The Hardest Word

There's been an almighty furore going on in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria in the last few days concerning the exchange of pleasantries between Anwynd the Rabid - a senior member of Dagwald Caedmeron's Administration and a costumed thug, whose constabulary duty was to guard the main gate to Caddy's residence. The politico wished to be admitted into the inner courts of the compound through the main entrance, but out of faithful devotion to his duty, the guard refused to allow him to use it, since he wasn't on horseback, and suggested that he use the side gate like everyone else. There followed some cheery banter, in which the politico called the sentry a mere unworthy serf, using very Anglo-Saxon Anglo-Saxon adjectives, nouns and gerunds: didn't he know that he was addressing one of his lords and masters? Passers-by - on hearing this exchange - were horrified at this display of high-minded arrogance, and subsequently a call went ringing through the Kingdom, demanding that Anwynd the Rabid resign immediately.

Since that unfortunate encounter between the Rabid and the lowly serf, Caddy Boy has publicly declared his support for Anwynd, and a grovelling, servile and suitably insincere apology was uttered by the latter for any offence that he might possibly have theoretically caused. Nevertheless, he denied saying those things that he was heard to have said, and emphatically stated that he didn't use those Anglo-Saxon parts of speech credited to him by the onlookers and various costumed thugs who'd also witnessed the spectacle.

The costumed thugs had - in line with their usual practice - had recorded verbatim the contents of the entire encounter - including the impolite adjectives, nouns and gerunds. However, there's a marked disparity between Anwynd's account and the one from the constabulary. Whose account has the most credence? With the Northumbrian public, the latter is accepted to be the definitive version of events. In the la-la land of the politicos, Caddy and his Alliance Administration have sided with the Rabid. Naturally, the Redistributionists - who half-heartedly pretend to be the friends and champions of the common man - have sided with the costumed thug. How terribly convenient.

It appears that Anwynd the Rabid is only sorry that the incident - which has damaged his non-existent credibility - took place in the first place. He isn't in the least part contrite for the expressions of bile and contempt that proceeded from his chops.

This Cat has placed him under a feline curse. Every cat in the Kingdom is now targeting his garden as a communal latrine in perpetuity. Since he produces the stuff in verbal form, he can have the more material manifestation of it as well..

Badgered

During the course of my habitual territorial wanderings, I encounter all manner of creatures of all shapes, sizes and temperaments; since my perambulations can take place either in the broad light of day as well as under the cover of darkness, it's inevitable that I occasionally see the more nocturnal members of the animal kingdom, and one such creature I occasionally meet is a badger, who answers to the name of Brockwald. To be perfectly honest, he and I have very little in common, since we have quite different dietary interests and habits, but he and I upon meeting usually exchange the customary polite superficial pleasantries.

Last night I met Brockwald as I was wandering through the nearby woods; he was emerging out of his sett as the evening sun was setting. After our preliminary greetings, I asked him what he and his colleagues were up to these days - although to be perfectly candid, I really wasn't expecting anything by way of a stimulating answer. So you can imagine my astonishment when he told me in a hushed conspiratorial tone that he and his fellow creatures had recently attended the Northumbrian Badger Synod, where representatives from all the major Northumbrian setts met to discuss various matters of mutual concern and interest. It would appear that the delegates at this Conference had made a unilateral decision to carry out a cull on human politicos.

At this piece of information my ears pricked up, and I scarcely could contain my surprise. After mentally processing this declaration, I managed to summon sufficient composure to ask him what was the reason for this momentous and drastic course of action. He told me that human politicos are the pestilential carriers of all manner of noxious plagues, and the badger communities were becoming more concerned - yea, alarmed - about the threat to their health as a species. I asked him what these deleterious diseases were, and he told me that the main infection was a condition which left them seriously ill and smelling of bovine excrement.

I wished him and his peers well in their collective endeavour, although I don't quite know how they intend to carry out their cull; I didn't have the heart to ask. I suppose they've got it all worked out..

Striking Similarities

Over the last week or so (since the passing of the Holy Roman Empire Games), this Cat has had some time for reflection about the state of things here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; September has passed its halfway mark, and in the cyclical rhythm of the year, the same old human cultural and political events recur with what could be perceived as a tedious predictability about them.

For example, the Northumbrian Realm has once more been invited to witness the perennial spectacle of that travelling mountebank show the Ð Factor with all of its associated soothsayer-generated excitement. Moreover, this time of year is also blessed by a rival entertainment called Strictly Come Tumbling, where popular slebs (whose main claim to fame is that they are famous) are expertly cavorted by experienced movers and shakers over hot coals in spectacularly acrobatic fashion to the accompaniment of jeering, mead-fuelled assemblies and the blaring of horns. These diversions have been part and parcel of the Northumbrian calendar for the last seventeen thousand years, and after witnessing the spectacle a number of times in my feline lifespan, I'm fast arriving at the conclusion that they've become formulaic, tired and dull. But then, perhaps they were always like that, and at first I was too impressionable to recognise them as such. The aspiring singer yawps and bleats his nasal refrain to the greeting of either finely-sharpened contempt or rabid enthusiasm from the audience and the judges; the sleb dancers and their professional terpsichorean guides leap manically around the coals to the accompaniment of drunken cheers and thinly veiled distaste from the panel of expert assessors.

And that's only the popular entertainment; the respective political factions' Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic season will also soon be upon us, and we'll once more be treated to cheers, jeers and adulation in equal measure as the deluded and the psychotically self-important once more indulge themselves in a festival of oratory and self-congratulation, while damning their identical rivals in other factions. The mixture as before. Take one spoonful each year, and hold your nose while swallowing.

Your Cat is going to attempt to ignore these events this year, as he's seen them all before. What are the chances of him succeeding? Watch this space, folks..

Dubious Honours

I was rudely awakened from my afternoon nap the other day by the distant sound of heavy rumbling. Now, I for one have to confess that I'm not at my best when I'm suddenly wakened; I become very irritable, and my natural grace takes a temporary hike. Can't even a cat get some damn sleep these days? So, in a somewhat dazed state, I wandered to the town to see if I could ascertain the source of the noise.

It didn't take me very long to discover that the reason for the loud and obtrusive rumbling: the soothsayers were excitedly informing the uninterested citizens of Streonaeshalch that Dagwald Caedmeron - Senior Dog-biscuit and Shepherdess of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - was shuffling his Cabinet. This piece of news immediately furnished me with the reason for my broken slumber, so in a better state of health than temper, I took myself over to Caddy Boy's residence with a view to passing on to him the benefits of my opinion on the matter. (I'd sharpened my claws beforehand.)

When I approached the Official Residence of the aforesaid miscreant, I noticed that Caddy was busily engaged in discarding the statuettes and ornaments from his beloved Cabinet and lovingly replacing them with new idols and nick-nacks. The irritability that had propelled me there soon dissolved into puzzlement when I realised that rather than throwing out the replaced objects into a sack for a swift conveyance to the municipal dump, Caedmeron was placing them into a beautiful shrine, and I saw that these discarded items were going to be blessed and venerated for worship by His Holiness Archbishop Georges Moonbat, the Senior Bone-Thrower and Leading Authority of the enigmatic Global Warming Cult.

Now, if I'd previously suspected that Caddy Boy was endowed with somewhat peculiar personality traits, this spectacle left me in no possible doubt. I'm a keen observer of human habits and customs, and I've been around long enough to realise that when humans have had enough of their toys, tools and mouldy bread-crusts, they simply throw them out without any due ceremony. So why was Caddy Boy turning over his trash for such honour and veneration? Is this bizarre behaviour the consequence of the habitual chewing of magic mushrooms?

I decided that in view of his parlous state of intoxication, I'd spare Caddy my teeth and claws. A fur-ball was sufficient.