionist friends.

Interestingly, Caddy Boy has decreed from On High that the vote for this proposed bill won't be subject to the Faction Whip, as it wasn't a policy proposed in the Tree Declaration of Malicious Intent, which was hastily scribbled five minutes before they assumed the coveted office. Fellow politicos may vote according to their own reason and common sense. Motion carried, then..

Caedmeron's Great Gamble

The onward march of idiocy continues apace - much to the amusement of your Moggy. The latest excitement to engulf the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria revolves around a controversial measure introduced by Dagwald Caedmeron, the Pontifex Maximus and Chicken Supreme of the Tree Faction, and also Primus Inter Pares of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. This new Great Piece of Significant Policy is designed to grant homeopathic badgers the right to vote in any place of worship they deem suitable.

Naturally, the rank-and-file Tree Faction members are Deeply Concerned about this, since such a change of policy is contrary to the Natural Order of Things, and they see this measure as an unwelcome imposition foisted upon them and, moreover, without any prior reference to their own Greatly Valued opinions. It certainly wasn't in the Tree Faction's Declaration of Intent, which they hastily scribbled five minutes prior to assuming the sacred office. The Redistributionists however - led nobly from behind by their Great Mascot Edweird the Milliner - are quite pleased with this idea, since it meshes very tidily into their own magic mushroom-inspired narrative, and is consistent with the theology of their cruel and inflexibly stupid deity called Equality. Nevertheless, they've stated that the proposal doesn't go far enough, since it leaves no room for the weasels. It's all so very sad. There's simply no pleasing some.

Caddy Boy recently stated to his adoring acolytes, window-lickers and sycophants that he's introducing this new Great Measure for the very reason that he's a Tree, and he doesn't want poor homeopathic badgers to miss out on the opportunity for participation in the life of the Christian Community. Which is nice. Despite this theatrical posturing and intention to drag this into the statute books, most Trees are already leaving the Faction in droves and seeking refuge in the Northumbrian Independence Freedom Faction - a breakaway group which opposes the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and that kind of thing, and wistfully longs for Northumbria's green and pleasant land.

Since badgers are normally secretive nocturnal creatures, most ordinary Northumbrians are quite content to let them carry out their practice of diluting their urine to the trillionth degree - as long as they don't parade their strange and esoteric medicine in full public gaze. However, they find the idea of allowing them to vote in a sacred place of worship a Step Too Far. Needless to say, the Church isn't too enchanted with the idea. One clergyman has politely suggested to Caedmeron that he should take a one-way journey to Perdition - which isn't a place within the boundaries of our Kingdom.. I'll have to ask Caedmon where it is...

It's all likely to end in tears. And I suspect that most of the badgers don't give a rat's rump about voting, anyway. They're too busy plotting the Great Cull of the Politicos..

Great Expectations

The beloved soothsaying hag Beeby See has been terribly excited about some Wonderful News which has emerged from the household of King Alhfrith, the titular aristocratic Supremo of the Northumbrian Kingdom. In tones of hushed reverence bordering on pathological sycophancy, Beeby's regal affairs drudge announced that Prince Walthelm - sixty third in line to the coveted Northumbrian throne, and his posturing trophy wife Princess Gytha - are expecting a puppy, which is to be the next in line to the regal seat of power. It's all so terribly sad - in fact it's enough to make even a grown cat weep.

The excitement and delirium about this astounding development in the Royal Household has been so hysterically intense that the noble commoner Princess has taken sick with violent vomiting, dire diarrhoea and biscuit, and consequently has had to resort to the services of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service. There have been hourly updates, delivered in the mandatory reverential tones from Beeby's minion at the herbalist centre, where the indisposed Princess is currently confined.

It's a sign of these degenerate times that even the Royal Couple are so chronically undiscerning that they should even wish to share their exciting and eventful lives with a howling, puking, slobbering and ultimately exhausting and demanding creature.

But that's dogs for you; they should have opted for a Cat. I'd teach it a thing or two...

Hard Pressed

There's been a great deal of delirium, excitement and biscuit in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria of late regarding the recent recommendations made by the Leftvision Report - a recently released illuminated tome of colossal size, costing several trillions of Holy Groats. This Great Book seems to have emerged from the wreckage of an enquiry into various soothsayers of the Realm - and particularly the activities of Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach, the wealthy and influential owner of myriads of soothsaying interests whose principal sin was to apostatise and turn his allegiance away from the Redistributionists, and pitch his tent instead within the happy land of Dagwald Caedmeron's Tree Faction.

In view of the misdemeanours of Prince Rupie's soothsayers and their drudges (i.e. listening in to private conversations and publicly proclaiming them from the rooftops), it was decreed in the aforesaid Report that Something Must Be Done about these scallywags; consequently, several soothsayers have already been lovingly hanged until dead in the public squares of the Kingdom. Naturally, Beeby See and her vile soothsaying crony Guardy-Ann have been exempt from such investigations, and have sat on high horses to proclaim vituperation, disdain and contempt upon those unfortunate enough to have been caught. The recently uncovered scandals concerning Beeby's late impresario, the Lothario Ine Sovile - along with the tax-evading measures taken by groat-strapped Guardy-Ann - have mysteriously dissipated from public consciousness, allowing these self-styled moralists and overseers of the Kingdom's information to preach with impunity. It's all so very sad.

Adding their own two pennyworth to the furore have been the politicos, many of whom have sanctimoniously called for all soothsaying enterprises in the Kingdom to be strictly filtered and controlled by the Redistributionist Faction, who've already appointed themselves as the sole guardians of the One True And Holy Narrative. This of course has nothing to do with the fact that the soothsayers disclosed the money-grubbing and fraudulent activities of these politicos in their wild expense-claiming antics. Nor is this hysterical call for control of the soothsayers related to the desire on the part of most of the politicos for complete and unaccountable control over every activity in every corner of the Realm.

There's going to be a great deal of heat and very little light over this matter in the next few millennia. In fact, certain politicos would very much like it all to be kept in the dark - which I suspect is their own natural habitat...

Rodreham Rout

On a crisp winter's day, there's nothing better than a piece of news to warm the blood. Today this Cat has finally heard the results of the Rodreham election, where the three identical factions have been slogging it out in immoral mortal combat to get one of their window-lickers elected into a seat in the House of Folly. Hooray for De-Mockery-Cy!

As well as the usual suspects, there was also a contender from the Northumbria Independence Faction - a small and motley collection of idealists, eccentrics and emotionally cultural Anglo-Saxons who aspire to see the beautiful Kingdom delivered from the affectionate deadly embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Beelzebub's underpants, Roman as a pyramid and nothing like an empire).

An interesting development immediately prior to the election was the measure taken by the Redistributionist-infested Rodreham welfare services to separate some foreign orphans from their Anglo-Saxon foster parents. Their justification for this heartless decision was that these malevolent and foolish parents had changed their allegiances, forsaken the Holy Redistributionist Faction and espoused the cause of the Northumbria Independence Faction. In short, they were deemed to be vile heretics. This change of heart on the part of the unfortunate parents owed itself to their growing concern over the myriads of people steadily occupying the Kingdom, speaking guttural languages, spitting in the streets, practising strange and exotic religions and eating bizarre dishes. When word got out about this draconian measure, swords were sharpened, and the heads of Redistributionists were eagerly sought - along with those of the ubiquitous, slimy and secretive cult Commonest Porpoise, which, like an unseen colony of demented maggots, eats at the heart of the Kingdom's institutions. The pundits were confidently predicting that as a consequence of this bizarre episode, the Redistributionists would suffer an ignominious defeat, and there would be public executions.

But we should never take anything for granted. The Redistributionists have won the seat. My pal Feaxede the Fox told me that each Rodreham Redistributionist elector voted at least three times. Fair play wins the day. But at least the Liberationists lost their deposit. I have one freshly cooked for them - and there's plenty more where that came from..

Grand Designs

So much is going on here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria that my poor feline head is in a veritable spin. What doesn't help my present state of disorientation is a recent Important Announcement by Tondvig the Bleurgh - the former Chief Pork Scratching and Virtuous Paradigm of the Redistributionists, and retired Principal Emissary of the Kingdom.

This eminent and well-loved servant of the Northumbrian Realm and High Priestly Representative of the common-and-garden people hasn't been idle since his retirement from the leadership of the Redistributionists seventeen thousand years ago. Eager to exercise his finely-honed skills in mendacity, oratory and sincere guile, he's been travelling over the many waters of the earth, giving lectures to adoring window-lickers, knuckle-draggers, lickspittles and anyone deranged enough to part with several million Holy Groats for the privilege of hearing diatribes of magic-mushroom-fuelled fantasy and folly drip from his amply proportioned chops.

By such enterprise - as well as his tireless industry in greasing the wheels of the weird and wacky world of weapons commerce - Tondvig the Bleurgh has amassed a considerable fortune. As appears to the case with flawed human nature, such wealth has had a degenerative effect upon his own psyche, resulting in pathological ambition, evidenced in the fact he now has designs on the throne of Emperor Jose Borracho - the Dancing Fairy Queen of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Since this overweening ambition mirrors that of the evil one, whose original desire was to de-throne the Almighty, it's quite likely that he'll suffer the same kind of indignity as his infernal exemplar.

To assist his own cause, Tondvig the Bleurgh has urged the Northumbrian Kingdom to remain within the diabolical orbit of the Unholy Empire. Out of unalloyed awe and respect for this beloved paradigm, most of Northumbrians are are dignifying his call with indifference. The Redistributionists are in raptures, of course..

Bear-faced Cheek

The disastrous vote in the Great Northumbrian Church Council has brought about widespread hysteria, panic, agony, soul-searching and biscuit, and the soothsayers have been assiduously dissecting the result, and gravely predicting the imminent demise of the Church. This has been a golden opportunity in every place for heated discussions and rational debate with axes, as people who'd never normally darken the doors of a church building have suddenly crept out of the woodwork as self-appointed theologians, advocating the hip, cool and trendy new doctrine of Fluffy Diversity. Beeby See - the impartial soothsayer who speaks exclusively for the hip, cool and trendy Redistributionists - has wheeled out such experts in boundless abundance from whichever warehouse they're stored. A Day of Mourning has recently been announced throughout the Kingdom, and flags hang limply at half-mast in the rain. It's all so terribly sad; if this Cat could shed tears, he certainly would. But at least I can take a well-deserved dump.. 

Whatever. Following hot on the heels of this devastating development has been the latest disclosure from the soothsayers that a man has been observed to have climbed upon the Anglo-Saxon cross in the middle of Yorvik. This has caused considerable distress for passers-by and innocent onlookers, bystanders and suchlike, as the man in question isn't adequately dressed for a chilly early winter's day. In fact, he isn't wearing anything at all. The spectacle of a stark-naked man in such an elevated location has caused unspeakable disruption, as crowds of people have stopped to watch in equal measures of awe-struck admiration and open-mouthed, fly-catching dumb wonder. It's more than apparent that a great number of people have never seen a naked person before - and in today's temperatures, it's small wonder ;0)

Rumour has it (I'm unable to verify this, so please don't pass this on as established fact) that the offender who is making such a small-scale (and greatly diminished) public statement is none other than His Holiness Georges Moonbat, the Great High Priest of the Redistributionist Global Warming Cult and wild-eyed devotee of the Most Holy Mother Earth. The story goes that he's demanding human rites for the poor polar bears - and he's also Deeply Concerned about the disastrous vote in the Great Northumbrian Church Council. I'm trying very hard to get my feline head around the purpose of his protest. I fail to see what significant ministry polar bears can add to the Church of Northumbria...

Shepherds

While the politicos continue their posturing and exercising their ingenuity in making expenses claims, and dearly-loathed Beeby See pathetically tries to repair an irrevocably lost reputation, other things have been quietly smouldering in the background. Today, the soothsayers have been alerting us all to the latest Great And Important Issue: this very day is historic in the life of the Northumbrian Church, as its Supreme Council meets to vote on a Very Contentious Issue.

There are those who would venture the opinion that the Church has been far too busy desperately trying to keep up with the latest fads and fancies of the politicos, who are determined to drag the entire Kingdom into its fluffy magic-mushroom-fuelled narrative, where everyone in the Kingdom is equal in status, ability and opportunity, and where even a bat, a cat or a rat is on an equal footing with King Alhfrith, and where the most intellectually-challenged may grasp the glittering prizes and hold a political office (as most already do).

However, this Cat doesn't lean towards such a perspective, and neither do many others. When I asked Caedmon for his thoughts, he told me he was quite happy about the contentious proposition in question. He also told me that his eminent friends Bede, Chad, Aidan and Cuthbert were also positive about it. I also went to Streonaeshalh Abbey to chat with the Abbess Hilda and the monks, to gauge their own feelings on the matter, and they were perfectly happy with the potentially likely outcome of this Great Council, which in their estimation is on an equal footing to those of Nicea and Chalcedon.

The outcome from this Great Gathering is predictable: the time is coming when there will be male bishops. The nay-sayers are going to have to get used to it..

A Rare Encounter

I wandered through my own feline empire this morning as usual, making sure everything was in order. I happened across Feaxede the Fox, who was certainly in a better frame of mind than he was when I saw him yesterday. When I asked him why he was so cheerful, he told me that he'd had a very interesting conversation with another fox whose acquaintance he'd recently made, and there unfolded an interesting and exciting story.

It appears that this fox - Ficol by name - had returned from a visit to the wild, craggy and wet northern land of Caledonia. His adventure started when he jumped on board a merchant's cart when no human was looking, and was highly delighted to find that the load on the cart was a consignment of geese. Since this was a good portent, he stayed on the cart, which was covered by a large rug to keep the cargo from the elements. The driver of the cart didn't at any time stop to inspect the load, either - some creatures have all the luck..

After several days of travel, Ficol alighted near a very large lake, and having watched the cart disappear into the distance, decided to investigate this new terrain. While he was looking around, he saw the head of an enormous creature emerge from the water, who saw him and from a distance of a few yards from the shore, and engaged him in conversation. Ficol asked him who he was, as he'd never seen the likes of such an animal before. The aquatic apparition explained that he was the legendary and secretive Loch Ness Monster, whose primary mission in life is to elude the gaze of human beings, thus creating an illusion of mystery. The fox and the monster thus formed a firm friendship and had many a long conversation.

Feaxede was clearly excited by this story - after all it's a unique experience to see the Loch Ness Monster - let alone to have meaningful conversations with it. I told Feaxede that I'd actually encountered something even more rare and wonderful this very morning: I actually encountered a human who'd cast a vote in the local election for the Chief of the local Costumed Thug Force...

Police Yourself

There's never a dull moment here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; today I bumped into my old friend Feaxede the Fox, who appeared to be rather preoccupied about something. After the customary greetings that familiars usually exchange, I asked him what was happening, since I'd perceived that he was looking rather subdued.

He told me that he'd just come from the local polling station in Streonaeshalh. Now, since I'm a Cat who's usually well-versed in current affairs and the labyrinthine nature of human politics, I was particularly intrigued, since I hadn't been told that there was an election in progress. Had I missed something during one of my naps? Had Caedmeron in a split second turn of events decided to go to the Realm for a massive vote of no confidence? 

My questions were soon answered when Feaxede told me that today's vote was a Very Special Vote: it was a unique opportunity for the good citizens of this Anglo-Saxon Kingdom to cast their vote for their Chief over the local Costumed Thug Force. All three of the main political factions - Tree, Redistributionist and Liberationist - were represented by their respective candidates. There were also some hopefuls of a more independently-minded outlook who were also standing for the job. So I asked Feaxede what the post entailed, and he told me that the newly-elected Chief would oversee the activities of the Streonaeshalh Costumed Thug militia, and each morning would decide what kind of offences, crimes and misdemeanours they should try to tackle. 

I still couldn't get my feline head around this, so I asked him what the difference would be between the priorities of three main factions. Needless to say, everything fell into place when Feaxede told me that there wasn't a scrap of difference between their agendas; they would all zealously ensure that elderly ladies who allow their pet dogs to evacuate their colons on the streets would be severely punished, and anyone caught calling someone of a Nordic persuasion a "Vikey" or an "Edda Banger" would be hanged, drawn and quartered, since this constituted a loathsome hate crime. As for crimes of robbery, fraud and theft - these would be dealt with as and when the new Chief saw fit. Since these are misdemeanours which the politicos commit daily, they can't be seen to be too enthusiastic..

So then I asked Feaxede what was bothering him; he told me that he'd watched outside the polling station all day, and he hadn't seen a single person going in to cast their vote. This was a disappointing day for De-Mockery-cy. I suggested to him that perhaps the reason for the lack of attendance was down to the fact that nobody had any strong feelings or convictions on the matter, and that they'd decided to vote with their feet (or rather their backsides). Or perhaps it was because they simply hadn't been told about it - after all, I'd only just found out myself.

I told him not to worry - the right Chief will be selected and elected, even if nobody's voted for him; there's a handsome salary involved to the tune of several thousand Holy Groats each month, along with abundant opportunities for bungs and back-handers as he greases the wheels of the magic mushroom supply chain. I've seen it all before...

Beeby's New Boss

In these November days of damp, dreariness and biscuit, it's always refreshing to hear news that lifts the jaded spirits and cheers the flagging soul. Beeby See - that universally loathed soothsayer and bosom pal of the psychotic hag affectionately known as Guardy-Ann - has been going through some tough times lately, as certain inconvenient truths concerning the unwholesome antics of her departed eccentric entertainer Ine the Sovile have come to light; this has also been compounded by a certain news report she cheerfully issued recently, alleging all manner of loathsome crimes and misdemeanours against a former Tree politico, whose sole sin was to have served under the former Tree Leader Hildebrand the Roofer (who incidentally happens to be one of the objective and impartial Beeby's most hated political figures). Unfortunately, the faithfully mindless drudges who gleefully served up this report didn't take the time or trouble to investigate these allegations to ascertain their veracity before making them public, and their primary witness suddenly (and terribly inconveniently) changed his story when he realised that the Tree politico he'd initially named wasn't actually the guilty party. Oops-a-daisy. The blacksmiths of the Kingdom of Northumbria have been busy sharpening knives, and Beeby has been sweating even more profusely than usual. As a token gesture, the dismal old bat dismissed her previous chief with a significant bribe to keep him quiet.

But all is not lost, so please don't weep, despite your inclination to do so. Every clod has a sliver of lining. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Aburr Gut-Harrdurr - the idiosyncratic, hook-handed Viking sweetheart - renowned for his deep affection for the Anglo-Saxon people and their Christian ways - has been released form the oubliette where he's been awaiting his deportation to his Nordic homeland. Apparently King Olaf doesn't want him back to grace his own shores, so he's been permitted to remain here to spread his love and happiness within this Realm. There's a job waiting for him, which will give him a golden opportunity to work for the first time in his life.

It's simply wonderful how things work out, isn't it?

O'Barmy Nation Of Desolation

The soothsayers have been in a state of high excitement as they've received news of Very Important Developments in the faraway (and as yet undiscovered) land of Ultima Thule, where, so we're told, an election has been taking place among the hordes of that mysterious realm for the Tribal Chieftain's seat.

As I intimated yesterday, the contest has been between His Eminence Bugrake O'Barmy - that slick, silver-tongued, smooth-talking orator, whose prowess owes principally to his considerable experience as a used chariot salesman - and his rival, the wealthy plutocrat, aristocrat and laundromat Mutt the Rumpy, an adherent of an alien polygamy-promoting heresy which is peculiar to those undiscovered shores. This has been a contest between two disparate mentalities within that Elysian field of plenty; the one supporting Buggy Boy represents an amalgam of knuckle-draggers, the wealthy inarticulate, the impoverished inarticulate, starry-eyed Redistributionists, fantasists and the chronically short-sighted and naive, while the other is a dog's breakfast of flag-saluters, shopkeepers, apple pie eaters, the splendidly isolated, the bow-and-arrow lobby, the hang-'em-high brigade and - last but by no means least, the fabulously wealthy. This latter mentality has been described as the Silent Majority, chiefly because of their speechless eloquence, which certainly came to play a significant part in the outcome of yesterday's contest.

The results of this legendary contest have reached the unwashed lugs of the soothsayers, and we're reliably informed that the hip cat Bugrake O'Barmy has once again been returned to the Chieftain's Throne, where he can once again administer his own idiosyncratic brand of righteousness and peace, aided and abetted by the enormous tax bills of the bankrupted citizens of that benighted realm. Already there has been the ringing of many bells and the wringing of many hands, and the political sages are already predicting the tone for the next few centuries of Bugrake O'Barmy's reign. Although his speech has been bereft of the magic word "hope", he's nevertheless promised an era of free healthcare herbal remedies, mustard, bustard and custard for the Ultima Thule residents. This is a coded message, and the translation refers to more woe, debt, bankruptcy and biscuit. Good times are just around the bend - just as they were yesterday, as well as five thousand years ago.

I have a sneaky feeling that a consequence of this Significant Development is that Ultima Thule will remain undiscovered for several hundred years yet...

Thule Me Once..

Today is a Very Significant Day in the history of the world. I know this to be true for the simple and unvarnished reason that the soothsayers have told me so - and who am I - a mere Cat - to quibble with such sages?

In the long ago, faraway and as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, a valuable choice is being made by the inhabitants which will determine their destiny as a Kingdom for the next ten minutes: they're casting their votes for their new Tribal Chieftain. The previous occupant of this seat of authority was His Eminence Bugrake O'Barmy - the silver-tongued, smooth-talking operator, whose skills have been honed by his previous experience in used chariot sales, and informed by the barrack-room legal profession. After a period of tenure which has secured Ultima Thule's place in the annals of the history books for extreme insolvency, bankruptcy, poverty, debt and biscuit - aided by increased taxation in order to construct the Ultima Thule Herbalist Service, thus generating myriads of important jobs for fluffy diversity coordinators and pigeon psychologists. His mantra when he previously ran for the Chieftain's seat was "Hope," but it's noticeable that such a word no longer appears in his rhetorical vocabulary. I've no idea why, and the soothsayers aren't providing any clues as to the reasons for this mysterious omission. Buggy Boy represents the interests of the inarticulate, deluded and starry-eyed Redistributionists and those legions of foreigners who have no grasp of the prevailing language.

Bugrake O'Barmy's rival to the Great Throne is a wealthy tribesman called Mutt Rumpy, who represents the interests of the Silent Majority - the moral backbone of the undiscovered land. Although the electors are taciturn (mainly because they haven't yet learned to speak), their Representative is certainly not, and he isn't afraid to air his formidable ignorance about the world in which he lives. (He recently voiced the opinion that Northumbria was some kind of disease.) Mutt Rumpy also adheres to some Ultima Thule-derived heresy whose theology centres around polygamy, huge families and cuddly kittens. This is likely to appeal to the feline vote, but I'm not so sure I'd be in favour. I must have a chat with Caedmon about it when he has a spare fifteen nanoseconds..

The results of this Significant Vote will be disclosed in the next ten years. I'm so excited! Now, what's for lunch?

Trough Off

Your Cat has once again been informed of devastating news from the soothsayers; there are some weeks where the tide of tidings is simply relentless. I really need a break from all this: I think I'm going to have to take a sabbatical, and devote myself to rodent research, aided by copious supplies of catnip...

The latest delight to drip from the earnest and sincerely concerned chops of the soothsayers concerns the banishment of a Redistributionist politico answering to the name of Denisc the Shameless, who's by no means been a stranger to past controversies. This latest development concerns Denisc's passion and undoubted talent for creative moneymaking. Not - I might hasten to add - through the sweat of his brow in the drudgery of honest toil, but rather in a long-running series of highly inventive expense claims which would do credit to the most imaginative storyteller to binge on the sacred fungus. Among the crimes for which he's had to answer has been a series of claims for a residence during his times in exile from the comforts of his home while on Witangemot business. This is of course quite legitimate in itself, but the unfolding of the reality behind the claim has disclosed quite a different narrative.

I went to investigate the property for which Denisc had submitted his considerable demand. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the residence used to support his submission for expenses was neither a house, palace nor hovel. I found a resident there however, and I engaged in some pleasant conversation with him. He's quite an affable fellow, and certainly bright and articulate, and our chat covered all kinds of subjects of common interest. Sadly though, my nose eventually prompted me to remove myself, and his eating habits certainly left a great deal to be desired. A pigsty is no place for a Cat. 

Denisc is welcome to it, though..

Defeat of Strength

As the whirling storms wreak their havoc and customary desolation on the habitations of the as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, other climatic phenomena bombard the shores of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. The common factors between these peculiar climatic phenomena seem to be immense quantities of wind, wet and heat, which unite in fiendish concord to stir up ordure of varying degrees of freshness and spread it liberally around. That's Redistributionism for you, folks.

Yesterday, the disreputable and dishonourable members of the Witangemot cast their votes with regard to an issue that is dear to the heart of many a politico: the subsidy demanded from our noble Realm for the coffers of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Beelzebub's bottom, as Roman as a camel's droppings, and nothing like an empire). Ever since the politicos decided seventeen thousand years ago to commit the Kingdom to the loving stranglehold of the Infernal Empire under the theatrical pretence that the arrangement was one of mutual help, culture, trade and biscuit, the relationship has proved itself to be one of subordinate to psychotic taskmaster rather than small friend to big friend. This has evidenced itself in the amount of protection money demanded by the Evil Federation from the Kingdom to guarantee the fluffy comfort and security of not being invaded. (The Vikings have also successfully pulled that stunt, and under the grand titles of Danegeld and Danelaw have managed to continuously con a lot of Holy Groats from the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. Good game.)

Since the hard-pressed Northumbrians have very few Holy Groats or even pennies to rub together, there's understandably a lot of resentment towards Emperor Jose Borracho, his half-baked henchman Hermit the Rumphole and the thousands of political drones on the other side of the North Sea and the Channel who are living high off the hog. Furthermore, the guarantee that Northumbria would never be invaded has appeared to be a false promise, since myriads of clothes peg sellers, tinkers, layabouts and professional riff-raff with bizarre languages, diet, personal habits and religious propensities have filtered their way into the Realm to derive considerable benefit from living in readily available housing and having the free facilities of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service. Fair enough.

Since many politicos have realised that their future tenure depends on the good will of their constituents, the majority of them have voted with the Redistributionists against Caedmeron and have put their political careers on the line. The result of this is that the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration was soundly defeated. This Cat even heard rumours that Caedmeron voted against himself. He's daft enough. But to be sure, it'll be business as usual as the coffers continue to fill..

Wind Up

In these tumultuous Dark Age days, the soothsayers seem to take untold delight in announcing yet more gloom and turbulence. In this last couple of days they've been excitedly informing the Northumbrian Kingdom about severe weather conditions which have been brewing over the eastern coast of that faraway (and as yet undiscovered) land affectionately known as Ultima Thule. The delirium generated by these announcements has been so intense that all shipping from these island shores has been immediately cancelled, and aspiring Viking discoverers, merchants, snake oil salesmen, privateers and maritime thugs have been advised to suspend their seaborne adventures until the adverse climatic conditions have abated. So terribly sad.

I was quite intrigued when I first heard this. As I ruminated over a mouse, the following question quietly insinuated itself into my feline mind: how do the soothsayers know this stuff, and why do they pretend to be so knowledgeable about this sort of thing? I decided to investigate. In my usual modus operandi, I went around to visit those friends who share an interest in such matters. Feaxede the Fox didn't have the first clue about it when I asked him, and didn't even offer any suggestion as to where I could pursue my line of enquiry. My humungous feline friend Leo (remember him? I still pay him a call from time to time) couldn't furnish me with any ideas either. I even visited Brockwald the badger, but he wasn't remotely interested in my question; I suspect he was preoccupied with his fellow-creatures' momentous decision, which has recently been postponed until next summer. At least it gives them time to formulate a workable strategy..

I knew that it was a complete waste of time to disturb my human master Caedmon over such things; if he's not out of doors, minding the herds as his paid employment, he's busy engaged in his pious poetic endeavours, and rhyming Anglo-Saxon couplets and iambic pentameters seem to be weightier matters in his estimation. I was about to abandon all hope of having my curiosity sated when I suddenly remembered my old feline buddy Lareow - the Minister For Rodent Communities in Caedmeron's Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. Of course! He's the one to go to for valuable insight. I took a wander over to his luxurious dwelling (which is subsidised by the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayers, of course) and arranged for an interview with him over lunch. Over a mouse hors d'oeuvres, I asked him my question. I was surprised at the detail of his answer, which I now submit for your edification and delectation:

The soothsayers discover such remarkable items of news as a result of chewing particularly strong varieties of magic mushroom, which, when they take effect, elevate their consciousness (or at least, what approximates to it) to an abnormally high altitude. From such a vantage point they're able to witness remarkable visions, which they babble excitably to (sober) scribes, who are on hand with their pens poised to scribble down their ecstatic gibbering. This is apparently necessary because all recollection of these revelations evaporates when their minds return to terra firma as the effects of the fungi subside. It apparently takes a very long time to obtain a coherent narrative from the resulting manuscripts..

As for the weather, it appears that a mighty storm is brewing as a result of two colliding masses of moving air. The one is a swirling vortex of hot and malodorous rhetoric which emanates from the foetid swamplands of the Redistributionist heartland. When it encounters the cooler - but no less vile - zephyrs of the Tree Faction, a violent reaction takes place, and the resulting cycle of wind and slobber gathers a frightening momentum, disturbing the normally placid existence of people, destroying their homes and communities as it twists its drunken way through the Kingdom, uprooting Trees and scattering ordure everywhere. The damage is incalculable, and the resulting smell is enough to make a dog heave.

It all sounds like a typical day in Northumbrian politics to me - although I didn't say that to Lareow for fear of offending him. He's a veritable fountain of knowledge, and I don't want to lose such a valuable source of information..

Dunstan the Smithy's Family Planning

While Edweird the Spheres continues to reinvent history in defence of his latest stance on the Kingdom's minuscule recovery, and the decrepit and degenerate old soothsayer Beeby See is embroiled in myriads of scandals concerning her dead and departed priapic friend Ine the So Vile, this Cat has been observing other little sideshows that have been in progress here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. Many seemingly insignificant developments in the life of the Northumbrian body politic hatch unobserved while other issues dominate the popular consciousness. That's showbiz, children.

Dunstan the Smithy - the Unemployment and Impoverished Old Age Secretary of the Tree/Liberationist Administration has quietly been beavering away to reform the benefits system of the Realm, and in a whisper has recently announced a proposal to cap the benefits available to unemployed parents with large families. SInce the amount granted has always depended upon the size of the claimant's family, Northumbrian logic has propelled the jobless to copiously propagate their species to enable them to claim even more Holy Groats for the purchase of essentials like mead, ale and Lottery tickets. A sad and tragic consequence of this has been large gangs of feral youths menacingly hanging around street corners, chewing magic mushrooms, getting habitually drunk, joining the Redistributionist Faction and generally making a perfect nuisance of themselves to their local communities. This in turn has stretched the pathetically limited resources of the Costumed Thug Force, which has been obliged to reduce its workforce and wage bill and curtail its crime fighting duties in the interests of Saving Money.

Henceforth, benefits will be payable for up to two children; any progeny in excess of this new threshold will have to earn their keep by various forms of criminality such as theft, robbery and politics..

Lease and Fleece

Oh dear me: it simply doesn't stop. As I was on my morning patrol of my substantial empire in the environs of Streonaeshalch, word reached me from the soothsayers that those obtuse Northumbrian Peoples' representatives have been up to their old tricks again. As the Biblical proverb astutely tells us, as a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool returns to his folly; these rascally samples of pond life appear to be very reluctant to learn the lessons of the recent past, having been already subjected to all manner of opprobrium, shame, disgrace, scandal and biscuit for their substantial and elaborate expenses scams. However, they have a valiant champion in their diminutive Speaker Dagwald the Turkey, who's nobly defended their cause and has desperately attempted to frustrate the soothsayers in a bid to conceal these unpalatable misdeeds from the tender and sensitive ears of the long-suffering and impoverished Northumbrian populace. Unfortunately, these unfruitful works of darkness have reached the public ear, and the sharpening of swords has resounded through this Dark Ages realm. What an awful shame.

It appears that the politicos - in an attempt to circumvent the ostensibly rigorous expenses procedures devised since the last scandal about five minutes ago - have discovered that they've been able to take on the role of landlord for their own (luxurious) dwellings, then renting them to their Witangemot colleagues, who then draw substantial remuneration from the rent they pay. The result of this has been a home-swapping game akin to musical chairs. And now, the music has stopped - until the next time, at least..

Taking The Rise

Since that Momentous Announcement concerning the Great Award to the Holy Roman Empire (which neither waddles like a mallard, quacks like an Aylesbury nor even remotely resembles a duck, let alone a sanctified Latin civilisation), this Cat has heard yet another piece of news from this lovely Northumbrian Kingdom which has caused a great deal of concern, consternation, constipation and fishpaste among the destitute, downtrodden, disease-ridden but stoical hordes of ordinary people.

The noble, honourable and worthy members of the Northumbrian Witangemot have decided to award themselves a Pay Rise. Hooray for politicos, delusions of self-importance and sanctimony! When I first heard this piece of knowledge, which happily dripped from the lips of the soothsayers like a salivary rivulet, I was so terribly pleased for them, and, delighted to be the recipient of Wonderful News before my vulpine friend Feaxede the Fox, I rushed over to share this latest piece of verbal treasure with him. It's wonderful to have friends! We danced for joy.

I simply can't understand why the human population of this beautiful realm don't share our euphoria at hearing this remarkable development. They normally don't mind in being governed by others, and for them to have their meagre incomes continually reduced by frequent hikes in taxation is for them an unspeakable pleasure, since their representatives - who have their best interests fondly nestled in their bosoms - deserve the Very Best that the (negative) resources of Holy Groats can supply. I think it's very mean-spirited of them, and Feaxede agrees with me. After all, only the best is enough for these great exemplars.

In view of the fact that the majority of the politicos of this realm have self-sacrificially committed themselves to the noble art of pretence (no mean feat in itself), have cultivated at great personal expense an additional persona which has rapidly developed and - like a nascent cuckoo - overthrown their original psyches, and furthermore have sweated buckets to manfully resist the ferocious inner wrangling of scruple and conscience to take the Iscariot bread and high-mindedly lord it over their inferiors, I think that they deserve all the earthly rewards that they freely and cheerfully appropriate for themselves. After all, they've nothing else to look forward to, have they?

Taking The Peace

From time to time, a gathering of august Vikings assemble in the hall of Olaf their mountain King to decide who they deem to be worthy enough to receive a prize. Such awards are many and varied; some of them are presented to sorcerers, philosophers and alchemists who've successfully pushed the frontiers of knowledge and biscuit in their chosen fields. Some are awarded to those writers whose literary excretions have advanced the quality of refined readers who are able - or patient enough - to read it and pretend to understand its core message.

Among the more controversial donations of the Viking awards are the Peace Prizes, which historically have been given to those who - in the magic mushroom-crazed thinking of the Committee - have advanced the cause of Peace among the various warring tribes and kingdoms of the uncivilised Dark Ages world. One award which raised a few eyebrows was made a few hundred years ago to His Holiness Bugrake O'Barmy - the silver-tongued and shifty chieftain of the (as yet) undiscovered land of Ultima Thule. What was surprising about this particular prize was the fact that Bugrake had only warmed his chieftain's seat for five minutes, and hadn't even decided what he was going to eat for his lunch. The making of Peace is a truly mysterious and arcane process to the simple mind of this Cat.

Today it's been noised abroad through the eager services of the soothsayers that this year's Peace Prize has been awarded to the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor by any means remotely reminiscent of an Empire). As with Buggy's trophy, the reasons for this award are unclear. Since this Cat is a feline citizen of the lovely Northumbrian Kingdom - which is a mere vassal province of the aforesaid Federation - I can only suppose that every man, woman, child and cat has also made their own individual contribution to the this great award. This is quite puzzling to me, since I've torn the ears off many a youthfully over-ambitious neighbourhood moggy who's had designs on my territory; I don't think that's exactly contributed towards the Great Cause of Global Peace and Fluffy Understanding. Whatever.

His Infernal Majesty Emperor Joe Borracho will doubtless sail to the Nordic Realm to receive the honour on behalf of the mock Empire, and I expect he'll be accompanied by his dim-witted henchman Hermit the Rumphole, along with expenses-drawing legions of diversity co-ordinators and other assorted lackeys. Perhaps he's receiving it in recognition of his dismantling of the Holy Roman Empire Ducat, which has resulted in poverty, riots starvation and fishpaste in the land of the Ancient Greeks. If so, he and his mates richly deserve it. I've a little award I'd like to make him myself..

Caedmeron's Magic Words

Now that the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic is in full swing, as with the previous events held by the other two factions, this Cat has tried his level best to ignore them, and to get on with his rodent-clearing responsibilities and, of course, the inevitable territorial maintenance. It's a tough life being a moggy..

Sadly though, it's been well nigh impossible to be completely impervious to the inane drippings of these frivolous politically-flavoured entertainments; this morning my vulpine friend Feaxede the Fox caught up with me while I was engaged in the matutinal tour of my empire, and excitedly told me that Dagwald Caedmeron - the King Cockroach of the Tree Faction and Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - had recently given his Most Important and Significant Speech since the last one. Hooray for Caddy Boy and the wayward wind! Excuse me. Better in than out...

Feaxede then told me that he'd heard from the soothsayers that the most significant words from the text of Caddy's oration had been assiduously collected and graciously offered to the window-licking hordes of the Northumbrian populace as an abstract object of veneration. Frankly, I don't hear many hushed and reverential tones among my Streonaeshalch parishioners, as they're too busy with more pedestrian matters, such as day-to-day survival. But never mind.

Among the key words and phrases of his speech were the following:

In This Together, Bunny Rabbits, Fairies, Kittens, Turnips, My Grandmother, Deficit, Taxation, Butterflies, Daisies, Sheep Droppings, Carrot Fly, Onion Rings, Bread And Circuses, Rhubarb and Biscuit.

The soothsayers are as I write manically attempting to extract some meaning from these coded utterances as if they'd proceeded from the lips of some Delphic oracle, or fly agaric-chewing shaman. I wish them well; they always did rely on active imaginations...

Back to the mice, methinks.

Imagining The Past

As the Annual Unfortunates' Outings and Picnics trundle on in their customarily tedious fashion, this Cat has to snigger at the issues stirred up from the murky silt of these rivers of drivel and uncleanness. Last week was the Redistributionists' turn to parade their pompous idiocy, fuelled (of course) by copious chewing of the funny fungus. With tiresome predictability, Edweird the Milliner in one of his twelve-hour orations turned his fire on the Rich, who are the inevitable targets for their bilious attacks. Since the edifice of Redistributionist theology rests upon the doctrine of the sacred trinity of Taxation, Equality and Nepotism, this was bound to surface from the depths of the murk. However, it hasn't escaped notice that Edweird the Milliner himself is no stranger to the trappings of Filthy Lucre, since his nose was lovingly restored to its pristine glory to the tune of one and three quarter million Holy Groats, and his humble dwelling place is situated in a fabulously opulent suburb of Yorvik. One would hope that the Holy Emperor and Angel Cake of the aforesaid Faction would be equally committed to donating a significant proportion of his private treasury to the Northumbrian taxation industry to fund several million new diversity administrators, but few Northumbrians imagine in their wildest reveries that such contributions ever take place from the hallowed cash boxes of politicos. No one has yet managed to obtain from Edweird the Milliner an estimate of his total financial worth…

Eddy also took great time and trouble to accentuate that he was a regular child from an average family, who was sent to an ordinary school where he spent the happiest years of his life – unlike those overfed, over-privileged and pompous Tree Faction parasites, who all (to a person) were educated in the top-flight expensive educational hot-houses of the Wealthy. Unfortunately, such a picture was more inspired by a memory addled by years of hallucinogenic mushroom mastication, as it emerges that Eddy was a child who spent most of his school years in a state of terror, owing to the cheerfully intimidating behaviour of his meat-headed contemporaries, who regarded him as a whining and bookish nonentity (most of whom are now gracing the ranks of the Tree Faction benches).

For all this, the faithful knuckle-dragging lackeys and sycophants of the Faction have regarded the Picnic as an Astonishing Success, and they're all now preparing themselves for a term in office, where they can indulge their grotesque fantasies (at taxpayers' expense, of course). This illusion is also a recognisable symptom of mushroom misuse – but nobody's told them that yet..

Waesp Sting

As the Redistributionists' Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic rolls into its drunken motion and incoherent mutterings, (succeeding the equivalent non-event put on by the Liberationists to an enraptured audience of eleven last week), a certain amount of controversy now swills around the eminent personage of Cuðbert the Waesp - a seasoned veteran of the Witangemot ranks. The timing of these new allegations - which appear to bring into question his integrity and squeaky-cleanness - couldn't be more inconvenient for the Faction which comprises King Alhfrith's Loyal Opposition in the House of Boundless Folly. Poor Edweird the Milliner: it's such a shame.

Cuðbert the Waesp is an oddly interesting character, and has graced the benches of the Witangemot for many centuries, earning himself a reputation as a purveyor of the kind of substance used to lubricate the axles of the Kingdom's carts. He is of a Nordic persuasion, and has made himself remarkably popular among the many adherents to the sacred Eddas, adopting their bizarre causes as his own, blending seamlessly like some Proteus into their culture, jollying along their social and political interests. He's best described as ubiquitous; there's seldom an event in his local ward or in the Northumbrian Witangemot where his presence is not easily discerned. He has ten thousand fingers in as many pies.

Surprisingly enough however, such an effective champion of the good Redistributionist values of Equality, Fairness and Biscuit hasn't been a total stranger to allegations of shadowy practices in the past; he's been associated with the provision of valuable services of convenience for certain wealthy and disadvantaged exotic individuals from the Viking lands, who've wished to leapfrog certain bureaucratic queues in order to gain citizenship in the Beautiful Kingdom, and to be signed up to the salutary services of the Northumbrian Herbal Service.

So it came as something of a shock for the allegations to surface among certain soothsayers (but not Guardy-Ann, for some strange reason) that the Honourable Cuðbert the Waesp is being investigated for certain huge amounts of Holy Groats which have miraculously appeared in his own private coffers. He claims to have no knowledge of it - or how it managed to arrive in his own treasury. And this Cat is quite inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. In fact, I'd go as far as to declare that I know where that money came from. One must remember that the entire economic strategy of the Redistributionists rests upon a firm and fixed belief in the irrational folklore of their culture.

The fairies put that vast amount of cash into his treasure chest when he was fast asleep. But don't tell anyone that I told you - they'd never believe you..

The Hardest Word

There's been an almighty furore going on in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria in the last few days concerning the exchange of pleasantries between Anwynd the Rabid - a senior member of Dagwald Caedmeron's Administration and a costumed thug, whose constabulary duty was to guard the main gate to Caddy's residence. The politico wished to be admitted into the inner courts of the compound through the main entrance, but out of faithful devotion to his duty, the guard refused to allow him to use it, since he wasn't on horseback, and suggested that he use the side gate like everyone else. There followed some cheery banter, in which the politico called the sentry a mere unworthy serf, using very Anglo-Saxon Anglo-Saxon adjectives, nouns and gerunds: didn't he know that he was addressing one of his lords and masters? Passers-by - on hearing this exchange - were horrified at this display of high-minded arrogance, and subsequently a call went ringing through the Kingdom, demanding that Anwynd the Rabid resign immediately.

Since that unfortunate encounter between the Rabid and the lowly serf, Caddy Boy has publicly declared his support for Anwynd, and a grovelling, servile and suitably insincere apology was uttered by the latter for any offence that he might possibly have theoretically caused. Nevertheless, he denied saying those things that he was heard to have said, and emphatically stated that he didn't use those Anglo-Saxon parts of speech credited to him by the onlookers and various costumed thugs who'd also witnessed the spectacle.

The costumed thugs had - in line with their usual practice - had recorded verbatim the contents of the entire encounter - including the impolite adjectives, nouns and gerunds. However, there's a marked disparity between Anwynd's account and the one from the constabulary. Whose account has the most credence? With the Northumbrian public, the latter is accepted to be the definitive version of events. In the la-la land of the politicos, Caddy and his Alliance Administration have sided with the Rabid. Naturally, the Redistributionists - who half-heartedly pretend to be the friends and champions of the common man - have sided with the costumed thug. How terribly convenient.

It appears that Anwynd the Rabid is only sorry that the incident - which has damaged his non-existent credibility - took place in the first place. He isn't in the least part contrite for the expressions of bile and contempt that proceeded from his chops.

This Cat has placed him under a feline curse. Every cat in the Kingdom is now targeting his garden as a communal latrine in perpetuity. Since he produces the stuff in verbal form, he can have the more material manifestation of it as well..

Badgered

During the course of my habitual territorial wanderings, I encounter all manner of creatures of all shapes, sizes and temperaments; since my perambulations can take place either in the broad light of day as well as under the cover of darkness, it's inevitable that I occasionally see the more nocturnal members of the animal kingdom, and one such creature I occasionally meet is a badger, who answers to the name of Brockwald. To be perfectly honest, he and I have very little in common, since we have quite different dietary interests and habits, but he and I upon meeting usually exchange the customary polite superficial pleasantries.

Last night I met Brockwald as I was wandering through the nearby woods; he was emerging out of his sett as the evening sun was setting. After our preliminary greetings, I asked him what he and his colleagues were up to these days - although to be perfectly candid, I really wasn't expecting anything by way of a stimulating answer. So you can imagine my astonishment when he told me in a hushed conspiratorial tone that he and his fellow creatures had recently attended the Northumbrian Badger Synod, where representatives from all the major Northumbrian setts met to discuss various matters of mutual concern and interest. It would appear that the delegates at this Conference had made a unilateral decision to carry out a cull on human politicos.

At this piece of information my ears pricked up, and I scarcely could contain my surprise. After mentally processing this declaration, I managed to summon sufficient composure to ask him what was the reason for this momentous and drastic course of action. He told me that human politicos are the pestilential carriers of all manner of noxious plagues, and the badger communities were becoming more concerned - yea, alarmed - about the threat to their health as a species. I asked him what these deleterious diseases were, and he told me that the main infection was a condition which left them seriously ill and smelling of bovine excrement.

I wished him and his peers well in their collective endeavour, although I don't quite know how they intend to carry out their cull; I didn't have the heart to ask. I suppose they've got it all worked out..

Striking Similarities

Over the last week or so (since the passing of the Holy Roman Empire Games), this Cat has had some time for reflection about the state of things here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; September has passed its halfway mark, and in the cyclical rhythm of the year, the same old human cultural and political events recur with what could be perceived as a tedious predictability about them.

For example, the Northumbrian Realm has once more been invited to witness the perennial spectacle of that travelling mountebank show the Ð Factor with all of its associated soothsayer-generated excitement. Moreover, this time of year is also blessed by a rival entertainment called Strictly Come Tumbling, where popular slebs (whose main claim to fame is that they are famous) are expertly cavorted by experienced movers and shakers over hot coals in spectacularly acrobatic fashion to the accompaniment of jeering, mead-fuelled assemblies and the blaring of horns. These diversions have been part and parcel of the Northumbrian calendar for the last seventeen thousand years, and after witnessing the spectacle a number of times in my feline lifespan, I'm fast arriving at the conclusion that they've become formulaic, tired and dull. But then, perhaps they were always like that, and at first I was too impressionable to recognise them as such. The aspiring singer yawps and bleats his nasal refrain to the greeting of either finely-sharpened contempt or rabid enthusiasm from the audience and the judges; the sleb dancers and their professional terpsichorean guides leap manically around the coals to the accompaniment of drunken cheers and thinly veiled distaste from the panel of expert assessors.

And that's only the popular entertainment; the respective political factions' Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic season will also soon be upon us, and we'll once more be treated to cheers, jeers and adulation in equal measure as the deluded and the psychotically self-important once more indulge themselves in a festival of oratory and self-congratulation, while damning their identical rivals in other factions. The mixture as before. Take one spoonful each year, and hold your nose while swallowing.

Your Cat is going to attempt to ignore these events this year, as he's seen them all before. What are the chances of him succeeding? Watch this space, folks..

Dubious Honours

I was rudely awakened from my afternoon nap the other day by the distant sound of heavy rumbling. Now, I for one have to confess that I'm not at my best when I'm suddenly wakened; I become very irritable, and my natural grace takes a temporary hike. Can't even a cat get some damn sleep these days? So, in a somewhat dazed state, I wandered to the town to see if I could ascertain the source of the noise.

It didn't take me very long to discover that the reason for the loud and obtrusive rumbling: the soothsayers were excitedly informing the uninterested citizens of Streonaeshalch that Dagwald Caedmeron - Senior Dog-biscuit and Shepherdess of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - was shuffling his Cabinet. This piece of news immediately furnished me with the reason for my broken slumber, so in a better state of health than temper, I took myself over to Caddy Boy's residence with a view to passing on to him the benefits of my opinion on the matter. (I'd sharpened my claws beforehand.)

When I approached the Official Residence of the aforesaid miscreant, I noticed that Caddy was busily engaged in discarding the statuettes and ornaments from his beloved Cabinet and lovingly replacing them with new idols and nick-nacks. The irritability that had propelled me there soon dissolved into puzzlement when I realised that rather than throwing out the replaced objects into a sack for a swift conveyance to the municipal dump, Caedmeron was placing them into a beautiful shrine, and I saw that these discarded items were going to be blessed and venerated for worship by His Holiness Archbishop Georges Moonbat, the Senior Bone-Thrower and Leading Authority of the enigmatic Global Warming Cult.

Now, if I'd previously suspected that Caddy Boy was endowed with somewhat peculiar personality traits, this spectacle left me in no possible doubt. I'm a keen observer of human habits and customs, and I've been around long enough to realise that when humans have had enough of their toys, tools and mouldy bread-crusts, they simply throw them out without any due ceremony. So why was Caddy Boy turning over his trash for such honour and veneration? Is this bizarre behaviour the consequence of the habitual chewing of magic mushrooms?

I decided that in view of his parlous state of intoxication, I'd spare Caddy my teeth and claws. A fur-ball was sufficient.