Caddie’s Caledonian Cri De Coeur

News has reached this Cat from the sacred auguries of the soothsayers that Dagwald Caedmeron – the Archangel Cake-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration – has been on a visit to the wild and inhospitable uplands of the Caledonians.

Surprisingly, the reason of his visit hasn't merely been for recreation, rhubarb and uisge beatha; nor, it must be said, has it been to survey the rugged crags and cliffs, banks and braes in the howling rain and driving wind. This visit has been of Momentous Importance – well, at least to himself and his sycophantic window-licking acolytes. He's gone to those barbaric realms to appeal to them in the light of the forthcoming Wee Referendum Votie, the results of which will determine whether or not the Caledonians remain in the existing loose affiliation to the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

The High Chieftain of the Caledonians – Angus McTrout – has never concealed his desire to pull away his people from the benign Anglo-Saxon sphere of influence, and has tirelessly campaigned among his compatriots to persuade them of the beauty and the utter necessity of separation from the wicked Sassenachs (for whom he has the highest regard and the deepest contempt).

In spite of this posturing, many Caledonians are either ambivalent or unconvinced by the rhetoric, having realised that such a separation would spell out ruin rather than romance, since the average Northumbrian taxpayer has unwittingly helped to maintain the Caledonian Kingdom in magic mushrooms, Holy Groats, oats, boats, coats, goats and stoats. How possibly could they support themselves if the goodwill of Northumbria is withdrawn?

In view of this, Caddy Boy has ventured over the border to address the Caledonians and appeal to those of their number who are of two minds.

This Cat sincerely wishes him well, but somehow suspects that the majority of the indigenous populace won't understand a word he says – unless he affects an appropriate accent. Perhaps the uisge beatha will help; after a few bottles of it, his speech should be slurred enough to be discernible…

On The Run

I was quite intrigued to hear this morning from the soothsayers that a crocodile has been reported as having been seen loose within the Kingdom of Wessex.

For the benefit of those who are unaccustomed to the intricacies of life on these glorious islands, I must point out that crocodiles are not indigenous to the Northumbrian, Mercian or Wessex lands; indeed their own native habitat is to be found in the warm currents and sultry banks of the river Nile, along with other similarly humid regions where, in similar fashion to a Trade Guild chieftain, they indolently lounge in the sweltering heat, cheerfully tearing off the leg of a hapless passer-by for a tasty snack.

Naturally such a sighting has been greeted by a mixture of incredulity and panic by the Anglo-Saxon public; some have automatically assumed that such stories are apocryphal fancies designed to keep the gullible and malleable public in a state of fear, dread and biscuit. Others are genuinely afraid lest they should return home to their hovels to discover the creature making itself comfortable while digesting their family members.

Your Cat is quite sure that such accounts are indeed bona fide; the fact that the Slimy Yeoman has recently been deselected by his Tree Faction constituency is surely not inconsequential. After all, it's not natural to see crocodiles in trees, is it?