Rodreham Rout

On a crisp winter's day, there's nothing better than a piece of news to warm the blood. Today this Cat has finally heard the results of the Rodreham election, where the three identical factions have been slogging it out in immoral mortal combat to get one of their window-lickers elected into a seat in the House of Folly. Hooray for De-Mockery-Cy!

As well as the usual suspects, there was also a contender from the Northumbria Independence Faction - a small and motley collection of idealists, eccentrics and emotionally cultural Anglo-Saxons who aspire to see the beautiful Kingdom delivered from the affectionate deadly embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Beelzebub's underpants, Roman as a pyramid and nothing like an empire).

An interesting development immediately prior to the election was the measure taken by the Redistributionist-infested Rodreham welfare services to separate some foreign orphans from their Anglo-Saxon foster parents. Their justification for this heartless decision was that these malevolent and foolish parents had changed their allegiances, forsaken the Holy Redistributionist Faction and espoused the cause of the Northumbria Independence Faction. In short, they were deemed to be vile heretics. This change of heart on the part of the unfortunate parents owed itself to their growing concern over the myriads of people steadily occupying the Kingdom, speaking guttural languages, spitting in the streets, practising strange and exotic religions and eating bizarre dishes. When word got out about this draconian measure, swords were sharpened, and the heads of Redistributionists were eagerly sought - along with those of the ubiquitous, slimy and secretive cult Commonest Porpoise, which, like an unseen colony of demented maggots, eats at the heart of the Kingdom's institutions. The pundits were confidently predicting that as a consequence of this bizarre episode, the Redistributionists would suffer an ignominious defeat, and there would be public executions.

But we should never take anything for granted. The Redistributionists have won the seat. My pal Feaxede the Fox told me that each Rodreham Redistributionist elector voted at least three times. Fair play wins the day. But at least the Liberationists lost their deposit. I have one freshly cooked for them - and there's plenty more where that came from..

Grand Designs

So much is going on here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria that my poor feline head is in a veritable spin. What doesn't help my present state of disorientation is a recent Important Announcement by Tondvig the Bleurgh - the former Chief Pork Scratching and Virtuous Paradigm of the Redistributionists, and retired Principal Emissary of the Kingdom.

This eminent and well-loved servant of the Northumbrian Realm and High Priestly Representative of the common-and-garden people hasn't been idle since his retirement from the leadership of the Redistributionists seventeen thousand years ago. Eager to exercise his finely-honed skills in mendacity, oratory and sincere guile, he's been travelling over the many waters of the earth, giving lectures to adoring window-lickers, knuckle-draggers, lickspittles and anyone deranged enough to part with several million Holy Groats for the privilege of hearing diatribes of magic-mushroom-fuelled fantasy and folly drip from his amply proportioned chops.

By such enterprise - as well as his tireless industry in greasing the wheels of the weird and wacky world of weapons commerce - Tondvig the Bleurgh has amassed a considerable fortune. As appears to the case with flawed human nature, such wealth has had a degenerative effect upon his own psyche, resulting in pathological ambition, evidenced in the fact he now has designs on the throne of Emperor Jose Borracho - the Dancing Fairy Queen of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Since this overweening ambition mirrors that of the evil one, whose original desire was to de-throne the Almighty, it's quite likely that he'll suffer the same kind of indignity as his infernal exemplar.

To assist his own cause, Tondvig the Bleurgh has urged the Northumbrian Kingdom to remain within the diabolical orbit of the Unholy Empire. Out of unalloyed awe and respect for this beloved paradigm, most of Northumbrians are are dignifying his call with indifference. The Redistributionists are in raptures, of course..

Bear-faced Cheek

The disastrous vote in the Great Northumbrian Church Council has brought about widespread hysteria, panic, agony, soul-searching and biscuit, and the soothsayers have been assiduously dissecting the result, and gravely predicting the imminent demise of the Church. This has been a golden opportunity in every place for heated discussions and rational debate with axes, as people who'd never normally darken the doors of a church building have suddenly crept out of the woodwork as self-appointed theologians, advocating the hip, cool and trendy new doctrine of Fluffy Diversity. Beeby See - the impartial soothsayer who speaks exclusively for the hip, cool and trendy Redistributionists - has wheeled out such experts in boundless abundance from whichever warehouse they're stored. A Day of Mourning has recently been announced throughout the Kingdom, and flags hang limply at half-mast in the rain. It's all so terribly sad; if this Cat could shed tears, he certainly would. But at least I can take a well-deserved dump.. 

Whatever. Following hot on the heels of this devastating development has been the latest disclosure from the soothsayers that a man has been observed to have climbed upon the Anglo-Saxon cross in the middle of Yorvik. This has caused considerable distress for passers-by and innocent onlookers, bystanders and suchlike, as the man in question isn't adequately dressed for a chilly early winter's day. In fact, he isn't wearing anything at all. The spectacle of a stark-naked man in such an elevated location has caused unspeakable disruption, as crowds of people have stopped to watch in equal measures of awe-struck admiration and open-mouthed, fly-catching dumb wonder. It's more than apparent that a great number of people have never seen a naked person before - and in today's temperatures, it's small wonder ;0)

Rumour has it (I'm unable to verify this, so please don't pass this on as established fact) that the offender who is making such a small-scale (and greatly diminished) public statement is none other than His Holiness Georges Moonbat, the Great High Priest of the Redistributionist Global Warming Cult and wild-eyed devotee of the Most Holy Mother Earth. The story goes that he's demanding human rites for the poor polar bears - and he's also Deeply Concerned about the disastrous vote in the Great Northumbrian Church Council. I'm trying very hard to get my feline head around the purpose of his protest. I fail to see what significant ministry polar bears can add to the Church of Northumbria...

Shepherds

While the politicos continue their posturing and exercising their ingenuity in making expenses claims, and dearly-loathed Beeby See pathetically tries to repair an irrevocably lost reputation, other things have been quietly smouldering in the background. Today, the soothsayers have been alerting us all to the latest Great And Important Issue: this very day is historic in the life of the Northumbrian Church, as its Supreme Council meets to vote on a Very Contentious Issue.

There are those who would venture the opinion that the Church has been far too busy desperately trying to keep up with the latest fads and fancies of the politicos, who are determined to drag the entire Kingdom into its fluffy magic-mushroom-fuelled narrative, where everyone in the Kingdom is equal in status, ability and opportunity, and where even a bat, a cat or a rat is on an equal footing with King Alhfrith, and where the most intellectually-challenged may grasp the glittering prizes and hold a political office (as most already do).

However, this Cat doesn't lean towards such a perspective, and neither do many others. When I asked Caedmon for his thoughts, he told me he was quite happy about the contentious proposition in question. He also told me that his eminent friends Bede, Chad, Aidan and Cuthbert were also positive about it. I also went to Streonaeshalh Abbey to chat with the Abbess Hilda and the monks, to gauge their own feelings on the matter, and they were perfectly happy with the potentially likely outcome of this Great Council, which in their estimation is on an equal footing to those of Nicea and Chalcedon.

The outcome from this Great Gathering is predictable: the time is coming when there will be male bishops. The nay-sayers are going to have to get used to it..

A Rare Encounter

I wandered through my own feline empire this morning as usual, making sure everything was in order. I happened across Feaxede the Fox, who was certainly in a better frame of mind than he was when I saw him yesterday. When I asked him why he was so cheerful, he told me that he'd had a very interesting conversation with another fox whose acquaintance he'd recently made, and there unfolded an interesting and exciting story.

It appears that this fox - Ficol by name - had returned from a visit to the wild, craggy and wet northern land of Caledonia. His adventure started when he jumped on board a merchant's cart when no human was looking, and was highly delighted to find that the load on the cart was a consignment of geese. Since this was a good portent, he stayed on the cart, which was covered by a large rug to keep the cargo from the elements. The driver of the cart didn't at any time stop to inspect the load, either - some creatures have all the luck..

After several days of travel, Ficol alighted near a very large lake, and having watched the cart disappear into the distance, decided to investigate this new terrain. While he was looking around, he saw the head of an enormous creature emerge from the water, who saw him and from a distance of a few yards from the shore, and engaged him in conversation. Ficol asked him who he was, as he'd never seen the likes of such an animal before. The aquatic apparition explained that he was the legendary and secretive Loch Ness Monster, whose primary mission in life is to elude the gaze of human beings, thus creating an illusion of mystery. The fox and the monster thus formed a firm friendship and had many a long conversation.

Feaxede was clearly excited by this story - after all it's a unique experience to see the Loch Ness Monster - let alone to have meaningful conversations with it. I told Feaxede that I'd actually encountered something even more rare and wonderful this very morning: I actually encountered a human who'd cast a vote in the local election for the Chief of the local Costumed Thug Force...

Police Yourself

There's never a dull moment here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; today I bumped into my old friend Feaxede the Fox, who appeared to be rather preoccupied about something. After the customary greetings that familiars usually exchange, I asked him what was happening, since I'd perceived that he was looking rather subdued.

He told me that he'd just come from the local polling station in Streonaeshalh. Now, since I'm a Cat who's usually well-versed in current affairs and the labyrinthine nature of human politics, I was particularly intrigued, since I hadn't been told that there was an election in progress. Had I missed something during one of my naps? Had Caedmeron in a split second turn of events decided to go to the Realm for a massive vote of no confidence? 

My questions were soon answered when Feaxede told me that today's vote was a Very Special Vote: it was a unique opportunity for the good citizens of this Anglo-Saxon Kingdom to cast their vote for their Chief over the local Costumed Thug Force. All three of the main political factions - Tree, Redistributionist and Liberationist - were represented by their respective candidates. There were also some hopefuls of a more independently-minded outlook who were also standing for the job. So I asked Feaxede what the post entailed, and he told me that the newly-elected Chief would oversee the activities of the Streonaeshalh Costumed Thug militia, and each morning would decide what kind of offences, crimes and misdemeanours they should try to tackle. 

I still couldn't get my feline head around this, so I asked him what the difference would be between the priorities of three main factions. Needless to say, everything fell into place when Feaxede told me that there wasn't a scrap of difference between their agendas; they would all zealously ensure that elderly ladies who allow their pet dogs to evacuate their colons on the streets would be severely punished, and anyone caught calling someone of a Nordic persuasion a "Vikey" or an "Edda Banger" would be hanged, drawn and quartered, since this constituted a loathsome hate crime. As for crimes of robbery, fraud and theft - these would be dealt with as and when the new Chief saw fit. Since these are misdemeanours which the politicos commit daily, they can't be seen to be too enthusiastic..

So then I asked Feaxede what was bothering him; he told me that he'd watched outside the polling station all day, and he hadn't seen a single person going in to cast their vote. This was a disappointing day for De-Mockery-cy. I suggested to him that perhaps the reason for the lack of attendance was down to the fact that nobody had any strong feelings or convictions on the matter, and that they'd decided to vote with their feet (or rather their backsides). Or perhaps it was because they simply hadn't been told about it - after all, I'd only just found out myself.

I told him not to worry - the right Chief will be selected and elected, even if nobody's voted for him; there's a handsome salary involved to the tune of several thousand Holy Groats each month, along with abundant opportunities for bungs and back-handers as he greases the wheels of the magic mushroom supply chain. I've seen it all before...

Beeby's New Boss

In these November days of damp, dreariness and biscuit, it's always refreshing to hear news that lifts the jaded spirits and cheers the flagging soul. Beeby See - that universally loathed soothsayer and bosom pal of the psychotic hag affectionately known as Guardy-Ann - has been going through some tough times lately, as certain inconvenient truths concerning the unwholesome antics of her departed eccentric entertainer Ine the Sovile have come to light; this has also been compounded by a certain news report she cheerfully issued recently, alleging all manner of loathsome crimes and misdemeanours against a former Tree politico, whose sole sin was to have served under the former Tree Leader Hildebrand the Roofer (who incidentally happens to be one of the objective and impartial Beeby's most hated political figures). Unfortunately, the faithfully mindless drudges who gleefully served up this report didn't take the time or trouble to investigate these allegations to ascertain their veracity before making them public, and their primary witness suddenly (and terribly inconveniently) changed his story when he realised that the Tree politico he'd initially named wasn't actually the guilty party. Oops-a-daisy. The blacksmiths of the Kingdom of Northumbria have been busy sharpening knives, and Beeby has been sweating even more profusely than usual. As a token gesture, the dismal old bat dismissed her previous chief with a significant bribe to keep him quiet.

But all is not lost, so please don't weep, despite your inclination to do so. Every clod has a sliver of lining. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Aburr Gut-Harrdurr - the idiosyncratic, hook-handed Viking sweetheart - renowned for his deep affection for the Anglo-Saxon people and their Christian ways - has been released form the oubliette where he's been awaiting his deportation to his Nordic homeland. Apparently King Olaf doesn't want him back to grace his own shores, so he's been permitted to remain here to spread his love and happiness within this Realm. There's a job waiting for him, which will give him a golden opportunity to work for the first time in his life.

It's simply wonderful how things work out, isn't it?

O'Barmy Nation Of Desolation

The soothsayers have been in a state of high excitement as they've received news of Very Important Developments in the faraway (and as yet undiscovered) land of Ultima Thule, where, so we're told, an election has been taking place among the hordes of that mysterious realm for the Tribal Chieftain's seat.

As I intimated yesterday, the contest has been between His Eminence Bugrake O'Barmy - that slick, silver-tongued, smooth-talking orator, whose prowess owes principally to his considerable experience as a used chariot salesman - and his rival, the wealthy plutocrat, aristocrat and laundromat Mutt the Rumpy, an adherent of an alien polygamy-promoting heresy which is peculiar to those undiscovered shores. This has been a contest between two disparate mentalities within that Elysian field of plenty; the one supporting Buggy Boy represents an amalgam of knuckle-draggers, the wealthy inarticulate, the impoverished inarticulate, starry-eyed Redistributionists, fantasists and the chronically short-sighted and naive, while the other is a dog's breakfast of flag-saluters, shopkeepers, apple pie eaters, the splendidly isolated, the bow-and-arrow lobby, the hang-'em-high brigade and - last but by no means least, the fabulously wealthy. This latter mentality has been described as the Silent Majority, chiefly because of their speechless eloquence, which certainly came to play a significant part in the outcome of yesterday's contest.

The results of this legendary contest have reached the unwashed lugs of the soothsayers, and we're reliably informed that the hip cat Bugrake O'Barmy has once again been returned to the Chieftain's Throne, where he can once again administer his own idiosyncratic brand of righteousness and peace, aided and abetted by the enormous tax bills of the bankrupted citizens of that benighted realm. Already there has been the ringing of many bells and the wringing of many hands, and the political sages are already predicting the tone for the next few centuries of Bugrake O'Barmy's reign. Although his speech has been bereft of the magic word "hope", he's nevertheless promised an era of free healthcare herbal remedies, mustard, bustard and custard for the Ultima Thule residents. This is a coded message, and the translation refers to more woe, debt, bankruptcy and biscuit. Good times are just around the bend - just as they were yesterday, as well as five thousand years ago.

I have a sneaky feeling that a consequence of this Significant Development is that Ultima Thule will remain undiscovered for several hundred years yet...

Thule Me Once..

Today is a Very Significant Day in the history of the world. I know this to be true for the simple and unvarnished reason that the soothsayers have told me so - and who am I - a mere Cat - to quibble with such sages?

In the long ago, faraway and as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, a valuable choice is being made by the inhabitants which will determine their destiny as a Kingdom for the next ten minutes: they're casting their votes for their new Tribal Chieftain. The previous occupant of this seat of authority was His Eminence Bugrake O'Barmy - the silver-tongued, smooth-talking operator, whose skills have been honed by his previous experience in used chariot sales, and informed by the barrack-room legal profession. After a period of tenure which has secured Ultima Thule's place in the annals of the history books for extreme insolvency, bankruptcy, poverty, debt and biscuit - aided by increased taxation in order to construct the Ultima Thule Herbalist Service, thus generating myriads of important jobs for fluffy diversity coordinators and pigeon psychologists. His mantra when he previously ran for the Chieftain's seat was "Hope," but it's noticeable that such a word no longer appears in his rhetorical vocabulary. I've no idea why, and the soothsayers aren't providing any clues as to the reasons for this mysterious omission. Buggy Boy represents the interests of the inarticulate, deluded and starry-eyed Redistributionists and those legions of foreigners who have no grasp of the prevailing language.

Bugrake O'Barmy's rival to the Great Throne is a wealthy tribesman called Mutt Rumpy, who represents the interests of the Silent Majority - the moral backbone of the undiscovered land. Although the electors are taciturn (mainly because they haven't yet learned to speak), their Representative is certainly not, and he isn't afraid to air his formidable ignorance about the world in which he lives. (He recently voiced the opinion that Northumbria was some kind of disease.) Mutt Rumpy also adheres to some Ultima Thule-derived heresy whose theology centres around polygamy, huge families and cuddly kittens. This is likely to appeal to the feline vote, but I'm not so sure I'd be in favour. I must have a chat with Caedmon about it when he has a spare fifteen nanoseconds..

The results of this Significant Vote will be disclosed in the next ten years. I'm so excited! Now, what's for lunch?

Trough Off

Your Cat has once again been informed of devastating news from the soothsayers; there are some weeks where the tide of tidings is simply relentless. I really need a break from all this: I think I'm going to have to take a sabbatical, and devote myself to rodent research, aided by copious supplies of catnip...

The latest delight to drip from the earnest and sincerely concerned chops of the soothsayers concerns the banishment of a Redistributionist politico answering to the name of Denisc the Shameless, who's by no means been a stranger to past controversies. This latest development concerns Denisc's passion and undoubted talent for creative moneymaking. Not - I might hasten to add - through the sweat of his brow in the drudgery of honest toil, but rather in a long-running series of highly inventive expense claims which would do credit to the most imaginative storyteller to binge on the sacred fungus. Among the crimes for which he's had to answer has been a series of claims for a residence during his times in exile from the comforts of his home while on Witangemot business. This is of course quite legitimate in itself, but the unfolding of the reality behind the claim has disclosed quite a different narrative.

I went to investigate the property for which Denisc had submitted his considerable demand. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the residence used to support his submission for expenses was neither a house, palace nor hovel. I found a resident there however, and I engaged in some pleasant conversation with him. He's quite an affable fellow, and certainly bright and articulate, and our chat covered all kinds of subjects of common interest. Sadly though, my nose eventually prompted me to remove myself, and his eating habits certainly left a great deal to be desired. A pigsty is no place for a Cat. 

Denisc is welcome to it, though..

Defeat of Strength

As the whirling storms wreak their havoc and customary desolation on the habitations of the as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, other climatic phenomena bombard the shores of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. The common factors between these peculiar climatic phenomena seem to be immense quantities of wind, wet and heat, which unite in fiendish concord to stir up ordure of varying degrees of freshness and spread it liberally around. That's Redistributionism for you, folks.

Yesterday, the disreputable and dishonourable members of the Witangemot cast their votes with regard to an issue that is dear to the heart of many a politico: the subsidy demanded from our noble Realm for the coffers of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Beelzebub's bottom, as Roman as a camel's droppings, and nothing like an empire). Ever since the politicos decided seventeen thousand years ago to commit the Kingdom to the loving stranglehold of the Infernal Empire under the theatrical pretence that the arrangement was one of mutual help, culture, trade and biscuit, the relationship has proved itself to be one of subordinate to psychotic taskmaster rather than small friend to big friend. This has evidenced itself in the amount of protection money demanded by the Evil Federation from the Kingdom to guarantee the fluffy comfort and security of not being invaded. (The Vikings have also successfully pulled that stunt, and under the grand titles of Danegeld and Danelaw have managed to continuously con a lot of Holy Groats from the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. Good game.)

Since the hard-pressed Northumbrians have very few Holy Groats or even pennies to rub together, there's understandably a lot of resentment towards Emperor Jose Borracho, his half-baked henchman Hermit the Rumphole and the thousands of political drones on the other side of the North Sea and the Channel who are living high off the hog. Furthermore, the guarantee that Northumbria would never be invaded has appeared to be a false promise, since myriads of clothes peg sellers, tinkers, layabouts and professional riff-raff with bizarre languages, diet, personal habits and religious propensities have filtered their way into the Realm to derive considerable benefit from living in readily available housing and having the free facilities of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service. Fair enough.

Since many politicos have realised that their future tenure depends on the good will of their constituents, the majority of them have voted with the Redistributionists against Caedmeron and have put their political careers on the line. The result of this is that the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration was soundly defeated. This Cat even heard rumours that Caedmeron voted against himself. He's daft enough. But to be sure, it'll be business as usual as the coffers continue to fill..