Thursday, 23 February 2012
A Meeting Of Minds
Your Cat has been most excited about new thrilling developments in the political arena here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. The winning of hearts and minds to the Redistributionist Cause achieved a new standard in quality yesterday when one of the rank-and-file honourable members of the Witangemot - a certain Redistributionist - Eric the Joystring by name - met one of his Tree counterparts for a reasoned debate within the sacred precincts of the Witangemot's own ale and mead house (finest ales, meads and the nectar from the vineyards of Charlemagne are joyfully subsidised by the taxpayer, of course).
The Mother of Witangemots and Paradigm of De-Mockery-Cy is the natural place for such grave and august people to meet and to exchange their opinions regarding the future of the Kingdom and the price of halibut; no area within those hallowed walls is exempt from the process of reasoned debate; the refectories - places of quintessential refinement and culinary excellence (subsidised by the long-suffering taxpayer, naturally) are places where ideas and opinions are frequently exchanged between politicos, aided by the beverages lovingly supplied for the purpose. How terribly civilised.
Sadly though, the venerable Redistributionist in question, not having been in possession of a reasonable argument with which to defend his ideological position, saw fit to resort to the ultimate method with which to convey his message: he used his head. Of course, it can be argued that the cream of the political elite should always devote their cerebral powers to the vexed matters of State - after all, that's what they were elected for - especially by thumb-sucking, knuckle-dragging members of the Northumbrian populace who lack the mental finesse to form their own conclusions.
But this meeting of minds was entirely a cranial affair, and the accompanying crunch could be heard by the carousing hordes in the tavern. It was a real conversation-stopper for all of thirty microseconds.
Edweird the Milliner - the Dear and Beloved Leader of the Redistributionist Faction - has found it necessary to distance the Faction from such a fellow, and the Costumed Thugs are carrying out their preliminary enquiries, which will reach their heady conclusion at the end of thirty thousand years. The offended Tree politico is currently wondering how his head came to hurt so much this morning...
This Kitty is rather puzzled. Why has Edweird kicked the Joystring out of the camp? Was he being too honest? I'm going to give this some thought. But first, I must go for my lunch. Mackerel is very good for the brains..