The Quest Of The Cat

I'm very sorry that I haven't written from the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria recently. My only explanation (and you must take it or leave it, according to your inclination) is that your Cat has been on a Special Hunting Expedition. Not, I might hasten to add, the usual quarry of small rodents and birds, but for a rather special species of creature known to inhabit the rare wastelands of the Northumbrian political system. Yes, I've been hunting for Liberationists. So far, my quest has been fruitless. It's been a complete waste of time.

To refresh your memory, dear reader, I must explain that Liberationists are relatively uncommon political animals that are reputed to resemble human beings; they exert a disproportionate amount of influence over the Administration which currently supervises the tyranny of the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpaying electorate. One of the great and unresolved mysteries of the human world is what these creatures actually do - and by which principles they operate.

Ever since their beloved tribal chieftain Blaeck Legge conveniently forgot his solemn vow and undertaking before the Northumbrian populace to resist any increases in kindergarten fees, thus throwing his lot wholeheartedly with the Tree Faction, the Liberationist cause has suffered inestimable damage to its already nonexistent credibility. Whereas many Northumbrians out of boredom, disillusionment, desperation and biscuit had previously opined that a Liberationist Faction Administration might provide an infinitely better one than the tired dichotomy of the Redistributionist/Tree seesaw, it only took about thirty milliseconds for such expectations to evaporate. From that time hence, things for the Liberationists have accelerated from bad to irrevocably hopeless.

In view of Hune the Horehound's recent lapse from grace to the loving embrace of a Northumbrian oubliette (where he rubs shoulders with less refined criminals as well as elderly ladies who've been incarecerated for - horribile dictu - allowing their pet dogs to deposit their brown hundreds and thousands on the streets of the Realm), one might reasonable expect the Liberationists to take a low profile. Coupled with the unpleasantly priapic stories surrounding the corpulent Earl Renege - reputed to have been a devotee disciple of the late and sadly unlamented Beeby See protege Ine Sovile, these events have hardly been good news. But the Horehound's Beastleigh seat in the Witangemot is now up for grabs, so one might naively expect that the Liberationists might unite in a common cause to fly their banner and hold the seat.

However, so far their voice has been ominously silent. Feaxede the Fox has told me that he believes that they've been hunted to extinction, and has promised to take me to the place where their bones are scattered. I'm rather doubtful about his hypothesis; he's an expert on chicken bones, but that's about the extent of his understanding. My inclination is to believe that they've succumbed to a new and virulent strain of the Stupid Disease. And I reckon the Trees and Redistributionists are prime candidates for the next infection..

Cat Nap

A Post from the Catmeister

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise for the infrequency of postings recently; last week I was on holiday in the Beautiful Land, and I have to confess that it was a blessed relief not to have to listen to the incessant and tedious burblings of the British propaganda machine and the inevitable political posturing. I returned to find - surprisingly enough - that the same obsessions with horse meat are being paraded as they were before I departed these shores over a week ago. 

I still find it amazing that so many people around the globe are reading these acerbic rants, and this feeds me with a feeling of responsibility to 'keep the customers satisfied'; I'm sorry if I've been found wanting in this respect. There are times when I become so saturated with ennui with all the predictable guff spewed out by the mainstream media that my sense of humour runs into the last crumbs of emergency rations. Nevertheless, I've no intention to abandon the blog, although I'm realistic enough to recognise that it will never attract the volume of readers that Guido Fawkes, Cranmer, Anna Raccoon and Nourishing Obscurity do, as it serves quite a different purpose. Sometimes we simply have to laugh at the absurdity of our culture and its leading actors. Even so, I'm more than grateful for the loyal audience I have! Thank you.

I noticed this morning that the page-view total has now exceeded 20,000 - a figure which I would never imagined when I started the blog - from over 6,000 visitors. Some have been trawling the archives to seek out stale crumbs from past news. If it still raises a chuckle, I'm very happy that it does.

DAF

Brown Field Sighting

The entire Northumbrian Kingdom has been buzzing with excitement, euphoria, hype and biscuit since the Great Significant Announcement Of The Century was made the other day. I hasten to add that this is not the news about His Holiness, the Most High Archbishop Húne, the former Tree/Liberationist Alliance Politburo Climate Commissar, exotic dancer and professional Jehu charioteer (at taxpayers' expense, of course) - affectionately referred to as 'Horehound', who was (surprisingly) discovered to have been dishonest, mendacious and duplicitous before the Great Moot (in other words, his credentials as a politico were paraded before an astonished public). No, my readers, no: I refer to the amazing discovery of Guffmund the Brown - that legendary Redistributionist sovereign, who in his day led the Kingdom of Northumbria into unparalleled success, and single-handedly rescued the Entire Known World from the ravages of solvency.

Since his sudden demise, Guffo's whereabouts has been the source of endless idle speculation, puzzlement, wonder and fishpaste, and many schoolchildren have written doctoral theses on the subject. It's as if he'd been translated like the early patriarch Enoch into some other sphere of existence.

However, thanks to the tireless labours of the Guffmund the Brown Society, who've been anxious to rewrite history in order to portray their hero in an entirely different light from that of public consciousness, Guffo's remains were discovered under a field used as a tethering place for mules, donkeys and carthorses in the city of Leire's Chester.

After exhaustive investigations, the bones were confirmed to be those of the missing politico. Bells were rung, banners were furled, parties were thrown and caught and masses were celebrated.

Nobody has as yet explained how he got there, though. But this Cat observes that Tondvig the Blur - Guffo's contemporary and silver-tongued colleague has recently disappeared. I wonder if these two factors are related?

Aiding And Abetting

The question, 'What has Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Primate of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has been up to lately?' might easily have slipped into your mind from time to time. Such an enquiry hasn't entered my feline consciousness until recently; I've been more engrossed with my own world of hunting, gathering and defending my own realm. After all, Caddy Boy's been quite content to do what all politicos do, which is to steadfastly ignore the voices of his long suffering public - not to mention the more moderate and restrained tendencies within his own Tree Faction.

Ever since the Cad has set his face resolutely towards the deeply unpopular course of Free Votes And Cake For Homeopathic Prisoners (backed by the abundance of the Northumbrian taxpayer, of course) as well as foreign adventures in Mauritania with the Franks, he's managed to bathe himself in the fathomless depths of public hostility, resentment and biscuit. Oblivious to the contempt which now surrounds him like a thickly woven blanket, Caddy has once more launched his energies into other unpopular policies.

This time he's decided to give a Speech about the Northumbrian aid to the Poor and Uncivilised Foreigners. I should point out that this isn't anything new; for eons the Northumbrian Realm - out of the goodness of its heart - has seen fit to donate Holy Groats to the causes of the Needy in Other Lands from its tax-funded Treasury. This is only to be expected from a Christian kingdom, where the virtues of charity and compassion towards the poor and vulnerable have been cultivated and encouraged by the teachings of the Church. However, the reality is somewhat different, since most of the boundless resources of taxpayers' Holy Groats haven't ever reached the intended areas of need, but instead have ended up in the treasure chests of exotic brigands, thieves and other assorted Redistributionists, who've proceeded to spread the financial happiness liberally over their own pet projects, weaponry and luxurious dwellings while their own people have continued to languish under the cruel yoke of poverty and hardship.

This is an unpleasant reality which is accepted as fact by the majority of Northumbrians, who've constantly asked why so much aid is sent abroad to those who don't deserve it, while there are people under Caddy's own nose who are subsumed by the same woes.

Of course, the charitable side of this Cat could assume that Caddy Boy is suffering from chronic naivety, and that he fondly imagines that some poor farmer somewhere has received enough resources from Northumbrian Holy Groats to plant a new crop to support his family and to irrigate his thirsty fields. But I'm more inclined to assume that he wants to continue to grease the palms of the brigands so that he can curry favours from them at a later time. Perhaps he fancies a holiday in Mauritania..