Monday, 11 May 2015
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.