Caedmeron's Flaky Issue

The good people of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria are currently in a state of confusion, which is evidencing itself in their uncertainty - if not indecision - as to whether to fly flags and bunting as a token of their collective joy, or to lower them in disappointment, mourning and sorrow. King Alhfrith's Government (aka the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration, ably led from behind by the Supreme Kleptocrat and Prima Donna Dagwald Caedmeron) has made another Significant Announcement to the slavering soothsayers concerning the controversial Tax on Pies.

In a bid to plug the rapidly growing vortex of debt and biscuit that benights and besets the Realm (thanks to the magic mushroom-fuelled spending sprees of the Redistributionists in their doomed previous administration), Caddy Boy has decided that For The Common Good that it would be helpful to our (imaginary or vanished) Exchequer to raise a tax on rat 'n rhubarb slices and other such warm delicacies. Since these foodstuffs are very popular with the common Northumbrian masses, the Redistributionists seized their opportunity and adopted this new policy direction as their new cause célèbre, and immediately accused Caedmeron and his privileged - and fabulously wealthy - playmates of punishing the poor working people and the disadvantaged, disabled Viking homeopaths of the land. And since the Redistributionists are efficiently proficient at conveying the illusionary impression that they Really Do Care about such elements, on cue the majority of the public became enraged.

This foaming tide of scum and resentment caused no small amount of disturbance in the Tree/Liberationist ranks, who, after a series of privately held civil wars, bloody battles and treaties, decided that the issue was too much of a hot, as yet undiscovered root vegetable.

But the accursed Tax has not been repealed, hence the uncertainty in the population as to whether to laugh, cry, defecate or puke. A string of complex conditions has been factored into the Hot Rat Pie Bill which enhance the uncertainty of the people as to whether they're being fleeced or not when they purchase their pastries.

But some good will come out of this. Caddy has already set up a new department of pasty administrators and hot pie taxation coordinators, thus reducing the unemployment of the Realm by eighty three percent. Flags up, people. Just don't ask Caddy where the Holy Groats are coming from to pay their wages...

After the Rout

The sound of the licking of wounds pervades the Northumbrian air in these post-apocalyptic days. An ambience of gloom and desolation hangs like a heavy black pall over the entire Kingdom, as elderly and young alike mourn the tragedy that unfolded over this last couple of days, and count the bitter cost.

Dagwald Caedmeron - the Supreme Maid of the Midden and Commander-in-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - is parading an empty, haunted expression as the recent events inscribe their indelible marks on his care-worn physiognomy. The flags and banners - put up in such eager anticipation - droop languidly in the searing heat.

The Great Battle has been valiantly fought - and lost. After a vicious, bloody and protracted battle, the Northumbrian Kingdom came last but one in the Holy Roman Empire Song Contest. Anglebert Gimperdonk, the ancient warrior from the Kingdom of Leire and the man in whom all Northumbrian hopes were invested - fought a brave fight, and nobly acquitted himself in the conflict. The remaining contestants - all seventeen thousand of them - were a bizarre mish-mash of the pathologically deluded, the vacuous, the charming, the eccentric and the criminally insane. The most peculiar entry was unquestionably the one from the Illyrian singer - a Gorgon-like woman sporting a serpent around her neck; she was evidently given to the practice of dark esoteric arts, and her offering to the malignant gods she served consisted of a litany of screeches, clicks, whistles, barks and dog-like coughs. The audience was transfixed in a mixture of horror and morbid fascination. I took opportunity to go outside for a dump, and thus cast my vote.

The singers of Kievan Rus were a troupe of six elderly peasant ladies, whose aggregate age was seventeen million years. In contrast to the Illyrian dragon, their contribution was cheerfully melodic, and the sound of creaking and cracking arthritic joints could be distinctly heard accompanying their dance routine. They were very popular with the seventeen billion viewers.

Thence followed a catalogue of the dull, the predictable and the turgid contributions as the battle lumbered towards its inevitable conclusion. By this time I decided to chew some blades of grass and have a good colonic clearout.

The voting followed along well-worn lines; old political allegiances - lovingly encouraged by a spear, conquest or a friendly threat of recriminations - ensured that Viking nations voted for each other, Westphalian and other Allemanic tribes also supported each others' efforts, and the Slavs and Latins also voted for their kinsmen. As usual. Only the Northumbrians voted according to the relative merits of the entries.

The resulting victor following this impartial partiality was one of the Viking tribes, whose offering was delivered by a man carefully dressed as a woman, whose anthem to euphoria was a celebration of misery and desolation. The other tribes loved it.

And now Caddy Boy's Plan A has been seen to fail spectacularly. He is now considering his severely narrowed options. I can hardly wait...

Plan B

Here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, the temperature is really heating up, and the weather is also going through a warm spell (but that's another story).

 

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Exalted Master, Queen of the Fairies, Pontifex Maximus and Premier Dancing Bear of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has been under some considerable pressure from the distant shores of the Holy Roman Empire (which bears not even the slightest resemblance to anything of a sanctified nature, and certainly doesn't look like, smell, walk or quack like an empire).

 

In common with all the pseudo-nobility and apparatchiks of the aforesaid cancerous political growth, the Empress of the Holy Roman Empire Empty Treasure Chest – a certain Redistributionist Frankish woman called Laggard La Grise – has been pontificating over the state and the general direction of the Northumbrian Kingdom. Oh, woe, woe, thrice woe business, biscuit and thing. As a self-taught expert in the culture, life and times of our beloved Realm, she of all people is eminently qualified to keep her own addled, magic mushroom-fuelled and pathologically misguided counsel. But malheureusement, she didn't, and Caddy Boy and his faithful side-kick and fellow-illusionist Oswine (who has the onerous task of managing the Kingdom's negative economy and increasing debt) have been at the receiving end of her barbed criticism regarding their maladroit handling of the Northumbrian reins.

 

So far, Caddy Boy has kept a resolutely straight course, and hasn't deviated to the right or to the left from his predetermined tactics. (Well – that's not strictly true: he actually changed his mind seventeen thousand times regarding policy decisions. But never mind.) There was no contingency arrangement as a safety net alternative. No Plan B.

 

This obduracy on Caddy Boy's part has been a constant source of prickly heat, irritation and pestilence to the Redistributionists of the Kingdom, who under the skillful and ever-victorious tutelage of their convincing and youthful mentor Edweird the Milliner have constantly – from the comfort of their zero-responsibility, authority-free zones – carped, parped and harped on at Caddy and his pals about adopting their recommended course. You know it makes sense. Chew, chew. Pass some more fly agaric, please.

 

Little do these dunderheads realise that their bizarre solutions would incur even more poverty, debt, misery and thing. And their outcome would be no more certain than the one from the present strategy.

 

Despite the Redistributionists' hip, cool and terminally trendy recommendations, Anglebert Gimperdonck - the bejewelled ancient songster from the bowels of Leire's Kingdom will continue to represent our lovely Kingdom in the Holy Roman Empire Song Contest. And there's nothing that Eddy and his silly little playmates can do about it…

Travelling Light

The entire Northumbrian Kingdom is in a state of giddy excitement at the diminishing number of days until the great Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) Games kicks off in Yorvik. Each time the Great Event is mentioned by the soothsayers, this Cat yawns. My jaw is starting to ache with a repetitive strain injury…

The intense anticipation and delirious slobber (promoted by the soothsayers and their Queen Bee, Beeby See) that currently infects the Northumbrian populace owes itself to the fact that for the first time in seventeen thousand years, the Games are to be hosted within these beautiful shores, and no expense is being spared by the Northumbrian ruling elite in promoting these Games as A Good Thing for the Kingdom – as well as for the the flagging morale of a debt-ridden, poverty-stricken, hectored and constantly scrutinised people.

Nobody has yet disclosed the exact cost of hosting these Games, but this Cat has reason to suspect that the total tally amounts to (in negative quantities, as the Kingdom is in the deepest do-do of debt) several gazillion trillions of Holy Groats.

The Games is a celebration of imaginary harmony, piecrust and peace between the mutually hostile tribal groupings that comprise the debt-infested, top-heavy Evil Intergalactic Federation; each Kingdom hosting the event has to bear an insufferable burden of expense to present a façade to the world suggesting opulence, flatulence, healthiness, success and rhubarb. The pressure for the competing native sportsmen and women to win their respective events is immense, and this drive to succeed at all costs has inevitably spawned a cluster of herbalist enterprises to concoct potions to enhance their performance and give them a competitive advantage over their competitors. Of course, all the other participants from the diverse national groupings are doing exactly the same, causing the tournament to gradually transform from a jolly sporting occasion to a no-holds-barred fight between competing sinister herbalist interests.

The consumption of herbal substances prior to competing is strictly forbidden by the Games authorities; last time, the Northumbrian Synchronised Knitting Team was disqualified with opprobrium, disgrace and thing, since their collective breath smelt of a strange botanical tincture – rather than the usual halitosis resulting from bad teeth. It's taken the Kingdom centuries to get over the shame of having been found out. But never mind.

To mark the several hundred days before the Games commences, the Great Torch has been lit from the smouldering ruins of Athens, where the Greek citizens are currently joyfully celebrating its newly-found deprivation and hardship from the vicious strictures of the Great Credit Catastrophe and business with blazing government buildings and bonfires.

Soon the Holy Flame will reach these shores, carried aloft throughout the Kingdom to kindle the flagging delirium in the knuckle-dragging, adoring masses. Happy days. But nobody has yet submitted a report to Dagwald Caedmeron to inform him of how much smoke the Great Torch is emitting into the atmosphere. I think I'm going to have to have a word with the Sacred  Archbishop Georges Moonbat, the religious supremo of the wild-eyed Global Warming cult. I'm sure he'd be very interested…

Greece Monkey

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Sacred Primate, Pontifex Maximus and Dearly Beloved Leader of the Tree Faction and the Supreme Governor of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration – has made a Momentous Declaration today in support of the debt-ridden, flea-bitten, poverty-stricken Kingdom of Greece.

In view of the current instability of that benighted realm – where the people can't decide which ruler to choose because they're too busy fighting each other or merely trying to survive on their ever-dwindling means – this intervention by the Northumbrian Glorious Prophet is very timely. I'm sure they're all now breathing a collective sigh of relief. Hooray for Caddy – this minute's mighty deliverer of the Holy Roman economy!

In his inspired address to his adoring, knuckle-dragging and window-licking acolytes, the holy man declared that the poor people of Greece must be supported by the Northumbrian people – along with those of the Frankish, Westphalian, Viking and other ethnic groupings which comprise that diverse ragtag ragbag of mutually hostile tribes referred to as the Holy Roman Empire (which, of course, is anything but holy, Roman or an empire).

In view of the seventy zillion billion trillions of Holy Groats which comprise the total debt of the Northumbrian Kingdom's economy – not to mention the aggregate debts of the other heathen kingdoms - this Cat is most intrigued. Since when has a despot of the Tree Faction – a political grouping traditionally pathologically responsible with money and in constant fear, dread and loathing of debt, decided that he can fight another kingdom's debt (and conquer it, to boot) with even more debt, insolvency and biscuit? Where did he get that notion from?

I suspect that Caddy Boy has been hanging round with Redistributionists, and has been taking secret counsel from Edweird the Milliner over a few magic mushrooms.

What these politicos don't seem to realise is that the hallucinogenic fungi don't actually enhance their perceptions and understanding at all. They turn them into monkeys.

Sworn In

These are certainly glorious days for the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). One could almost declare that they're dog days – where the term 'dog' refers to an odious, noisy, malodorous, halitosis-ridden, flea-bitten creature with the refinement of a cowpat.

 

With the escalating financial problems encouraged by King of the Midden Emperor Jose Borracho, his faithful half-witted accomplice Hermit the Rumphole – along with their myriads of courtiers, lickspittles, camp followers and hangers-on, the Evil Intergalactic Empire is experiencing some hiccups – if not a severe dose of acid reflux; the Kingdom of the Hellenes is in a state of turmoil, as they're unable to select a monarch to lead them, and the ordinary Greek citizens are getting cheesed off with being driven into grinding and spiralling poverty, debt and rhubarb by the Holy Public Expenditure Cuts imposed by the Empire, and are threatening to abandon the cherished but worthless Holy Roman Empire Ducat in favour of their ancient currency, the drachma.

 

However, there's a silver lining to this dark and foreboding cloud. In every tragedy there's an element of comedy and sparkling irony. Yesterday, the new Frankish monarch Frankus of Holland was anointed, appointed, sworn in (as well as at), accompanied by great pomp, splendor and malarkey. How the people cheered! But the attending Northumbrian emissaries sadly couldn't understand the loud acclamation of the new King, since the crowds insisted on cheering in the Frankish tongue. Quel dommage, hein?

 

In his enthronement address, the new monarch stated that he would be concentrating on growth in the Kingdom rather than the despised austerity measures recommended by the Westphalian Empress Murk, who was a great confidante and knitting companion of the previous diminutive King Sarcus.

 

I'm sure that the growth to which this new potentate refers won't be even sniffed at by his adoring subjects. It'll all go to his pocket – and, of course, his waistline…

The Star Turn

Never let it be said that the Northumbrian people don't know how to enjoy themselves - despite these dire, dark and despondent days of Deprivation and Doings. We've all been mightily entertained of late by the great Travelling Circus called 'Northumbria's Got Talent' - like the Đ Factor, another lucrative enterprise established by the ubiquitous (and fabulously wealthy) monk, Father Simeon the Cowl.

Over the weeks, the bovine Northumbrian herds have been entertained by the sight of sundry acts attempting to sing or dance their way into the Venerable Father's treasure chest and the public's affections. Some of the attempts at selection have been - as with the aforementioned talent competition - more entertaining because of the appalling timbre of the singers' voices and the incoherence of their strains, or the uncoordinated gaucheness of the dancers. These acts have inspired the mandatory expressions of bitter hostility and inverted affection from the audience, as well as outright sarcasm and tender bile from the kindly but viciously sneering and condescending judges.

The other day was the Great Occasion of the Northumbria's Got Talent Final, where the very best of the best acts were pitched against each other in mortal combat for the coveted First Prize of a dinner at Father Simeon the Cowl's lavish manor house - and fifteen nanoseconds' worth of public fame. I gather from my friend Feaxede the Fox that they also have the onerous responsibility of performing before His Majesty King Alhfrith and his potty-mouthed consort Queen Hillida. Wonderful!

The act which succeeded in tugging at the Kingdom's sclerotic heartstrings this year was a less orthodox choice from the doughty denizens of the Northumbrian Kingdom: it was a performing duo consisting of King Jose Borracho (the Emperor of the Evil Intergalactic Enterprise affectionally known as the Holy Roman Empire (which, in actual fact, is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), and his cute dog called Caedmeron. It was - even to a hard-bitten cat's eyes - pathetically cute. The story of how Joe Boy was presented with a little bundle of puppy for a Christmas present - and the smile of delight on her face as she saw her gift - endeared them to the hearts of the nation. The act was captivating, as Caedmeron leaped, bounded, walked on his hind legs, wove deftly through Joe's legs and swiftly responded to every verbal signal from his mistress.

A great future lies behind them as a result of the public's choice. I suspect that the audiences throughout the Realm were more entranced by the dog than the owner. A shining career in politics awaits him; he'll go places. Mark my words - you've read them here...

Advance Party

Today is one of those many special days that serve to simultaneously delight and astound the good folk of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. As a gesture of their collective support (and undying esteem) for His Eminence Dagwald Caedmeron, the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration and their Great Programme of Public Expenditure Cuts, the public servants of the Great King Alhfrith have decided to take a day off from their onerous duties as fluffy diversity co-ordinators, equality administrators and pigeon psycholgists to gather together in Yorvik. Hooray! It's party time!

Naturally, the event is a festive occasion, and it's generally believed that it's a practice run for the forthcoming Kingdom celebrations, when loyal Northumbrians will be joyously celebrating the nine hundredth year of King Alhfrith's noble reign - ably aided and accompanied by his partner-in-crime and consort, the potty-mouthed Queen Hillida. Along the streets of Streonaeshalch we're already greeted by the flutter of bunting and banners, and the sound of bongoes and the smell of unwashed armpits, dog breath and beansprouts forms a heady sensory backdrop for this special occasion. Yes - the Redistrubutionist Workers' Faction is joining in. Such fun!

Ordinarily on such occasions, the Costumed Thugs are found in abundance on the streets, ready to administer a friendly word of advice to any over-exuberant revellers, and to benignly shepherd the crowds of drunken knuckle-draggers and hotheads to a small confined area, where they're able to tell their captive audience bedtime stories. These occasions are usually rumbustious and good-humoured, and not many accidental injuries take place.

However, today the Costumed Thugs are nowhere to be seen; I've heard from Feaxede the Fox that they've also willingly sacrificed their day's work and clad themselves in their regular tunics, and have anonymously joined in the celebrations.

This serves to explain why the pavements of the streets of our lovely town - and doubtless, others throughout the Realm - are currently festooned with unsightly and malodorous caramel-coloured canine colorectal curled offerings. The  legions of elderly ladies' dogs are taking full advantage of their temporary liberty to express themselves...

They should enjoy their brief day of freedom while they can. It won't last...

A Frank Exchange

The beautiful Kingdom of the Franks has been the subject of the latest obsessions by the beloved soothsayers, since this weekend was one of those rare occasions when the delightfully idiosyncratic Frankish people select from their number their equally eccentric King. Like the long-suffering people of the Kingdoms of Northumbria, Wessex, Mercia and the East Saxons, the Franks - fellow labourers under the burdensome and tedious yoke of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) - have had more than their fair share of woes, cares and fishpaste. Like every other kingdom on the earth, the Frankish Realm is also a blessed inheritor of the blights of bankruptcy, fathomless debt, impoverishment and business, and under the sacred guidance of their previous King - Le Roi Sarcus - they were exhorted to suffer deprivation as Brutally Savage Public Expenditure Cuts were introduced in an attempt to frustrate the inexorable creep of debt.

However, the Franks are not a people to tolerate fools gladly, and seldom did a minute pass without some ruction or other breaking out somewhere in the Royaume by some disgruntled sector of the populace or other in protest at the severe strictures placed upon them by their political overlords. With a Gallic shrug and an expressive pout, the diminutive Sarcus gently reminded his subjects (lovingly assisted by costumed thugs and other armed gangs) that they're all in this (dogjob, do-do and business) together, and nothing further can be done but put up with the pain. Again. Such assurances as this did little to assuage the growing discontent of the Franks, who perceived that their Great King was a close buddy-pal and associate of the Westphalian Empress Murk, and the pair of them were often seen to be attending overblown Holy Roman Empire banquets, where they were able to feast on the finest gastronomic luxuries and exchange their favourite recipes.

However, to the hysterical delight of Beeby See, Guardy-Ann and the Windy Pedant, the Franks have decided that Le Roi Sarcus is not to be their King any more: they've elected - after a decisive victory decided by three votes - to elect a Redistributionist King, Frankus of Holland. This new Netherlandish monarch already has defined the path that his people should take, and has already decided that the emphasis in his reign should not be directed towards sacrifice, deprivation and loss, but rather economic growth. Since one of King Sarcus' ministers - on inheriting his role as Treasurer from his predecessor - discovered a piece of vellum containing the words "Desolé - il n'y a plus d'argent! Bon chance, mon brave", one wonders where the money to fund these grandiose plans for growth is going to come from.

I suspect that the new King has a ready store of magic mushrooms to shore up his illusionary economics; the Franks - being very passionate about food - are very fond of fungus...

The Voice

The voice of the Northumbrian electorate has spoken, and an unequivocal message (the content of which is unclear) has rung out. After a ferociously fierce fight between Beoris the Blond, Kenwald the Deadweight and a plethora of also-rans representing the various flavours of Redistributionism that continue entertain, bedazzle, bankrupt and blight the Northumbrian political landscape, the Glorious Victor has been announced. Despite the other runners, the contest was essentially a battle royal between the Tree and the Redistributionist factions, respectively headed up by the charismatic, raffish Beoris and his deadly rival, the reptilian shapeshifting Kenwald - a seasoned professional Redistributionist politico with a considerable undeclared income (from sources best understood by the underworld) and a penchant for tales of historical fantasy to counterbalance a healthy contempt for his electors. Naturally, the deliriously wild and lavish electoral promises and the factual inaccuracies flowed like the River Ouse in flood, but it was an entertaining contest none the less.

Considering that the competition involved a certain amount of vote rigging on the part of Kenwald the Deadweight's side (there've been more votes from dead - and as yet unborn - Viking Redistributionist citizens than from the living), victory has eluded Kenny Boy. Beoris - the voice of reason, fun, biscuit and bluster has triumphed.

For his coveted prize, Beoris the Blond has the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sing at the opening of the Holy Roman Empire (which are neither holy, Roman nor an empire) Games when they commence in Yorvik in the merry and riotous month of August. This could herald a completely new career path for Beoris. If he can sing in tune. If he can't deliver a pitch-perfect performance, then he can always fall back on the booby prize, and take up the mantle once again to administer the affairs of the Great City...

Fit For A Prince

It appears that the hubristic impudence of the politicos here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria knows no bounds. I was minding my own business this morning - you know, the usual stuff - marking my territory, catching mice and tenderly administering a torn ear to an aspirational young feline who had overweening designs on my patch - when my pal Feaxede the Fox came loping excitedly towards me. My young rival disappeared sharpish when he saw Feaxede coming, who had surely obtained some fresh and steaming piece of hot political gossip - I could feel it in my water. Sure enough, he animatedly told me that he'd just heard that the Great Assize had reached its Solemn Verdict.

When I enquired what this grand-sounding affair was, he told me that the Witangemot had pronounced its judgement upon His Royal Highness Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach - the venerable and fabulously wealthy owner of seventeen million soothsaying enterprises. There's been an in-depth witch hunt investigation by a cadre of impartially partial, illiberally liberal politicos, who've had their knives sharpened for Rupie ever since he decided to switch his allegiance. Having supported the bellicose and mendacious (but so smooth-talking) Redistributionist Tondvig the Blur (and for fifteen nanoseconds, his psychopathically jovial successor Guffmund the Brown) - and then pledged his allegiance to Dagwald Caedmeron's Tree camp, it seems that Rupie trod on a few toes. So sad. It naturally follows that the campaign against the Great Prince was primarily dominated by the Redistributionists themselves, and during the fifteen million sessions of the Great Hearings (held at taxpayers' expense, naturally - with sumptuous banquets every lunchtime), all manner of accusations flew around concerning the misdemeanours of Rupie's drudges, who allegedly had listened in to the conversations of Poor Unfortunates and reported their findings to their soothsaying masters, who kindly passed the tasty gossip to the discerning and sophisticated Northumbrian public. Shock horror, terror and fruitcake.

Following a feverish campaign of fear-mongering, loathing and biscuit - suitably whipped up by the politicos and their loyal allies, the righteous Beeby See and her bilious and pox-marked stooge Guardy-Ann, the Noble Prince was demonised, paraded as a pariah and generally treated with contempt, opprobrium and disgrace. One ringleader of the persecutors - Wart's Son the Fat - decreed to the sound of a tolling bell that the Prince was no longer fit to administer his soothsaying enterprises. Nobody laughed.

I thought it was wonderfully ironic that a team of Redistributionist inadequates - who'd never done a day's productive work in their lives, but had graced the taverns and mead houses of then Kingdom at taxpayers' expense and lorded it over the population, deciding what was Good For Them by passing myriads of laws in a bid to criminalise every normal human being - had decided to pronounce such a verdict...