The Hermit's Master Plan

As I cogitate between mouthfuls of mouse, I reflect on the demise of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, which - in a bygone year - was a paradigm of success, self-sufficiency and sea-biscuit. And events of late only seem to have confirmed that those well-imagined halcyon days of yore are well and truly past. Yet another defeat for the Northumbrian Football Team  in the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Nero, Roman as the Pyramids, and is identical to an empire in all respects although entirely different) Football Competition by the hot-headed and excitable Neapolitans has once more re-emphasised the decay of our once proud Anglo-Saxon Realm. Wade Rune - the great twinkle-toed exemplar and High Priest of Football once more hangs his simian head in shame, disgrace and raspberry - along with his equally wealthy and inarticulate peers.

Of course, we should also consider the Northumbrian Kingdom's subservience to the aforementioned political ragbag, coupled with the Great Engineered Credit Catastrophe Crisis (although it has nothing to do with cats), and the slide into penury, debt and greater ignominy, cheerfully precipitated by the politicos and Moneylenders, who have the very best interests of the 'people' (i.e. the politicos and the Moneylenders) at heart.

But that's enough gloom and gloop for this Cat: I bring some tidings of cheer to lift the hearts of the despondent, and to bring a smile to the frown-creased brow. We all need our moments of light relief, and Hermit the Rumphole - the Court Jester-In-Chief to His Elevatedness King Jose Borracho - has not let us down.

He's announced a Great Plan to be executed throughout all the provinces and backwaters of the Empire (whatever) which will solve the Great Debt Crisis at a stroke. He is going to personally appropriate every ducat, penny, Holy Groat and Saturday sixpence from all the oblivious subjects of the Blessed Empire (upon which the sun doesn't shine) and share them all with his friends who languish in poverty in the gorgeous palaces of the Mighty. The logic is quite simple: his idea is to make everyone equally poor so that nobody knows any better...

Sounds like a plan, Rumpo, old son. I can already hear the cheers resounding between the cheeks of the assorted tribes' posteriors throughout the Empire..

Transport of Delight

This new development in the continuously unfolding drama of Northumbrian politics concerns Edweird the Milliner – the Featherweight Champion of the Redistributionist Faction and Dearly Venerated Leader of His Majesty King Alhfrith's Loyal Opposition (whose principal calling in this vale of tears is to intelligently but mindlessly gainsay everything that the Tree/Liberationist Administration says or proposes for the sheer joy of it).

 

When the previous Redistributionist incumbents – the smooth-tongued and mendacious Tondvig the Blur and his cheery psychopathic successor, the stand-up comic Guffmund the Brown – ruled the roost of the Witangemot for seventeen thousand years, they thought it a Good Idea to allow several gazillion unskilled and unlettered exotic people of bizarre customs, religions and dietary habits into the Kingdom of Northumbria. The idea was quite simple: the incoming hordes would pitch their tents and their altars in this green and pleasant (but oh, so wet) land, be allocated hovels to dwell in –along with an allowance of Holy Groats to keep them in food, mead and goats' cheese. Out of sheer gratitude to the Redistributionists for allowing them to live comfortably without the inconvenience of toil, the newly arrived settlers – duly enfranchised by their sponsors and mentors - would unquestioningly vote for the administration which allowed them a dwelling in the Land of Promise, thus allowing a New Millennium of Fluffy Diversity, Equality and other assorted ideologically colorectal droppings.

 

In view of the fact that no one in the present Administration is able to give an accurate figure as to how many of these exotic folk now reside within the Northumbrian Kingdom, coupled with the unfortunate Great Groat Crisis that engulfs and encumbers the entire civilized world, the realisation has slowly dawned across the crepuscular consciousness of the politicos that the burden of supporting these myriads of houseguests is Unsustainable. Naturally, all of the fingers point to the Redistributionists, whose fiendishly cunning plan didn't appear to be quite so clever after all.

 

Since Edweird the Milliner himself bears no personal responsibility for the follies of his predecessors, he's seen fit to admit that they had made a Mistake. So he's going to do something about it.

 

He's proposing to transport all indigenous Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Britons and Danes of the Northumbrian Realm to Fairyland and the as yet undiscovered country of Ultima Thule.

 

Good luck with that one, Eddy Boy.. 

Who are We?

One of the favourite inanities of the Northumbrian politicos - especially Dagwald Caedmeron is the saying 'We are all in this together.' This profound piece of verbal offal is usually quoted when he's about to introduce some new Great Public Expenditure Cut - or to once again raise the prices of gruel, grain and gravy - in the interests of the Kingdom's imaginary creditors, who (in the opinion of this Cat) live with the fairies in the cloudy castles of Redistribution Land in the vacuum of the cranial cavities of Edweird the Milliner and his like-minded acolytes.

There are those in the Northumbrian Realm who unquestioningly accept that they're all in this together with Caddy Boy and his political cronies - even though they themselves didn't have any personal involvement in the psychotically berserk spending sprees on borrowed Holy Groats that the Redistributionists carried out in the name of Fluffy Diversity and Equality. It takes all sorts.

However, there are others who struggle to give this hackneyed mantra any credence - especially when it comes to light that many politicos are doing their utmost to ensure that they themselves don't have to suffer penury, deprivation and rat biscuit, and are busily engaged in feathering their own nests with filthy lucre - gained from the clandestine sale of magic mushrooms, the writing of fictitious autobiographies (ghost-written by unpaid pimpled youths who work for them) and of course, the telling of wondrous tales of imaginary heroism and derring-do to gullible knuckle-draggers on the lecture circuit. So it appears they're not in it with everyone else.

As the days roll by, more hysteria and high drama surfaces as we learn that the Herbalists - those well-heeled disciples of Asclepius - are setting aside the solemn assurances of their Hippocratic Oath to take strike action, since their opulent pensions are being eroded by the Great Public Expenditure Cuts. So sad. Evidently they're not in this together with the 'we' to whom Caddy Boy joyfully alludes.

We also hear that various slebs, singers of a bygone age and half-baked entertainers of a certain political mentality (that reveres the spumescent ravings of Guardy-Ann, Parly Toywasp and the Windy Pedant) have been assiduously avoiding paying their full quota of Northumbrian tax. So that counts them out of the reckoning..

As I nonchalantly wander around my patch - with a mouse dangling casually from the side of my mouth - I wonder who the 'we' actually represents. I suspect it refers to the diminishing number of ordinary Northumbrians who have to pay up. The mouse - I suspect - agrees with me..

Persona Non Grata

I haven't been writing very much lately; part of this is because of an affliction referred to as 'writer's paw', but I must also add that my poor feline brain is struggling to keep up with the idiocies occurring on the political stage of this vale of tears. We've had all of the excitement around the ancient land of Greece, where the citizens of that happy place - out of deep love and affection for their Westphalian mentors and benefactors - have cheerfully voted to embark on a journey of poverty, penury, deprivation and rat soup. This has, of course, nothing whatsoever to do with their own politicos or the Moneylenders, whose innocence, benevolence, intelligence and competence are beyond the reach of reasonable doubt.

We also have rumblings in Spain - the land of the Moors, Visigoths and Vandals, who are treading a similar path of woe to the Greeks - for which their own political leaders and Moneylenders bear no shadow of culpability and fishpaste.

Furthermore, we've been bombarded by the the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as the devil, Roman as a Bedouin's breakfast, and by no means comparable to an empire) Football Tournament, which attracts the unwelcome attention of the mead-fuelled acolytes of Wade Rune - the incoherent and simian hero and High Priest of the Northumbrian supporters. The other tribes also have their own Goliaths upon which they pin their dwindling hopes and expectations. It has been an exciting time. Needless to say, I slept through most of it.

And now - to crown it all - we're going to receive a Special Visitor to the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria - the home of de-mockery-cy, biscuit and football. Our venerable guest - with the name Unsung Soupcheek - is from the distant land of the Mranma people in the great Irrawaddy valley. Unsung Soupcheek - having endured decades of imprisonment and isolation at the hands of the Wicked Psychopathic Earls - has been able to come to Northumbria to visit the land which long held out the tantalising illusion of fair play, equal rights and de-mockery-cy.

Already, those politicos over here who aren't falling over themselves to ingratiate themselves with this Oriental lady leader are getting restless. Already, strikes and protests have been organised by the Robber Crow, the Herbalists, the Fluffy Equality and Diversity Commissariat, the pigeon psychologists and fish quota accountants. Purportedly, they're protesting at the Savage Expenditure Cuts from Caedmeron and his regime, but this Cat knows different.

They're striking because Unsung Soupcheek represents a form of governance where the people matter and where their politicos are held to account. They don't like that..

A Little Lunchtime Legend

Once upon a time, long ago and far away in the desolate wastes of Caledonia lived a little girl. By all accounts she was an ordinary child, albeit gifted with an ability to write above and beyond her tender years. She attended the local village school, where she - like all the other small children - was taught project management and Fluffy Equality and Diversity Studies. Mathematics and literacy were additional options for those who were inclined to develop their potential academic abilities.

One recurring problem that this lass encountered was the paucity of rations she was served for her lunch - both in terms of their quantity and their quality. These were served by the school's Faculty for Culinary Studies, whose culinary and educational services were under the supervision and patronage of the local Witangemot. Having eaten her meagre allotted portions, she would return to the classroom hungry and unable to concentrate on her lessons.

Coming from a close and supportive family, the little girl told her parents about this problem, and her father wisely suggested that she draw a pictorial diary and write a summary of her lunch each day. This would then assist her in developing her artistic and literary skills. She therefore enthusiastically threw herself into this new project. 

Before very long, her daily journal became widely read as readers throughout the world discovered her prowess with words, and came with horror to realise the difficulties the prandial arrangement created each day for the child and her school-friends. As the popularity of her articles burgeoned, the Commissariat of the local Witangemot became worried at the unwelcome publicity and attention that the girl's articles were accumulating; these daily journals would reveal them to be purveyors of inferior services, which would lead her readers to the conclusion that they were third-rate cheapskates. Something Must Be Done.

After a gathering of thirty thousand overfed and overpaid local government officials had convened over several banquets (at taxpayers' expense, naturally) to discuss this shocking development, they made a Policy Decision and implemented it immediately.

The little girl was instructed that she must not pictorially portray her lunch. Ever. Under pain of the Fluffy Diversity Machine Of Death.

Another astounding triumph for common sense, then...

Left Behind

The soothsayers have been entertaining the Northumbrian population with a touching story which came to light a couple of days ago. The tale, which has been swirling and slopping its way around the Northumbrian public consciousness, concerns Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Angel Cake of the Tree Faction and Supremo Shepherd of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. Because of the soothsayers' obsequious interest and servile adoration of the Great Prophet (particularly Beeby See, the Windy Pedant and their disease-ridden, flea-riddled and ill-tempered bosom friend Guardy-Ann), this story was given top priority. The Holy Roman Empire (which is far from holy, is as Roman as a Bedouin and doesn't even remotely resemble an empire) Football Competition had to take the back seat. So very sad.

The story (apocryphal, I'm sure, since any information proceeding from the mouths and other orifices of the aforesaid soothsayers is guaranteed to be fictitious, although presented with a straight face as Gospel truth) goes thus: Dagwald Caedmeron (I'm not writing his title again - it gets boring. All right - just this once.) - the Guiding Light and Pre-Eminent Fishcake of the Northumbrian Tree Faction, etcetera - went to an alehouse on Sunday, ostensibly to discharge his duties and say his prayers to the god Bacchus, whose patronage is earnestly sought by politicos and soothsayers alike. He took his wife and his entire tribe with him so that they could witness his pious devotions and all partake of a hearty lunch.

The story got out that once Caddy Boy had finished his devotions and our paterfamilias had gathered his kinfolk and departed from the temple of Ceres for his home, it came to light that he'd left his mind behind in the alehouse. It took him - and his wife - several hours to realise what had happened, and after mentally retracing their steps with much anxiety - and doubtless not a few tetchy words between him and his spouse - he remembered where he'd left it.

When one of his myriads of flunkies sent in the search party reached the alehouse, he was relieved to find Caddy's mind propping up the bar, regaling the bemused landlord and his staff with stories about ponies, kittens and little fairies.

Naturally, the Redistributionists were swift to make political capital out of this. If Caddy Boy can't even be relied on to know the whereabouts of his own mind, how on earth could he be trusted to run the apparatus of the Northumbrian State and the complexities of the Great Gaping Sovereign Debt Crisis? This reaction was as predictable as it was sterile. A lot of Northumbrians have already reached the conclusion that Edweird the Milliner, Jedweird the Spheres and their coterie of mountebanks and numbskulls are incapable of losing their own minds. After all, how can you lose what you haven't got?

That's Entertainment

This Cat never ceases to be surprised and amazed at the predisposition of the Northumbrian people and their political Establishment for various forms of entertainment - principally in the form of popular fiction. The line between reality and fantasy has now become so indistinct that it requires the wisdom of Solomon to prise apart the factual from the fantastic. Even those popular theatrical entertainments called 'daub-and-wattle dramas' - which have no pretensions to factuality - have influenced the bovine Northumbrian knuckle-draggers to the point where their actors are confused with the characters they portray. This can - for the actors, at least - be somewhat embarrassing and tedious. But never mind. I've shed my imaginary tears for them already.

This muddying of the waters certainly owes - in significant part - to the routine fictitious outpourings from the politicos and the soothsayers, whose sole currency on the trading floors of the Realm is the counterfeit coinage of mendacity, tempered by exaggeration and innuendo, and occasionally graced by a half-truth or homeopathic fraction thereof.

Were the worthy denizens of this Kingdom to be denied their chosen medication, all manner of evils would be loosed into the atmosphere, and Pandora's Box would release civil disturbances and plagues of unrest, dissent and biscuit into the normally placidly vapid and stupefied Northumbrian arena.

Today's daily dose - not to mention those popular fictions such as 'Enthronement Way' and 'Yeast Blenders' - includes the appearance of cheery, joke-cracking psychopath Guffmund the Brown - the previous Chicken Supreme of the disgraced Redistributionist Faction - before the Great Ass Size - an ongoing public entertainment laid on (at taxpayers' expense, of course) designed to discredit His Highness Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach, the Commander-In-Chief of seventy thousand soothsaying interests, whose minions have - like all other soothsayers' hacks - faithfully been overhearing the private conversations of politicos, entertainers and other thugs and ne'er-do-wells in order to supply themselves with gossip, stories and silly chatter. Woe, woe and thrice woe. What's for lunch?

The truth - as they're wont say here in Northumbria - is out there. It's certainly nowhere to be found in the Great Ass Size...

Here Comes The Reign

Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, 

riche mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,

qui, de ces précepteurs, méprisant leurs courbettes,

s'ennuie avec ses chiens, comme avec les autres bêtes..

(Baudelaire)

This last few days has been busy for your Cat, as there's been a strange change in the routine which has coincided with the celebration of the nine hundredth year of the accession of Good King Alhfrith to the coveted Northumbrian throne. I slept through it all, so everything I've subsequently heard owes to the faithful reporting of my good friend Feaxede the Fox and of course the partially impartial Redistributionist soothsayer Beeby See.

We've been bombarded with jolly jubilation, as those who comprise the struggling Northumbrian population have set aside their poverty, deprivation and thing, and have - in true Northumbrian fashion - partied hard. The bunting has hung limply along the streets and the highways and byways of the Realm, and the inns and mead houses have done a roaring trade in supplying a thirsty people with their chosen forms of poison.

The Great Celebration kicked off along the mighty River Ouse in the Northumbrian capital city of Yorvik, where the King's Royal Barge (named Glorianus, which this Cat thinks has a splendid ring to it) processed down the murky waterway, conveying the King, his potty-mouthed consort Queen Hillida and a gaggle of royal children, cousins, dignitaries, punkawallahs, courtesans, mountebanks and an impressive collection of hangers-on. Accompanying the Royal Tub was an astonishing flotilla of coracles and quinquiremes from the land-locked ancient city of Nineveh. Unfortunately, nobody fell in the vile-smelling, swirling soup, despite the pathologically fierce and ill-tempered competition between the rival boatsmen in the procession, who like infants were vying with each other for royal attention.

However, that doesn't mean than nobody got wet; whatever the Ouse failed to achieve was ably accomplished by the torrential rain, which drenched the distinguished occupants of the Glorianus and the delirious, cheering crows and crowds that lined the banks. Bands played, dogs barked and colonically decorated the pavements with curled offerings, which dissolved into a sludge in the persistant rain.

The evening was given over to a vast concert, where popular mad wriggles were sung by furrow-faced entertainers of a bygone age to adoring crowds. Our glorious King - by the expression on his face - was there under considerable sufferance. Poor chap.

I can hardly wait for the next anniversary. Now, what's for lunch?