A Broken Legacy

As I crawl out from the mantle of sackcloth and ashes that envelops the Northumbrian Kingdom, I spend a great deal of time sadly reflecting on what has happened - and what might have been; pointless as it may be, I simply can't help it. The languor of the populace tells the tale so eloquently, and even the normally exuberant seagulls are failing to deliver their synchronised payloads onto the heads of the Streonaeshalch citizens. These are terrible times, truly deserving of the epithet The Dark Ages.

It all started last year when Flavius Capellus - the Roman Emperor of the Northumbrian Football Team - announced his intention to hand over the Sacred Throne to his successor; the soothsayers went into their customary paroxysms of feverish excitement, guilt and fishpaste, and a great deal of heat - and negligible light - was expended in the inevitable speculation which followed. Surely the Anointed Successor would soon appear to seize the crown, the throne, the kingdom and the glory. But tragically, it was not to be. Such is the catastrophic collision between lofty aspiration and the banality of hard-nosed, pedestrian reality. Sigh...

Contrary to popular expectation - and dearest hope - the one appointed to the Holy Throne to manage the prestigious squad - and to attempt to rein in the thuggish barbarism of the likes of Wade Rune and Terry The Towel is - alas - not to be Beoris the Blond, the charismatic and loveable Alderman of the City of Yorvik.

When Kenwald the Deadweight inherits the Kingdom, he will assume lordship over a sacred institution. He will doubtless make some very tough decisions which will affect the destiny of all the people of the Northumbrian Realm. He (being a dedicated Redistributionist) will amass considerable riches, and smugly bask in his newly-assumed glory and biscuit.

On his future departure from the throne (for time takes no prisoners), he will leave as his legacy a smouldering heap of dashed expectations, a team in the obscurity of Babylonian captivity, and a treasure chest full of IOUs. If a cat could cry, then surely I would...