The Story So Far - Part 59

The lovely kingdom of Northumbria is in a state of calamity, chaos and biscuit. The Redistributionists have selected as their new champion Crowbane, the enigmatic bearded druid high priest, who with his entourage of hangers on, coathangers, pigs and chickens has established a reign of terror over their bewitched and benighted faction.

Meanwhile, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Primary Princess of the Tree Faction and Supreme Chieftain of the Kingdom is busy playing guessing games with the satraps of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor does it quack like an empire). He's pretending that he's deadly serious about withdrawing the Kingdom from the  clutches of the malevolent Intergalactic Federation, and is hastily visiting various foreign chieftains in an attempt to persuade them to see things his way. No - seriously. No kidding. But most Northumbrians know that he's only trying to fool them into believing that he's serious. Seriously. The steaks are high, and the fish is off.

Will Crowbane win the hearts and minds of Northumbrian populace -  and the ultimate prize of the seat of the Kingdom Commode? Will they see through the magic mushroom fuelled rhetoric and discover what his real agenda is - if there is one? How many beans make five?

Will Caedmeron find his long lost principles? Where the dickens did he last put them? Did he even have them in the first place?
Stay tuned, people. The Cat has all the answers..

The Curse of the Bat Manager

The normally sleepy Northumbrian kingdom has been rudely woken from its slumber by a smelly Great Scandal (size 13 in your Cat's estimation) that has rocked it to the core and back to sleep again.
It all started with a colourful character - an immense woman of Levantine extraction called Candida the Bat Manager, who'd been released into the Northumbrian community on indefinite leave. Wearing sumptuous flowing robes of many layers and more hues than those which had graced Joseph's coat - and a colour-coordinated turban to match - Candida turned many noses, but few eyes or hearts. To compensate for this however, she devised a Great Plan to Do Good and make some money. So in the interests of the poor children of the realm, she set up a mendicant society to Make Their Lives Better, and begged money from the public.

Because of her unconventional appearance, she soon came to the attention of the hip, cool and trendy elements of the Northumbrian elite, and with the Beeby See stooge Alum of Botney as her advocate, they formed an alliance for the sake of the poor little children, and persistently pestered the Government for taxpayers' pennies. Not wishing to appear mean and curmudgeonly, the Government agreed to throw a significant number of Holy Groats in its direction. Frequently.

This of course was a good thing, and Candida wasted no time in adding to the ranks of helpers other aspiring hip, cool and trendy adherents who could also swell the payroll and further the Great Work. After all, it was now funded by a bottomless well of governmental benevolence, and was perpetually bound to generate free money.
Sadly, things started to unravel, and stories began to emerge of poor children being invited by the mendicant society's leaders to magic mushroom-fuelled parties and ting. The poor children were still, er, poor.

What first caught the eye of some sharp-eyed government lackey was that the sum of a hundred million Holy Groats, which had passed from the Northumbrian Government to Candida the Bat Manager, Alum Botney and the staff of the aforesaid society and had mysteriously disappeared. Without a trace. Consequently, the Powers Above were alerted and so Bat Manager and Botney were summoned to the Star Chamber Court to answer to a team of enthusiastic politicos, who were keen to appear to be doing something, and taking an interest in the missing cash. The Bat Manager was unrepentantly bullish, boorish and barmy. Her outfit was even more outrageous, with golden threads and diamonds. No one yet knows what happened to the missing cash.

This story is by no means over yet, and is likely to be an ongoing embarrassment to the hopeless Government, and to the hapless Beeby See, who is distancing herself from the feckless and reckless Botney. Stay tuned, people! Your Cat is on the case!

The Crowbane Supremacy

Since I last posted, the foetid winds of Redistributionism have been continuing to proceed from the anus of the Northumbrian Kingdom. Last week saw the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic, and the faithful assembled to hear their new taskmasters, and to imbibe their words of wisdom. The highlight of the week was the appearance of their new and unlikely new chieftain, Crowbane the Druid, who, like some demented Moses offered them a hallucinogenic vision of their new promised destination – a land flowing with free magic mushrooms and biscuit, where the goddess Equality could be served unhindered, with the worshippers in this bizarre Jerusalem waited on by an underclass of slaves captured from the Tree Faction.

These visions are by no means the first of this kind to be offered to the Redistributionist faithful; each previous Leader has also offered similar promises and held his audience in raptured, open-gobbed silence. Tondvig the Blur held out similar prospects, and at the start of his tenure showed some modest promise of achieving his dream – until he started to tell the Kingdom porky pies about the Levantine despot Sadman, who, according to the Blur's reliable report, had catapults capable of sending fireballs to Northumbria. This little fabrication fooled the entire Kingdom into a pointless war and sounded the death-knell for Tondvig's reign, which he deftly handed over to Guffmund the Brown, a cheery psychopath who endeared himself to the Northumbrians by his bellowing voice and easy-going manner. After Guffo's tenure of the Sacred Office, the reigns went to Edweird the Milliner, who similarly offered sweet dreams of paradise, but who was socially awkward and inept to the point where he couldn't eat a hedgehog pie without looking strange. His nasal speeches included detailed weather reports, and those seated in the front row were suitably provided with towels.

And now the mantle falls on a flatulent ancient druid priest with no previous experience of political office, who hitherto has quietly conducted his cultic business in the shadows. His aged appearance and shabby robes and beard have elevated him to the status of a sadhu in the eyes of his followers, and his shambling presence has excited not only the soothsayers but also members of the Northumbrian public, who have paid their Holy Groats to join the Faction in dozens and place garlands of flowers around his picture. And the entire Faction has fallen into the illusion that their Great Leader can bring them to their sought-after place of power in the Prime Seat of the Witangemot. It's all so very sad.

Indeed, they're so energised by their newly-fed illusions that many of them have descended on the venue for the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic, and, purportedly in protest at the cuts in public sinecures, arboreal sculptures, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and benefits, are giving the younger delegates the benefit of their salivatory and urinary opinions. This will certainly endear the Redistributionists to the hearts of the Northumbrian electorate. Crowbane is really going places. In a downward direction, that is...

The Rise of the Crowbane Cult

It's all over. The Kingdom of Northumbria may now take a well-deserved rest from the endless witterings of the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her psychotic side-kick Guardy-Ann, who, along with Delimell the Wailer and the Windy Pedant have occupied months of their time hitherto in speculating about the prospective Dearest Leader of the Redistributionist Faction. Deary me.

Since my last posting the momentous die has been cast, and by some inexplicable esoteric fluke, the bearded druid priest Crowbane has won the supreme seat of earthly power, or, at least, within the Redistributionist world of the lovely Kingdom. Since his appointment amid the customary ceremonial solemnities, the Crowbane has wasted no time in establishing his hold over the reins, and consequently there's been a rapid exorcism of the previous demons, followed by the replacement of spirits seven times more malevolent than the ones deposed. A cult has thus been well and truly established, with Crowbane as the arch-druid, and a coterie of likeminded pagan priests and priestesses as his admiring entourage. My master Caedmon refers to them as the synagogue of Satan, and not without good reason; pagan groves have been re-established, and stone circles have been pressed into service by dog-breath bongo players, yogurt weavers and professional soap and employment dodgers. It's all so very sad.

Dagwald Caedmeron - the Banana Superior of the Tree Faction - has similarly wasted no time in responding to these awe-inspiring events, and the machinery of Tree Faction propaganda has been swiftly wheeled into action. They've been decrying the Crowbane as a threat to the safety and security of the Northumbrian Realm - particularly in view of his past courtship of and betrothal to the various Edda-quoting Viking blood cults, as well as his predeliction for whispering sweet nothings into the shell-like lugs of those whose idea of friendship is to ritually dismember Anglo-Saxons on an industrial scale.

The average Northumbrian is at a loss to understand why this sinister power has so suddenly erupted like a boil on the buttock politic; fishermen, farmers, labourers and tradesmen shake their heads in stunned disbelief at these unfolding events. But boils - although painful for a season - have a habit of erupting like volcanoes, scattering their unpleasant contents and falling into dormancy. Your Cat expects this to happen sooner or later. I just don't want to be around when it all goes pop...

The Crowbane Legend

Since my last posting, a significant momentum has accumulated in favour of the future king of the Redistributionist Faction known as Crowbane, the aged and bearded druid priest who - according to popular folklore - hails from a small settlement in Frankish Gaul called Sibannac, which is renowned for its idiosyncratic residents, who in their unique custom stand around in stoned circles.

Despite the fact that he hasn't yet been enthroned, the soothsayers are excitedly predicting his incumbency with a blasé certainty saturated with smugness. It's almost as if they're deliberately aiding the prophecy's fulfillment.

Amid the scare stories being peddled by the Tree Faction and its faithful drones, an alternative narrative is starting to emerge; tales of his courageous exploits with the chieftains of various Viking enemies of the Northumbrian Kingdom, and stories of his adoption of obscure and deeply unpopular causes like the dismantling of the Northumbrian Kingdom and the banishment of King Alhfrith to the nether regions.

He's also expressed his undying support for the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, and particularly for the cultivation of new strains of plants and of course, magic mushrooms. Such enterprises are of great importance to bizarre and eccentric druids, as their auguries from the mangled deliberations of their muses depend solely upon these organic substances. Very important!

One of his more controversial aspirations is to turn the realm into a glorified vegetarian pigfarm, and to remove iron and various other metals from the land in favour of pieces of wood, twine and stone. Such ambitions have already earned him a great deal of admiration from the yogurt weaving communities and climate doom merchants, who, for the sake of the gentle polar bears and the allegedly receding Arctic ice, would also like to see the use of fire forbidden during the winter months.

Despite these often conflicting reports, the soothsayers are already smacking their voluminous chops and anticipating what Crowbane will do when he gains the coveted seat of power. Naturally, they're assuming that his leadership of the Redistributionists will be but a mere step away from the wielding of absolute authority over whatever is to remain of the Kingdom. As if it's already a done deal.

As far as Crowbane is concerned, this destiny is certain. Cometh the hour, cometh the druid. Your Cat is quite convinced that it is certain. In Crowbane's addled head, that is...

Taking The Rei(g)n

Your Cat has been transfixed for weeks by the unceremonious and often brutal competition for the leadership of the Redistributionist Faction, which followed the demise of Edweird the Milliner after the Great Count Disaster earlier this year.

The Redistributionist Faction - renowned for mutual love, respect and adoration among its members - has been busy following its ignominious defeat with the spectacle which can best be described as a bear pit, with the potential starry-eyed candidates for the coveted Leader's Throne cast into the ring in order to parade their respective charms and to decry, denounce and denigrate their opponents as base and unworthy trash. This has inevitably brought about a great deal of fevered excitement for some members of the bemused public, as well as the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her sweaty, spotty and uliginous ally Guardy-Ann.

Since the passing of Eddy, most Northumbrians who bother to take any interest in such things would have expected the Faction to take a radically different direction from the reign of its previous incumbent, and one would reasonably expect the scent of moderation to fill the nostrils of the faithful and refresh their weary psyches. But fear not.

The most likely possessor of the crown is an aged and bearded druid priest called Crowbane, whose toxic presence has graced the Redistributionist ranks in the Witangemot for millennia, and who hitherto has been regarded as an offbeat heretic with a penchant for wormwood and gall as well as the inevitable magic mushrooms. Crowbane has presented himself - and been adopted, much to his surprise - by the eager hordes of Redistributionists as their new deliverer, and his popularity increases day by day. His following - previously restricted to certain boss-eyed members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction - has burgeoned as a consequence, and an entire cult has developed around him. Beeby See are salivating at his every utterance.

The Tree Faction have also been very excited about this, since his kingship has the potential to consign the Redistributionist Faction to obscurity for years to come, while hailing him as a man of principle - despite his unbridled enthusiasm for various violent and vicious Viking viceregents who in the cold light of day are nothing more than common thugs and criminals.

Your Cat can't summon any more enthusiasm; it's exhausted itself after fifteen picoseconds...

Caedmeron's Great Escape

Dagwald Caedmeron really doesn't know what a charmed life he leads.
Since my last posting, there's been a dramatic change of direction in the Tree Administration, and consequently the proposals to reintroduce fox hunting have been put to one side - to the palpable relief of my bushy-tailed friend Feaxede.
Without any attempt to take the credit for such a development, your Cat would modestly like to point out that he has been the catalyst for this monumental volte face.

While contemplating the Creatures' Council proposal I outlined to you the other day, it suddenly occurred to me that Caddy's attempt to turn animals into fair game wouldn't obtain a sympathetic hearing from the Caledonian Independence Faction, whose sole existence in the Northumbrian Witangemot is - as the significant minority - to present a belligerent and largely incoherent problem to the Northumbrian Sassenachs, whom they courteously loathe, despise and detest. Since everything that the Sassenachs do is repugnant to their brutish and uncivilised eyes, I thought I might go and pay Caedmeron a casual visit. If he were to heed my counsel, he could save himself a great deal of embarrassment, since it doesn't look too clever to be losing votes as a newly elected majority faction. Besides which, the hassle of calling a Council of the Kingdom's animal population would be a logistical nightmare, and I'm at the age where frankly, I really don't need the aggravation.

After a gentle word in his shell-like ear, I departed and left common sense to finish the job in Caddy's addled noddle. The result is the Great Climbdown, which was deliriously slobbered over by the soothsayers.

Caedmeron has saved his own skin - not only from the machinations of the haggis hunters, but from the teeth and claws of legions of badgers, weasels, foxes and stoats...

Feaxede's Foxhunting Phobia

I'm sorry I've not been blogging for a while, but I've been terribly worried about my vulpine friend Feaxede – particularly since the results of the last Great Count, which saw the return to power of an invigorated Tree government under their Great Panjandrum Princess Dagwald Caedmeron, along with a nascent and brutish Caledonian Independence group – much to the chagrin of a reduced Redistributionist representation and a now practically extinct Liberationist Faction.

To be perfectly frank, Feaxede – my fellow creature and co-watcher of the human political sphere in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria – never really recovered from the humiliating defeat of the Redistributionists. Even though he'd courted their magic mushroom-driven ideology and agendas to the point of becoming a member, he soon became disenchanted with them and their idiosyncratic ways and beliefs and bade them farewell. Be that as it may, the old hankerings and mental habits have persisted, and my old friend still exhibits some of their pink and fluffy sentimentality. I can't say that I'm altogether too surprised about this – especially in the light of the Redistributionists' ban on the sport of fox hunting some years ago under the grinning dominance of their now fallen arch-demon Tondvig the Blur.

Feaxede's present state of acute anxiety, angst and biscuit has been the proposal by the Tree Faction – now uninhibited by the shackles that preciously bound them to the corpse of the Liberationists – who've declared their intention to reinstate the barbaric practice. The principal rationale stated for this is that these fine creatures are pests, and hunting them on horseback with packs of hungry dogs is an efficient and caring way of keeping their numbers down. With the majority of Northumbrians, this will render the government deeply unpopular, as their natural affection for the ruddy, bush-tailed creatures is undiminished. (The majority of Northumbrians don't keep chickens.)

Even so, I can see the reason for Feaxede's worry and sympathise with him; if the Trees reintroduce fox hunting, how long will it be before they also legitimise cat hunting for pleasure and profit? Or weasel hunting? Or dormouse hunting?

One idea I've had to counter Feaxede's great concerns is to call a General Council of all creatures in the Kingdom and put to them a practical and workable suggestion.

Politicos are the human equivalent of vermin. They serve no useful purpose, and along with their theatrical gesturing, chronic mendacity, lavish expense accounts and their pathologically habitual lawmaking, they're an enormous drain on the resources of the long suffering Northumbrian population.

I think you know what's coming. And I know I'm backing a winner...

On The March

In the aftermath of Dagwald Caedmeron's astonishing and unpredicted defeat of the Redistributionist Faction in the Northumbrian Great Count, those of the Redistributionist mentality have been busy, either licking their significant wounds, fighting and arguing amongst themselves about the future (downward) direction of the Faction. This area of conflict has been primarily centred around the election of their next Great Leader and who the future chieftain should be. All of this to-do has been most entertaining for your Cat - especially since the most popular potential leaders selected are those whose intake of hallucinogenic mushrooms is the highest.

Although the fly agaric chewers have been particularly self-absorbed with their manifold problems, the charge can't be levelled at them that they've been idle. Despite the current pre-occupation of their priests with their burning questions, their laity has been busy, creating their own kind of unholy stink throughout the beautiful Northumbrian Kingdom.

Today has been a Great March against the demonic Tree god Austerity, whose devotions have consumed the Tree - and erstwhile Liberationist - Administration for the last few hundred years. Following the years of profligacy, wild borrowing and biscuit of the Redistibutionists under the witty, smiling and charming Guffmund the Brown, the Tree Faction was - and not for the first time - left with a mountain of unpaid bills and unforgiven sins. Upon their election, the Tree Faction solemnly pledged themselves to make reparation for the inherited waste and to placate the god Austerity by sacrificing valuable resources and treasures as offerings. Sadly, Austerity is an avaricious deity, and the donations to its altar was evidently regarded as mere breadcrumbs. The oracle of the god therefore declared that more offerings were required, and in view of this, more stringent sacrifices were planned and executed. However, the sacrifices proposed have never actually been of sufficient seriousness or severity to cost the politicos anything from their own personal treasuries; this honour has been confined as usual to the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayer.

Surprisingly enough, the marchers against this god and its cult aren't Northumbrian taxpayers; they're a broad affiliation of magic mushroom devotees, diversity coordinators, yogurt weavers, bongo players, pigeon psychologists, professional idlers, layabouts, loblollies, lunatics, soap evaders, members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction (whose business is not to be gainfully employed). The odour of dog breath, unwashed armpits, posterior sighs, lentils and bean sprouts headily permeates the air around the marchers, and is gently wafted by the breeze in the direction of the innocent bystanders. It's all so very sad.

Naturally, Caedmeron isn't terribly worried about this - although the aroma is causing a significant health risk to the wider populace. At least it's keeping them out of trouble, and giving them some other pointless way of occupying their time...

Bladder Wrack

The entire civilised Dark Ages world is reeling; these are dark and foreboding times, dear readers. The soothsayers have been chirping and bleating about the same matter for ages now, and in reaction to their latest outburst, the entire Northumbrian population is wandering in a state of ashen faced bewilderment, barely comprehending the gravity of the news that has so suddenly imposed itself upon their consciousness.

Schlep the Bladder has resigned. Weep, ye heavens, and be amazed. Blow your nose.

After a reign of thirteen thousand years upon the Holy Roman Empire Football Association - a realm characterised by steadfast righteousness, integrity, honesty, humility, civility and biscuit - Schlep has been deposed by a cabal of power-hungry ruffians, mountebanks and professional bribe collectors after falsely charging him with being an incorruptible good egg.

The entire world is waiting with baited hooks and breath, wondering what is going to happen next.

Your Cat is wondering how this news is going to affect the feline population. I've worried about it for all of fifteen nanoseconds...

Relics

The Northumbrian Kingdom is slowly crawling out from the devastation, desolation, destruction and biscuit unleashed upon the populace following the Decisive Victory of the Tree Faction in the recent Great Count. The sound of whining can still be heard from the divided ranks of the Redistributionist Faction, Beeby See, Guardy-Ann and their myriads of hangers-on, who, in uncharacteristic bitterness and rancour, accuse the Northumbrian population of crimes against humanity for failing to share their magic mushroom visions of free money, lavishly salaried unemployment, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists, bongo drumming, dog breath, ethically-sourced lentils and beansprouts. It's all so very sad, and despite my feline nature, I'm finding it very difficult to stifle a tear or two - my claws are quite sharp at the moment.

Despite the gloomy picture I've tried very hard to portray for your doubtless fertile imagination, dear reader, I should also inform you that all is not lost. Despite Dagwald Caedmeron's swift summoning of his newly appointed henchmen (most of whom have undergone a precipitous career change, substituting broomsticks, black cats and cauldrons for ministerial responsibilities), some remarkable events have already taken place.

Much to the amazement of astounded onlookers, the Arthurian prophecy has already come to pass; Nigwald the Forager has emerged from his two-minute sleep of the centuries, and as their resurrected Leader, has promised to restore the Kingdom to its rightful heritage - unshackled from the bonds of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). His legions of acolytes - who are diffused throughout the Realm, though only having one champion on the Witangemot talking shop - are enthralled that their Supreme Mentor has emerged Phoenix-like from the ashes. Merlin, however, is nowhere to be found…

Edweird the Milliner has fled the Kingdom, and has gone into a self-imposed exile on the Isle of Patmos, where he hopes to receive similar apocalyptic visions to those of St. John. He'll be lucky if such an experience comes his way, since his industrial scale consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms has squeezed any notions of godliness from his psyche. For all that, he leaves behind a curious legacy. Your Cat has already witnessed legions of devout Redistributionist pilgrims purchasing fragments of his shattered monolith. It seems to give them some measure of comfort, and it's great business for those entrepreneurs who saw the opportunity for a quick Holy Groat. At least it makes a change from the usual rabbit's foot charms…

Aftermath

These are grim and grimy days, my dear readers. The Kingdom of Northumbria is recovering from the results of the Great Count, and along with the sound of incessant whining from the Redistributionists, there can also be heard the sounds of wailing in the hallowed halls of Beeby See - as well as her bitter and twisted soothsaying sister, Guardy-Ann. The shovelling of the shattered fragments of Edweird the Milliner's slab of unattainable promises into waiting carts also breaks the stony silence of  the Northumbrian air.

Since Edward the Milliner fell on his sword following the demise of his dearly departed friend Edward the Spheres - the mendacious and charmless confectioner of magic mushroom delights - the Redistributionist camp has retreated into paroxysms of grief and bitter regret. A great deal of energy has been spent on their part in the process of soul-searching, wondering why the feckless, unwashed masses who comprise the electorate have chosen Dagwald Caedmeron and the Tree Faction instead of their own hallucinogenic, hand-wringing fantasies. All manner of fantastic explanations have been proffered by their shamans as to why their confident augury promising resounding victory was false. (It has never occurred to these dear and troubled souls that the majority of Northumbrians have sufficient nous to realise that Caedmeron's leadership was an infinitely better prospect than another five years of bankruptcy, high taxation and biscuit - despite Beeby See's relentless and tiresome prognostications of evil cuts, death, doom and desolation. Bless.)

The Liberationist Faction have also suffered heavy losses, and the sight of a remaining politico from their contingent is now worthy of a crowd of excited, pointing onlookers. Nickwald the Clegge has also decided to impale himself upon his sword, thus making a lasting testimony to his dedication to his faction and their extinct principles. It's all so very sad. The Alliance Administration is no more, and requiem masses are to be held throughout the churches of the Realm. Ding dong.

Nigwald the Forager - the charismatic ale-swilling, fast-talking leader of the Northumbrian Independence Faction - has also joined the ranks of the dear departed, and has hinted that - like King Arthur of British legend - he may return from Avalon to restore the Kingdom and rescue it from its Holy Roman Empire enemies. Until then he will sleep of the just failed.

However, Caddy Boy is hardly in a position to stamp his indelible footprint on the face of the Northumbrian body politic; the heavy losses on the part of the Redistributionists have been also inflicted north of the border by the Caledonian Realm Alone Praetorian faction, headed up by their sinister high priestess, Nickwealth McSprat. These people are by no stretch of the imagination either reasonable or civilised… Caddy and his crew have their work cut out.

As for your Cat - frankly, I couldn't give a rat's raspberry. I'm hungry, and I want some fish.

Edweird the Milliner's Magnum Opus

As the day of the Northumbrian Great Count approaches, the springtime air - puncuated by the mellifluous sounds of birdsong - is being permeated with the sounds of frenetic activity. This - I might hasten to add - is not only the increased amount of rhetoric, rhubarb and biscuit proceeding from the frenzied chops of the major faction politicos, who are all desperately vying with each other for a coveted slice of the Northumbrian cake: there's another noise ringing through the air. It's the sound of hammer and chisel.

Edweird the Milliner - the High Priestess of the Redistributionist Faction - is carving his magnum opus on a stone tablet, which he desperately hopes will adorn his view of the rear garden, should he be fortunate enough to assume the mantle of Prime Politico in the next Northumbrian Administration.

Upon this stone he's carving out the plethora of magic mushroom-fuelled promises, guarantees and an assortment of fantastic objectives that he's set himself in the hope of winning over the hearts and minds of the long-suffering Northumbrian electorate. Good luck with that, Eddy. (Bless.)

In the light of the previous record of the Redistributionist Faction in bringing the Kingdom to the point of bankruptcy under the benign and cheerful tutelage of Guffmund the Brown (whose objective was to rescue the entire world from the jaws of prosperity and solvency: a mission that he successfully accomplished in cahoots with his moneylender friends), it's highly unlikely that the electorate will be sufficiently impressed to cast a decisive vote in the favour of his gawky successor. The more likely outcome will be an indecisive one, where the balance of conviction on the part of the voters will be shared among all of the competing factions, which includes the Caledonian National Faction, led by Nickwealth McSprat, the successor to their Chieftain Emeritus Angus McTrout (why do they have fish names? your Cat wonders), and Nickwald the Forager, the fast-talking, slow walking, beer-quaffing impresario of the Northumbrian Independence Faction. The Liberationists - headed by Nickwald the Clegge (why do they have names that have connotations of theft? Your Cat wonders) - are destined for blessed annihilation as a punishment for reneging on their promise not to introduce Kindergarten charges for the legions of trainee pigeon psychologists, diversity coordinators and beehive accountants . A lot of bartering will take place with Dagwald the Caedmeron to decide who shares the executive decisions.

At the very least, Edweird the Milliner's monolithic enterprise will stand as a reminder for future generations that he actually existed. More likely it'll be his epitaph. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Your Cat is as excited as the soothsayers about the forthcoming result. I'll let you into a little secret. Although I'm a mere Cat, I'm still able to cast my vote along with the humans. And in these days of moulting my winter coat in readiness for the summer months, I've already cast my vote at the feet of Dagwald Caedmeron. And I feel so much better for having done so, too.

Hildabrand's Heavy Hit

Your Cat hasn't forgotten you - despite the lack of posts lately. As befits this special season in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, I've been absorbed by the current battle being waged by the politicos for the hearts and minds of the human population of this beautiful part of the world in the run up to the forthcoming Great Count.

Feaxede the Fox - my dearest friend - has really been quite concerned for my welfare, and I've endeavoured to put his mind - as well as yours - at ease.

During this season, the aspiring factions have been vying with each other to spin tales of alarm and despondency, ruin, desolation and biscuit about their rivals in the race to the coveted seat of authority in the Witangemot assembly of the wise. In their zeal to portray their opponents as the personification of evil has required no small amount of imagination, coupled with a patronising view that the average Northumbrian is stupid and unreflective enough to be mesmerised by their propaganda and to accept it without question. Without doubt, there are those who are lazy enough to allow their preferred politicos to do their thinking for them, but these constitute a relatively small proportion of the population. The remainder simply don't give a rat's rear end.

Today, the Redistributionist Faction wheeled out one of their most formidable weapons in their warfare from the astounding assortment of luvvies who adore them and share their taste in hallucinogenic fungi. The weapon in question is Hildabrand, a corpulent female who answers to the vague description of a court jester - although her humour is a matter of considerable debate among most humans, who really can't decide among themselves whether or not it actually exists. Naturally, the Redistributionists think very highly of her, and pretend to understand her humour.

Hildabrand rose to the occasion by criticising the evil Tree Faction, and blaming them for the alleged crisis in the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, along with the well-worn, tired and tiresome suggestions that these malevolent entities have been trying by stealth to dismantle it with a view to selling it to cartels of their robber baron cronies.

On the basis of this latest manifestation of this astonishing magic mushroom-fuelled performance, your Cat will make a prediction. Edweird the Milliner - the Redistributionist Grand Mufti and intrepid Nose Explorer - will be in a different job following the Great Count...

Green and Cabbage-Looking

Your Cat - in his customary fascination with the current race for the coveted Seat Of Power in the forthcoming government - has been fascinated by the latest developments in the political climate of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

Apart from the usual and traditional runners and riders - the Tree Faction, the Liberationists and the Redistributionists - there are newer political trends coming to the fore.

One of them is the Northumbrian Independence Faction, headed by the ale-swigging, charismatic and slick-talking man of the people, Nigwald the Forager, whose political group is gaining a great deal of attention by virtue of its professed concern at the burgeoning increase in the numbers of Bactrians, Phrygians, Moors, Huns, Cyrenians, Cappadocians and other exotic nationalities, whose dietary, religious and linguistic habits and traditions are at variance from the plain food, religion, manners and speech of the indigenous Northumbrians. His following is noticeably at its highest in those areas of the Kingdom located nearest to the ports, where shiploads of these foreign hordes disembark daily to find a comfortable living away from their ancestral lands. Owing to the popularity of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, the Tree, Liberationist and Redistributionist Factions and their hangers-on and camp-followers have mounted a vigorous campaign of opposition, since the Forager's followers are painting apocalyptic pictures of overcrowding and strife, and growing national groups in an increasing population compete among themselves for the services of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service and the benefits coffers. Since this doesn't mesh with their pink-and-fluffy view of brotherly harmony and biscuit, they feel under some measure of threat, and for this reason they do their utmost to paint them as a Faction of xenophobes.

However, the most surprising development is the advent of the Green Faction, led by a female citizen of the as yet undiscovered land of Antipodea called Nutty Bandit.

The Green faction - named after the legendary Green Man, a representation of the infernal Prince of Darkness - is a collection of disenchanted Redistributionists and other masticators of the hallucinogenic fungus whose principal ambition is to forbid the lighting of bonfires and the cutting down of trees in the interests of their Green goddess, Mother Earth.

These beansprout-chewing bongo players are prepared to make any sacrifices - of other people rather than themselves - in the interests of their fantasy-fuelled religion.

The Green Faction is gaining a large number of disaffected followers of the feckless Edward the Milliner, who - according to their twisted theology - is not doing enough to save the polar bears in the allegedly melting Arctic regions.

With such growing interest in this new and fanatical religion, it must be a great comport to their acolytes that their beloved leader doesn't even have a command of such pedestrian issues as facts and figures when questioned. The mushrooms are evidently doing their work...

Klaxon Call

The gripping events surrounding the forthcoming Northumbrian Great Count are unfolding before our eyes, and your Cat has been enraptured by the fascinating interplay of rhetoric, ideas and ideologies being played out to the populace through the able and completely unbiased services of Beeby See and her half-baked country cousin Guardy-Ann. For me, it's been somewhat akin to a slow-motion circus with interminable pauses between the acts for deep meditation and sleep.

However, the occasional shaft of light finds its way through the soporific gloom, and recently the developments around the career of the Jar-faced Klaxon have grabbed the attention of all Northumbrian humans.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is an entertainer under the employ of Beeby See, whose purpose is not only to soothe the public with horror stories, scaremongering, climate scams, miserable diseases and other delights, but also to entertain. This is Beeby's appointed role by Royal Decree, and her services are similar to those of King Alhfrith's court jester, but on a significantly larger scale.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is employed to take the most modern carts and chariots available and to test ride them in the most exotic places. With two henchmen who are similarly occupied, he makes his business to entertain in the most outlandish ways, and to express his thinly-veiled contempt for the conventional forms of behaviour and speech. His acts of derring-do and his opinions - which are pungent and as contrary to the pink and fluffy bias of Beeby See as is humanly possible - have won him a widespread following among the adoring Northumbrian people, and have by the same token brought him many enemies among the delicate Redistributionist flowers of the Beeby See establishment.

Thus the impasse - adored by many, and hated by a precious few. However, recent events have proved to be a gift to his detractors, since he allegedly thumped a Beeby See flunky up the bracket. Needless to say, the Jar-faced Klaxon has been removed from office.

But as you Cat writes, the predominant sounds heard in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria are the hammering of the blacksmiths, as citizens take up arms in defence of their disgraced hero...

On Your Marks

You may have observed that your Cat has maintained an eloquent silence over these last few weeks. Please accept my apology for this. My explanation (and not excuse, I might add) is that Feaxede the Fox and I have been completely mesmerised by the unfolding drama which will eventually culminate in the Great Count in the merry month of May, in which the entire Northumbrian human population – along with throngs of non-existent names in certain Redistributionist-held areas – will be casting their votes to decide the Great Administration for the next five years. The campaigning has already begun, with all the theatrical dressing up, silly hats and make-up, the carefully crafted and rehearsed speeches, and not to mention surprise epiphanies of the major Faction leaders in all sorts of unexpected places. All of this showmanship has been in the eager anticipation of swelling numbers of acolytes, admirers, devotees and window-lickers. 

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Supreme Icing Of the Tree Faction Cake – has been giving solemn warnings to his carefully selected audiences of the potential perils of an elected Redistributionist government, along with apocalyptic images of desolation, abomination, ruin, bankruptcy and biscuit. 

Edweird the Milliner, aided by his side-kick, the mendacious and well-fed Edweird the Millispheres, have been in similar fashion alerting the hand-picked hearers of the likely deprivation, abomination, ruin, poverty and biscuit if the electorate are foolish enough (perish the thought) to elect a Tree administration – with their vicious and gratuitously vindictive cuts to public expenditure. 

Nickwald the Clegge has also been visiting the various faithful congregations of his dwindling Liberationist diocese, warning of the certain perils of Tree stringency and Redistributionist profligacy with public money. 

On the other hand, Nickwald the Forager – the fast-talking, slow-walking, hard drinking Chieftain of the Northumbrian Independence Faction has been cheerfully waving two-fingered salutes to rented crowds of feckless Redistributionist hecklers and commanding adulation among his growing number of supporters. It all has been so exciting…. 

Sorry – I was just thinking about herrings. What was it I just saying…?

Wrapping It Up

Although the title of this post might convey the idea that I'm intending to pull my claws in (and the absence of recent posts would go far to nurture that idea), This is not actually the case. Your Cat has been delighted and thrilled to hear of the next hare-brained scheme planned by the Northumbrian Tree/Liberationist Administration.

Water is a commodity that is necessary to the well-being of all Northumbrian humans - as well of course as all members of the animal kingdom. Naturally, it has its own merits and demerits; the average fisherman, artisan, soldier or street trader will find little advantage in this elemental fluid if he (or she) wishes to temporarily forget about the cares, woes and worried foisted upon their shoulders by the politicos and other species of vermin. Good foaming ale - or a stout flagon of mead - is far more helpful in conveying one to the banks of the river Lethe. Furthermore, water can be potentially hazardous; it can drown the hapless individual who falls into a lake, and even when gently babbling crystal clear though the brooks of the Kingdom, it can bear toxic and brackish substances that can bring the poor drinker to death's door - or at least, seriously ill.

In view of these potential dangers (and also in a bid to protect the children), some politicos have decided that Something Must Be Done. What is proposed is that all water within the Realm should be packaged in plain wrappers. This may seem absurd, but given the intimate relationship between the politicos and certain members of the Northumbrian business community whose company they perpetually seek and nurture, this is a most creative and ingenious enterprise. The task of the operation is vast, since the storage of it in barrels and butts - not to mention its manifestation in brooks, lakes, streams and wells - is a fearsome undertaking. The task of covering up some glass bottle or jug doesn't compare with the feat of shrouding an entire lake in some bland blanket. But, as you and I will agree, it's worth it for the sake of the younger generation, who could so easily fall foul of its dangers.

And think about the benefit of the businesses who gladly agree to execute such a decision at the Administration's behest. The financial benefits are little short of miraculous. And who will be paying for all of this? Look no further than the pockets of the average Northumbrian artisan, fisherman and street trader...