Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
The Galleywasp's (not so) Maiden Flight
Oooh, I'm so terribly excited! Today I've been privileged to see at first hand (or, in my case, paw) the swearing-in of Gyrth the Gallywasp - the famous apostate outcast from the holy faith of the Redistributionists, who recently won the right to represent the good people of Bradeford. Against all the odds, this is an astounding victory for his own bespoke Contempt Faction, which has been specially tailor-made and delicately shaped to envelop his substantial frame; it has also been perceived to be a decisive slap in the chops for Edweird the Milliner and his happy band of orthodox Redistributionist camp-followers. The licking of wounds has been continually audible throughout the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. But never mind.
When the Gallywasp addressed his prospective electors (the majority being of the Viking persuasion) prior to his election, he solemnly declared and swore that as a faithful adherent and respecter of the holy Viking faith, he had never touched a drop of ale or mead (which - to the more religious Vikings is a mortal sin, which warrants the eternal washing of the evil Loki's underpants), and he promised by Odin - the chief of the gods of Valhalla - that he would conscientiously uphold the sacred creeds of the Eddas and promote the interests of their religion.
This sudden announcement of his historical abstinence from the fiery nectars of Northumbria came as quite a surprise to many of his acquaintances, who've always been accustomed to seeing his Friday night antics, propping up the counter of some Saxon hostelry, telling improbable and incoherent stories, and quaffing the mead as if there were no tomorrow - not to mention playing kitty lapcat to some aged floozie. How distasteful. I don't feel very well - excuse me while I bring to recollection my breakfast... ah, that's better.
The remarkable feature of his swearing-in at the Witangemot today was the conspicuous absence of any mention of Odin, the Eddas, Valhalla, or even the poor benighted Vikings who kindly elected him. I think I can safely predict that his electors won't repeat their folly next time round...
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