The Milliner's One Momentous Message

There's been a wonderful succession of feasts recently; the season of Advent, culminating in the Feast of Christmas, immediately followed by the Feast of St Stephen, the first Martyr. It's a significant relief that these holy festivals take place at the midpoint of the winter, when the days are at their shortest and bleakest; the proliferation of candles casts a welcome glow in the churches, mead houses and hovels of Streonaeshalh - and, of course, the cliff top Abbey. No Christmas would be complete without the candle-lit masses, the feasting of families and friends - and the inevitable entertainment proceeding from the annual oration by some political dunderhead, equipped with a large mouth and a pathologically inflated view of his own significance.

This year the lot has fallen to Edweird the Milliner - the Great Fallen Star and Pantomime Dame of the Redistributionist Faction has - in the interests of the Kingdom - delivered an oration in which he's made some solemn pledges to those who are take him seriously enough and give an ounce of credence to the moisture-laden words that drip from his chops. SInce Eddie is the Chief Shepherd of the Opposition, he enjoys the blessed prerogative of bleating whatever he likes, unfettered by the harsh realities of decision-making - provided, that is, that it'll serve his political advantage and convey his fantastical image as a caring, compassionate and thoroughly honest broker. Which of course, he is. Excuse me - I need to visit my litter tray rather urgently... I think it's something I've eaten...

Edweird the Milliner - so mercifully bereft of the ravages of conscience and principle - has promised not to forget those who have been forgotten, overlooked, ignored or forsaken by the ruling Tree/Liberationist Alliance Faction. In order to tug at the heart-strings of the gullible, he's promised - in line with his One Kingdom hallucination - to give a thought to those who have been disadvantaged by the Great Cutback policies of the present administration. Which means that if we're to take Edweird the Milliner at his word (and we can choose any one of several million), he's going to remember everyone. That's a tough gig. But I don't think that Eddie's endeavour to bind the entire population in perpetual remembrance includes his fellow politicos, who are never out of their own collective consciousness. In the unlikely event that he were to fulfil this undertaking, the question that insinuates itself into my feline mind (such as it is) is, how long would he remember the Great Forgotten for? To gauge opinion on this, I asked various friends of mine to hazard a guess. Brockwald the Badger predicted that Eddie would remember for a full hour. Feaxede the Fox - who, to be fair, has had some previous experience of the Redistributionist Faction - suggested that he would remember for half an hour.

I give him about three nanoseconds...

The End - Yet Again

While the politicos have been getting on with their sordid business of covering up their foul misdemeanours and subjugating the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria under the benignly malevolent yoke of Sacred Arch-Cheese Emperor Joe Borracho - the self-appointed Grand Sham of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as Caedmon's socks, Roman as a frankfurter and not remotely resembling an empire), the soothsayers have been getting excited about yet another Grand Distraction. It earns them a crust, I suppose..

According to the Mayas - a magic mushroom and peyote-fuelled ante-diluvian civilisation from the as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule - the world was due to come to an abrupt end today, on the Winter Solstice. This ancient people constructed large and interesting pyramid structures, doubtless inspired by a visit by their seers to the land of Egypt to see how it was done. They also devised what was latterly understood to be a circular calendar and almanac upon a large stone, from which all manner of interesting predictions have been extrapolated. (The circular structure was actually an elaborate dinnerplate for their fat high priest, but such a prosaic and banal explanation doesn't make for exciting stories and wild predictions, does it?)

In view of this devastating apocalyptic prediction, all kinds of unusual people - clothed in muddy off-white robes, holding harps and ram's horn trumpets - have been swarming for the last few days in hordes of herds to the sacred mountain of Pen-y-Ghent, expecting that particular place to be the focal point of the Great End. Many of them have sold their possessions and have made the one-way pilgrimage there in expectation of being translated to another realm. It's all so terribly sad.

Astonishingly enough, just as with the eschatological predictions of the venerable Harold the Campsite, the Great Wind-Up Of The Ages hasn't happened today; consequently the great unwashed multitudes are once more taking the tedious journeys back to their hamlets and hovels - doubtless to the grinning sarcasm of the sceptics who stayed on to get on with their work.

Meanwhile, Edweird the Milliner - the Grand Macaroni of the Redistribution Faction has been busy. Today he's called for a Public Enquiry into this significant disaster. This is the thirty thousandth request he's made for one since breakfast. I wonder why it's of such burning interest to him? - I bet he'd placed a wager with some dubious character somewhere, and he's lost..

Night And Day

As I perambulate through my considerable empire, fending off aspiring feline successors and enjoying the thrills and spills of the small rodent hunt, I'm privileged to observe the human condition in all its fallen and faded glory - and believe me, it's not pretty. One thing I've noticed of late is that the Kingdom of Northumbria is in a state of turmoil, distress, woe and biscuit. Of course, I ought to declare that this is the state of normality in the human realm - except of course, in the hallowed cloisters of Streonaeshalh Abbey, where a serenity and deep calmness prevails.

The latest contribution to the present distress is a new piece of legislation proposed by Dagwald Caedmeron - the Most High Palooka and Archbeacon of the Tree Faction and Principal Dogsbody of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration, who has decreed that from the beginning of next year, the term 'day' should be renamed 'night', and conversely, 'night' is to be renamed 'day.' Despite the inevitable confusion that this new change will generate in the human world of communication - not to mention the massive backlash of public opinion against such an absurdity - Caddy Boy is determined to push this new piece of ground-breaking legislation through. The reason for this - and he has thus declared it - is because he is a Tree. Moreover, further terminology changes can be expected next year as the terms 'good' and 'evil' 'right' and 'wrong', 'black' and 'white' and 'dog' and 'cat' are also imposed upon the Northumbrian populace. (I hereby solemnly swear and declare that if any human being -regardless of age, rank, gender or socio-economic group refers to me as Caedmon's Dog, I will personally pressure test my needle-sharp teeth on his or her anatomy.)

What has mystified the majority of people - who've always commonly assumed that 'night' referred to the sunless portion of the day - is why Caddy Boy has decided to decree something so mind-rottingly stupid - especially since the Tree Faction previously represented those traditional, handed-down cultural values and were notoriously suspicious of change. But my feline friend Lareow (Caddy Boy's Rodent Czar-In-Chief) has confided in me that his holy employer is so frightened of being typecast as a boring old fuddy-duddy, and is pathologically desperate to be perceived of as being hip, cool and trendy, just like his worthless, money and time-wasting Redistributionist friends.

Interestingly, Caddy Boy has decreed from On High that the vote for this proposed bill won't be subject to the Faction Whip, as it wasn't a policy proposed in the Tree Declaration of Malicious Intent, which was hastily scribbled five minutes before they assumed the coveted office. Fellow politicos may vote according to their own reason and common sense. Motion carried, then..

Caedmeron's Great Gamble

The onward march of idiocy continues apace - much to the amusement of your Moggy. The latest excitement to engulf the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria revolves around a controversial measure introduced by Dagwald Caedmeron, the Pontifex Maximus and Chicken Supreme of the Tree Faction, and also Primus Inter Pares of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. This new Great Piece of Significant Policy is designed to grant homeopathic badgers the right to vote in any place of worship they deem suitable.

Naturally, the rank-and-file Tree Faction members are Deeply Concerned about this, since such a change of policy is contrary to the Natural Order of Things, and they see this measure as an unwelcome imposition foisted upon them and, moreover, without any prior reference to their own Greatly Valued opinions. It certainly wasn't in the Tree Faction's Declaration of Intent, which they hastily scribbled five minutes prior to assuming the sacred office. The Redistributionists however - led nobly from behind by their Great Mascot Edweird the Milliner - are quite pleased with this idea, since it meshes very tidily into their own magic mushroom-inspired narrative, and is consistent with the theology of their cruel and inflexibly stupid deity called Equality. Nevertheless, they've stated that the proposal doesn't go far enough, since it leaves no room for the weasels. It's all so very sad. There's simply no pleasing some.

Caddy Boy recently stated to his adoring acolytes, window-lickers and sycophants that he's introducing this new Great Measure for the very reason that he's a Tree, and he doesn't want poor homeopathic badgers to miss out on the opportunity for participation in the life of the Christian Community. Which is nice. Despite this theatrical posturing and intention to drag this into the statute books, most Trees are already leaving the Faction in droves and seeking refuge in the Northumbrian Independence Freedom Faction - a breakaway group which opposes the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and that kind of thing, and wistfully longs for Northumbria's green and pleasant land.

Since badgers are normally secretive nocturnal creatures, most ordinary Northumbrians are quite content to let them carry out their practice of diluting their urine to the trillionth degree - as long as they don't parade their strange and esoteric medicine in full public gaze. However, they find the idea of allowing them to vote in a sacred place of worship a Step Too Far. Needless to say, the Church isn't too enchanted with the idea. One clergyman has politely suggested to Caedmeron that he should take a one-way journey to Perdition - which isn't a place within the boundaries of our Kingdom.. I'll have to ask Caedmon where it is...

It's all likely to end in tears. And I suspect that most of the badgers don't give a rat's rump about voting, anyway. They're too busy plotting the Great Cull of the Politicos..

Great Expectations

The beloved soothsaying hag Beeby See has been terribly excited about some Wonderful News which has emerged from the household of King Alhfrith, the titular aristocratic Supremo of the Northumbrian Kingdom. In tones of hushed reverence bordering on pathological sycophancy, Beeby's regal affairs drudge announced that Prince Walthelm - sixty third in line to the coveted Northumbrian throne, and his posturing trophy wife Princess Gytha - are expecting a puppy, which is to be the next in line to the regal seat of power. It's all so terribly sad - in fact it's enough to make even a grown cat weep.

The excitement and delirium about this astounding development in the Royal Household has been so hysterically intense that the noble commoner Princess has taken sick with violent vomiting, dire diarrhoea and biscuit, and consequently has had to resort to the services of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service. There have been hourly updates, delivered in the mandatory reverential tones from Beeby's minion at the herbalist centre, where the indisposed Princess is currently confined.

It's a sign of these degenerate times that even the Royal Couple are so chronically undiscerning that they should even wish to share their exciting and eventful lives with a howling, puking, slobbering and ultimately exhausting and demanding creature.

But that's dogs for you; they should have opted for a Cat. I'd teach it a thing or two...

Hard Pressed

There's been a great deal of delirium, excitement and biscuit in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria of late regarding the recent recommendations made by the Leftvision Report - a recently released illuminated tome of colossal size, costing several trillions of Holy Groats. This Great Book seems to have emerged from the wreckage of an enquiry into various soothsayers of the Realm - and particularly the activities of Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach, the wealthy and influential owner of myriads of soothsaying interests whose principal sin was to apostatise and turn his allegiance away from the Redistributionists, and pitch his tent instead within the happy land of Dagwald Caedmeron's Tree Faction.

In view of the misdemeanours of Prince Rupie's soothsayers and their drudges (i.e. listening in to private conversations and publicly proclaiming them from the rooftops), it was decreed in the aforesaid Report that Something Must Be Done about these scallywags; consequently, several soothsayers have already been lovingly hanged until dead in the public squares of the Kingdom. Naturally, Beeby See and her vile soothsaying crony Guardy-Ann have been exempt from such investigations, and have sat on high horses to proclaim vituperation, disdain and contempt upon those unfortunate enough to have been caught. The recently uncovered scandals concerning Beeby's late impresario, the Lothario Ine Sovile - along with the tax-evading measures taken by groat-strapped Guardy-Ann - have mysteriously dissipated from public consciousness, allowing these self-styled moralists and overseers of the Kingdom's information to preach with impunity. It's all so very sad.

Adding their own two pennyworth to the furore have been the politicos, many of whom have sanctimoniously called for all soothsaying enterprises in the Kingdom to be strictly filtered and controlled by the Redistributionist Faction, who've already appointed themselves as the sole guardians of the One True And Holy Narrative. This of course has nothing to do with the fact that the soothsayers disclosed the money-grubbing and fraudulent activities of these politicos in their wild expense-claiming antics. Nor is this hysterical call for control of the soothsayers related to the desire on the part of most of the politicos for complete and unaccountable control over every activity in every corner of the Realm.

There's going to be a great deal of heat and very little light over this matter in the next few millennia. In fact, certain politicos would very much like it all to be kept in the dark - which I suspect is their own natural habitat...