Tuesday, 9 July 2013
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..