The Wars Of The Cheeses

SInce I last wrote, a lot has happened here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, and one significant event to signal the meddlesome and dictatorial intent of the political hierarchy is the recent announcement by Dagwald Caedmeron - the Arch-demon of the Tree Faction and Holy Emperor of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - that they will step up their war against cheese.

It all started outside our own Realm in the Kingdom of Wessex, where one of the perennial customs of the villagers in Springtime is to assemble at the top of a nearby hill, and let a sizeable cheese roll down it with forty thousand local people in hot pursuit. Such eccentric customs have existed since Adam was a lad, and are probably a throwback to a distant pagan past. Whatever.

Unfortunately, the Fluffy Diversity Commissariat and Health & Safety Command And Control Bureau awoke from their customary slumbers and got wind of this, and decided immediately to put a stop to such savage and ignoble activity. So they banned the cheese. The Wessex soothsayers consequently went to town, and in their inimitable fashion whipped the West Saxons into a hysteria about the breaking of their Sacred Rite of Spring. It's made no difference, however.

Caddy Boy was seemingly inspired by such a measure, and has subsequently decreed throughout the Northumbrian Realm that the possession of cheese in any form is an offence punishable by death or diversity - whichever comes sooner. It is - according to the edict - an evil substance which contributes to morbid obesity, death and biscuit.

Since the curdled product of the cow's lactation constitutes a significant part of the Northumbrian diet, a lot of people are Deeply Concerned about this - not the least the farmers, whose beasts supply the raw material.

Feaxede the Fox and I are also unhappy about this development, since we're also partial to a sneaky nibble of a bit of Wensleydale when the occasion presents it.

But all is not lost. Already, there exists an emerging underground market, manned by shifty young Vikings, who surreptitiously trade such commodities as Danish Blue, Sage Derby and Leire's Caster Red...

The Tribulations of a Fun Guy

The other day I had the inestimable pleasure of meeting Dagwald Caedmeron - the Holy Macaroni and Beloved Guiding Light of the Tree Faction and the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. I was paying a social call to my feline pal Lareow, who's the Generalisimo Grande of Caddy's Rodent Secretariat, and to my surprise, my friend's employer was also present.

Since he's usually such a busy fellow, I was quite surprised to afford an opportunity to exchange a few pleasantries with him. Beyond the usual phatic communion guff - you know - "Hello", and "How are you?", I was able to discern that he was extremely tired, and since a cat is freely able to look at a king without fear of death or fishpaste, I had no compunction is asking him why he looked so washed out.

He told me that he'd been frantically chewing magic mushrooms and busily receiving hourly orders from the apparatchiks of the Most High Emperor Jose Borracho - the Senior Dung Beetle and Caesar of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), and the responsibility was weighing him down. He was working very hard to earn a reputation as the Most Deeply Despised Principal Placemat in Northumbrian history. Moreover, he'd also been attending courses organised by the aforementioned potentate on "How To Ignore and Patronise Your Swivel-Eyed Lunatic People and Implement Unpopular Holy Roman Empire Redistributionist Diktats for Pleasure and Success".

To all intents and purposes, he'd had his work cut out; small wonder he looked so tired. Nevertheless, I reassured him that he was doing a tremendous job, and he deserved to be congratulated for decimating the Tree Faction, as well as alienating and driving its former supporters into the welcome embrace of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, led by the straight-talking and charismatic Nickwald the Forager.

I also told him that he'd soon be able to savour a welcome rest from all of his labours when the bovine Northumbrian electorate make their next Great Decision. I only hope that he can get to a boat in time before the hounds get him..

The Third Northumbrian Tragedy

They say that things happen in threes, and events this year have certainly proved this to be so (and thus it shall ever be until the fourth arrives). After the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria reeled from hearing about the departure of Dagwald the Milliner from the hallowed halls of seedy Redistributionist politics, it was soon faced by the sad demise of Hilda the Roofer, the late and lamented former Tree Principal Minister and beloved friend of Redistributionists and miners.

In the ensuing weeks following the shock of these unfortunate events, the Kingdom cheerfully settled down to the routine of dealing with the Great Public Expenditure Cuts - along with all the usual dronings of the politicos, and recently witnessed the Northumbrian Independence Faction's astonishing victories in the Shire Witangemot Elections. Happy days and biscuit.

However, the hand of Providence has once again delivered a fresh consignment of gloom, doom and ordure to the Northumbrian Realm. It's been revealed through the ashen-faced soothsayers that Aelric the Forger's Son has announced his retirement from the chieftainship of that beloved Northumbrian institution known as Madcaster Untied. This came as a bolt from the blue, and a numbed Northumbrian population is presently attempting to make some sense of this staggering development.

Aelric the Forger's Son - the cheery, ruddy-faced ruminant led the aforesaid football team to a continual series of sporting victories over a period of seventeen thousand years. An exile from the wild and windswept glens of Caledonia, he led his barbarian Pictish contemporaries to similar successes and prowess on the football field. Eventually, the call of the civilised world - and a substantial stipend in Holy Groats - brought him down to the gentler lowlands of Northumbria to assume his new role as Gruff Football Team Leader. Consequently Madcaster Untied became a by-word for sporting prowess and invincibility throughout the Known World.

His phenomenal successes as a Leader of Men owes primarily to his gentleness, his willingness to understand his team and their many problems in dealing with lavish lifestyles - as well as his quiet and unassuming nature and unintelligible Caledonian accent.

And now that Elijah has slain all the prophets of Baal and completed his life's ministry, the one remaining question is: what Elisha can adequately step into his shoes and continue his work? Stay tuned, people. It's going to be a white knuckle ride from now on...

Small Beer

The human political landscape here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbrian is currently a scene of chaos and desolation, and this Cat is reduced to the feline equivalent of tears (which is more likely to involve frequent visits to the litter tray).

Despite what you esteemed readers might think, this doesn't owe to the significant gains of the Northumbrian Independence Faction in the recent Shire Witangemot Elections - although these Significant Developments have certainly unsettled the politicos sitting at the Tree wing of the One Definitive And Holy Governing Faction of the Northumbrian Realm.

Since the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayers have decided that the present State of Affairs has arisen from factions who vaguely pretend to represent them but in reality ignore them as usual, they've decided to vote for the most credible alternative - as personified in the straight-talking and charismatic Nickwald the Forager, whose anti-establishment stance has won legions of hearts and minds to the new cause.

To any rational mind, one would expect the politicos to be biting their nails and losing sleep at the prospect of a potential loss of position, prestige, pudding and power. However, the restlessness on their part originates from another issue - one which lies significantly closer to their hearts (or whatever may be found to occupy such spaces).

The politicos are Most Alarmed at the price of their drinks in the Witangemot tavern. It's a price which stretches their expense-drawn resources to the furthest limits. A flagon of foaming ale currently costs the poor politicos two and a half Holy Groats, and they're most distressed about this - despite the fact that the Witangemot tavern prices are already generously (and unwittingly) subsidised by the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayer.

When these creatures are finally released from their political duties because of the burgeoning influence of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, they'll find that the price of ale is significantly greater for the common and garden Northumbrians that they will be forced to rub shoulders with. What will they cry into?