In all the months of being incommunicado, I've been completely absorbed by the Great Conundrum generated through the phenomenal advent of the latest Dear Leader of the Redistributionist Faction, the ancient, idiosyncratic and bearded druid Germius the Crowbane.
Despite the obscurity from which he's emerged blinking, belching and hiccuping into prominence, Crowbane - as my last post in the dim and distant past indicated - is a conqueror.
In spite of his many historical allegiances to villainous and ignominious forms of pond life who've been sworn enemies of godliness and Catholic virtue, Crowbane - like scum on a stagnant pool - has risen victorious to the top of the Redistributionist midden pile, accompanied by his equally bizarre companions, the fanatical shaman Murk Donal and the skilled numerologist, Demeter the Abbess, whose prowess with numbers defies the sum of human and feline intelligence. These acolytes have undoubtedly been either an éminence grise or noire behind the Crowbane crown.
In my researches about the aforesaid druid, I hopped in through a window in his sizeable mansion to see whether it might furnish me with any clues that could possibly betray the secret of his astonishing and unlikely success. Apart from having had some amusement in shredding some of Crowbane's incontinence accoutrements, and leaving a hairball in his sandal as a welcome distraction from the weariness of my labours, I came away none the wiser.
Why should an ancient and salivatory purveyor of an even more ancient and discredited creed suddenly erupt to the surface after years of hard-earned obscurity and biscuit? I still don't know.
This last week saw the annual gathering at Glastonbury of the Mystical Order of the Grunt, where legions of well-heeled young humans (and seniors who are old and potentially wise enough to know better) gather in squalor to enjoy wild music, bongoes, beansprouts, beer and fermented bilge water. Usually these events are little more than an inglorious pretext for industrial scale magic mushroom consumption and unwashed lasciviousness, but this year, guess who showed up to enrapture the lye-dodging hordes? - None other than the old dribbler himself, Germius the Crowbane, flushed with his defeat in the recent Great Count. However, his perspective on the relatively simple concepts of victory and defeat is at variance with standard understanding of these terms; in his conceptual road map, defeat is victory, but victory is not defeat. No, I don't understand either.
Assuming the stance of a Caesar who has entered a conquered city amid the scent of rose petals under chariot wheels, Crowbane charmed the gathered assembly with an oration that called on the thrilled audience to prepare for a new Golden Age of free goodies paid for by the long suffering Northumbrian taxpayer, and to rise up like lions. The chewing of magic mushrooms was deafening, and I can authoritatively declare that the only thing that was observed to rise up from that gathering was the collective odour of dog breath, human armpits, feet and various unmentionable regions...
