A Wide Birth

Ever since the recent announcement of the arrival of the Happy Event for their Royal Highnesses Prince Walthelm and Princess Gytha, the entire Kingdom of Northumbria has melted into a morass of slush, mush and biscuit. Quite frankly, this Cat is bewildered by the entire business; I wish it would simply go away.

The Great and Happy Occasion was first signalled by a pair of flunkies from the Palace of His Majesty King Alhfrith, who, to the delight of the myriads of expectant bystanders, posted a notice in the finest Anglo-Saxon, announcing that the Prince and Princess had at last been presented with their long-awaited puppy, and copious details about the New Addition to the Regal Household have been supplied - except, surprisingly enough, for the name of the new creature, who will be the Third In Line to the coveted Northumbrian Throne. I hope they make necessary alterations to the Seat of Power. Has anybody given this any thought? Or has a canine royal box already been prepared?

Legions of happy onlookers have been euphorically onlooking around the Palace walls, having camped outside those hallowed precincts for several years in eager anticipation. Bunting has dripped limply in the heavy thundery showers and mead and ale have been consumed in significant measure, not to mention the flying fantasy fungus, which has been masticated in industrial quantities. Any excuse will suffice.

Soothsayers have been occupied with little else; in reverential tones of sycophantic awe they've kept their audiences enraptured with the latest bulletins of imaginary minutiae, and endless supplies of experts have been trundled out of the warehouses (or wherever it is they're kept for such eventualities) to eruditely yap boar locks for long periods of time.

Politicos from around the world have also desperately tried to outdo each other in their adulatory and servile messages of congratulation. Their sincerity has - as ever - shone through.

In the meantime, I've asked Caedmon to take me to the wise man of the woods, who ministers to the medical needs of animals. I really feel quite sick, but I really don't know why..

Men Of Substance(s)

Your Cat has been puzzling over a recently disclosed mystery that has been occupying these feline synapses. It came to my attention the other day that a search through the hallowed halls and latrines of the Witangemot Moot hall - where all the meaningful Northumbrian political business is done - has revealed minuscule traces of magic mushrooms. Imagine my shock, horror and biscuit.

On hearing this from the soothsayers my thought processes started to work overtime. Who on earth could have been responsible for leaving these sinister traces behind?

Since the Moot hall is regularly visited by devout pilgrims from home and overseas, who (at considerable personal expense), out of reverence for their deity De-Mockery-Cy visit the holy shrine to hear the sacred hymns and arias bleated and brayed across the benches, and of course, to admire the impressive Saxon architecture. Could they be the ones who've surreptitiously secreted fly agaric into the place to enable them to enter into the spirit of the worship and holy rites? One might be tempted to subscribe to such an interpretation of these disturbing revelations; after all, there has to be some means by which the devotees can stimulate their minds while the numbing and hypnotic droning resounds across the debating chamber.

But the conclusion I've drawn is that while the aforementioned hypothesis could be valid, the more plausible reason for these incriminatory organic traces is the politicos themselves. After all, the greatest part of Redistributionist theology comes from shamans who derive their inspiration from such fungal methods. Furthermore, the development of Tree and Liberationist dogma in recent times has increasingly assumed the bizarre shape of the Redistributionist model; this could only have been achieved through the Sacred Shroom.

In the fulness of time, this Cat predicts that the entire edifice and the institutions within its walls will become a vast mushroom cult. I can hear the bongoes already...

Nosh Bosh

Just when this Cat had happily settled to a quiet life dedicated to rodent elimination and the maintenance of territorial integrity, another unwelcome broadside came a-blasting from the politicos here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria - and I'm not referring to that massive pay increase recently proposed for the Kingdom's politicos (apparently designed to encourage the struggling Northumbrian serf and tradesman to smile in his penury and with a tug of the forelock wish the more deserving ruling classes well).

This particular issue is about the consumption of food in the kindergartens of the Realm. It appears that a select committee of expert martinets have decided that the children of this blessed backwater province of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy nor Roman, and doesn't even smell like an empire) are grossly overweight and unhealthy, and they've decided to Do Something About It.

Since they've been anxious to justify their otherwise worthless and meaningless employment – along with the billions of taxpayers' Holy Groats spent on their meager salaries and sinecures, they've elected to make a Bold Decision following their careful research. Consequently, they've produced and published a five hundred thousand-page document that contains selectively edited case histories and histrionic emotional argument. Some politicos have (purportedly) read it and openly wept over their venison cutlets, truffles and fine Frankish wines. It's so terribly sad.

The resulting proposal from the Report is that the children should no longer bring into their places of education lunches lovingly prepared by their mothers, since this is perceived to be at the root of their weighty problem. The remaining choice will either be starvation, or the schools' own catering supplied by courtesy of local Viking fast food outlets. It will of course comply with the strict dietary rules found in the sacred pages of the Eddas. I'm so relieved..

Banished and Vanished

It came as a bolt out of the blue. The other day I was busy patrolling my territory, catching rodents and sharpening my claws on the Streonaeshalh Alderman's leg, when I perceived my dear vulpine friend Feaxede.

Whenever I see Feaxede the Fox heading in my direction, I already know that he's caught a snippet of vital gossip that he can't wait to share with me. And thus it was; he proceeded to joyfully tell me that he'd just heard from the soothsayers that Aburr Gut-Harrdur - the renowned Viking celebrity - had been banished from the shores of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. I was flabbergasted; I felt that life had taken a nosedive, and that the world had become a more serious place.

For the sake of any readers who haven't read about him before in my missives, Aburr Gut-Harrdur is a jovial, bearded Viking mystic, whose mission - since he entered these blessed shores under dubious circumstances - has been to entertain the Northumbrian public with his diatribes, doubtless inspired by his adopted holy book, the Norse Eddas. He's also been known to take a lucky dip in the murky waters of the mighty River Ouse during the famous Celebration of the Longboats in order to entertain and inspire the masses with his magic mushroom-derived fantasies.

Since the Vikings are a bellicose tribal group, whose incursions into the distant reaches of the known world have been inevitably accompanied the sweet persuasion of the point of a sword, lance or axe, it wasn't altogether surprising that the inspiration for this spirit of enterprise owes to their devout belief in the gods of Valhalla, who - according to these tales - are partial to copious amounts of bloodshed, pain and damage on the part of those who don't take them seriously. Such a pity.

Naturally, in these enlightened times, the majority of Anglo-Saxons don't give a rat's rump about such bloodthirsty deities and carryings-on, so those who doggedly adhere to such are regarded as swivel-eyed nutcases. Despite his incessant inspirational messages of sweetness and light, for some reason the Northumbrian establishment have been desperate to direct his feet to his Nordic homeland, where he is wanted for the theft of items of womens' clothing.

After thirteen thousand unsuccessful attempts to exile him - all of which were stymied by the Court of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Ballerina of the Tree/Liberationist dance troupe has managed through the good offices of his secretary Tressy the Mayfly to remove him and send him to face his ignominious end.

It's all so very sad. But I'm sure that there'll soon be another to take his place; it's not as if the Kingdom is short of these song-and-dance men, is it? I can't wait for the Ð Factor to come round again..

Civil War

It's sadly come to my attention that the Redistributionist Faction has again been discovered to have been up to tricks of a questionable moral character. This has (for the thirteen thousandth time) come as a great shock to me; this Cat always fondly entertained the blissful illusion that the Redistributionists were a cabal of well-meaning (but chronically naive) dunderheads, who entertained magic mushroom-fuelled notions of Equality (for some), Fairness (for the handpicked few), Shared Poverty (for all) and biscuit. What a foolish feline I was..

My illusory bubble burst when - to my chagrin - I recently discovered that they've been carefully nurturing this cosy, rosy and posed image among the simple folk of the Northumbrian Kingdom while in reality, they've been conducting business in a manner worthy of a band of conniving cut-throats.

The Untied Guild of Costume FIllers - an affiliated body of swivel-eyed, fanatical Redistributionist tradesmen, led by their firebrand armchair general Legge the Cluster - stealthily swamped a constituency with their own hand-picked placemats. This was the result of carefully-planned prestidigitation and false teeth.

Following this illusion-shattering development, a Civil War has broken out in the Redistributionist ranks, dragging the Faction Chief Cupcake Edweird the Milliner into the arena. This has resulted in the resignation of Tam the Fat and has threatened the entire civilised world with unprecedented hot air, rhetoric and rhubarb. Woe, woe and thrice biscuit.

Meanwhile, the Costumed Thugs have been kindly invited by the rival Tree Faction to investigate. The Liberationists were nowhere to be seen. The result of their researches will be published in fifteen thousand years' time. I can hardly wait...