Beeby's See Sawn

Well, the day of my departure to my ancestral territory hasn't happened; I can only suppose that May Trees and her little playmates have either forgotten about their original intentions, or perhaps they've simply lost interest, and directed their miniscule attention spans elsewhere. Or perhaps the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria doesn't have a deportation arrangement with Catastan, Kittistan, Moggistan, or whatever the damn place is called; I don't know, and I certainly don't care.

Just to be certain though, I did check with Lareow - friend of Rats and Holy Emperor and Chief Panjandram of the Caedmeron Mousing Ministry, and he hadn't heard anything either. So the good news we've deduced from this is that I've been spared! When I joyfully told my master Caedmon, he rolled his eyes. He didn't believe it was going to happen in the first place.

One little pearl of consolation after all the grief and heartache this has brought me is that several legions of knuckle-dragging minions of the Northumbrian soothsayer and pantomime dame Beeby See are going to be presented with career opportunities in that familiar Northumbrian pastime called idleness. This cruel twist of circumstance has arisen allegedly because of the terrible financial mess the Kingdom is in; there isn't anything like enough money to feed the Beeby beast any more, since the Moneylenders are sitting on it all, and the overtaxed and rapidly shrinking population of Northumbrian wage-earners isn't bringing in enough of the unholy groats to sustain greedy Beeby's burgeoning empire. It's such a shame. But never mind.

At least - by way of consolation - the lovely Beeby still has intact her seventy thousand layers of managers, diversity commissars, homeopathy policy consultants, magic mushroom purveyors, professional humanists, climate change priests, luvvie slebs and apologists for the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). I'm sure they'll be more than willing to lift their ample posteriors from their seats and take to their longboats, horses and carts to bring in some news to entertain their unemployed erstwhile underlings.. Hard times, indeed.

Off His Tree

There's been a recent announcement by the Redistributionist Faction - headed by the Beloved Leader and Dear Father Edweird the Milliner. Hooray for the Reds! Long live the victorious Class Struggle Against Universal Prosperity, Accountability and Freedom! I'm so pleased.


Apparently, the Great Strategy that is going to be unleashed by the  Redistributionists in their never-ending war on the evil superstitions and vulgar values of the Tree Faction is that they're going to attempt to demonstrate how Dagwald Caedmeron is becoming more of an extremist - a sort of Tree monster, who beguiles innocent and gullible people with smooth, hypnotic talk and kidnaps and eats their children as a mid-morning snack when their feckless parents aren't looking. Other Tree leaders from the past have been similarly subjected to such calumnious propaganda; Hilda the Tiler - the famous Tree lady leader from many centuries back was reviled in similar fashion.


As a strategy, it's destined to be wildly successful, given the unswerving support of the most influential Redistributionist soothsayers - Beeby See and her weird, pustule-faced and poison-tongued pal Guardy-Ann. Assuming that the members of the Northumbrian public are as routinely bovine and unquestioning as ever, they'll lap up anything that these wicked messengers say, and unthinkingly assume that it's Gospel truth. And when the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic (called their Jamboree because the jam comes tomorrow) takes place in a few weeks' time, the faithful will be in ecstasies. Deep joy. Yet another astonishing political triumph for Edweird the Milliner! Let's chalk it up with the other imaginary victories, children.


And so the show goes on. The Redistributionists are intensely jealous of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance, since they're now in the supreme Seat of Power - the same seat they themselves occupied for nine hundred thousand years. During that time, they established universal bankruptcy and criminalised the majority, while getting fabulously rich in the process through an intricate system of bribes and back-handers. And now they're simply desperate to spend vast amounts of money that the Northumbrian Kingdom doesn't even have, so that they can produce a formidable fighting farce of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and cat license administrators. Every kingdom needs them, don't you know? That's what built Rome.


Considering Caedmeron has made identical noises as - and emulated the deeds of - his charming, chronically mendacious and bloodthirsty Redistributionist predecessor Tondvig the Blur, has opted for a mandatory quota of token women, Vikings and homeopaths to stand for the Witangemot, has waged a war in the hapless land of Cyrene, has enthusiastically ignored the people and contrary to public opinion has immersed the Kingdom deeper into the malevolent embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I really fail to see the difference. And if there's no essential difference between the Trees and the Redistributionists, why do they spend such an inordinate amount of time and money (that doesn't exist) demonising the opposition who resemble them anyway? Aren't they simply demonising their own likeness? Isn't that.... rather odd?

Things Cyrene and Unseen

The soothsayers - especially the partially impartial Beeby See - are in ecstasies about the victory of the rebels in the sandy, fly-infested Berber realm of Cyrene. Every day bears witness to more feverish slobber from the muzzles of fantasist soothsayers, who are desperately anxious to count every chicken - whether it's hatched or not - and most especially it doesn't even exist. The other day greeted us with the announcement that Trables - the principal city of that arid region - had fallen to the rebels, and that Murmur O'Daffy - the crazy, khat-chewing psychopath who had ruled the roost with an iron fist for three hundred and seventy thousand years - was defeated. Hooray for the forces of Civilisation, freedom and demockery-cy! Feaxede the fox and I were so delighted to hear the news: we danced for joy, and to celebrate the occasion, Feaxede shared some tender morsels of chicken carcass with me! Happy days.

This was a staggering achievement for a raggle-taggle army of urchins, wizened old men and goat-herders who hitherto hadn't known one end of a sword from another. But - as we're constantly reminded - this was accomplished through the determination and iron resolve of the oppressed masses. A stunning triumph of people-power against the overwhelming odds of O'Daffy's efficient and merciless fighting machine. Whatever. They don't even mention the special encouragement and moral support by the military advisors supplied by King Jose Borracho, the psychotically ambitious and deluded Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)

Today brings quite a different picture. Instead of the scenes of overall conquest and delirious jubilation portrayed the other day, there are now stories of running battles and hand-to-hand combat in the Trables streets. O'Daffy had sworn a solemn oath that he would fight to the death to maintain his paternal care of his beloved people - and never ever leave his homeland Cyrene. However, on arriving at his palatial dwellings, he hasn't been found; he has mysteriously disappeared, leaving his loyal Praetorian Guard to do their patriotic duty and hold the fort.

Murmur O'Daffy's disappearance is one of those unexplained mysteries - I'm sure we'll never know where he went. Already the Northumbrians are talking about him in the same reverence as they do about the iconic songster Elvey of Preslode, reports of whose demise many hundreds of years ago were never accepted by his most ardent disciples.

I met a stranger in Streonaeshalch the other day; he was a bizarrely attired man of foreign extraction, with heavy eyelids, a peculiarly-shaped mouth and a thick accent; his name was - as I recall - Marmer of Gadfly. When I chatted with him about the recent events in Cyrene, he became strangely taciturn... I reckon he knows more about where the old scoundrel is than he's letting on...

Dropped

The bells are ringing here in Streonaeshalch, and it's a day of jubilation. The banners are dripping in the heavy showers of rain, and the merry-making activities have been moved indoors to the Moot House to escape the wet. And what is the occasion for these damp festivities? It's to celebrate The Day That Villanous Arch-Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach dismissed the services of one of his most trusted Soothsayers. The announcement went out to the Northumbrian Kingdom yesterday - and the subsequent gasp could be heard for miles around - along with the steady chewing of magic mushrooms.

The activities of Nus Utherworld - the disgraced and ancient soothsayer -  have been met with complete shock and abhorrence - or at least from the other soothsayers, who've pontificated about the eavesdropping of the private conversations of distressed gentlefolk as if this were a new and hitherto unknown expression of human depravity. Nus Utherworld had always possessed a reputation for ribaldry, and was noted to have some priapic preoccupations with the sordid private lives of the squalid political and aristocratic sub-classes and Madcaster Untied team members. It's all very sad. The window-licking acolytes of pox-faced Guardy-Ann and her pantomime dame companion Beeby See have been in jubilant mood, as they've seen one of the mighty bastions of anti-Redistributionism fall. Bless.

The rumours are now circulating that Evil-Merodach will be setting on the services of a new soothsayer to replace the discredited one. Nice try, Rupie.

I was talking with Caedmon about this last night, and I found out that he shares my own feeling that those soothsayers who've been making the most of this series of misdemeanours and the consequent fall from grace are those with no shortage of skeletons in their own closets. They just haven't been caught yet. But in these dark and perverse days, the illusion-dwelling Redistributionists and their fly agaric-chewing camp followers are joining forces (and farces) against their detractors, and contrary views are becoming increasingly demonised as 'dangerous', 'extremist' and 'inappropriate.' The gathering of faggots for public burnings follows soon, children. Bring your chestnuts.

I mentioned the whole sorry saga to my mate Feaxede - the fox with an archeological interest. He looked intently at me, and suddenly dropped something rather unwholesome from his back end, and proceeded to walk away. It was by far a more eloquent statement than those I've heard from the soothsayers lately...

Revolutions Per Minute

The Tree/Liberationist Alliance is perhaps the most detested administration ever to take the helm of the governance of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. This isn't too surprising; the reason for this is that there's been a steady drip into the public consciousness of fly agaric-inspired Redistributionist ideas over the last fifteen thousand years. This is mainly achieved through the machinations of the soothsayers - particularly the partially impartial Beeby See and her pustule-punctuated friend Guardy-Ann, who tirelessly campaign for the undeserved rights of the legions of homeopaths, diversity administrators, kindergarten managers, fish quota accountants, cat psychologists and ne'er-do-wells who idly litter the streets of the Realm. By contrast, those whose industry and enterprise produces wealth and prosperity are regarded as the lepers outside the gate - unwanted, neglected and forgotten.

(I'll give you a pause to dry your eyes.)

The Tree Faction traditionally represents the gritty values of the aforesaid thrifty, hard-working underclass, for whom the idea of receiving the miserable pittances of Benefit Groats is nothing short of the Ultimate Disgrace. Such self-sufficiency is roundly despised and condemned by the magic mushroom-led Redistributionists, who hysterically label it as 'Outmoded, Greedy Individualism,' earnestly desiring to see a monochrome culture of dependency on the teat of Mother State for all those specimens of human flotsam who sit in the outer darkness beyond the walls of their Blessed Faction.

But thanks to Caedmeron and many of his colleagues within the ranks of the Tree Faction, these outmoded, greedy and individualistic values are gradually being eroded. One by one. The Tree Party turns out to be one of the factions that's most rabidly in favour of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), since there are untold riches available from expenses and back-handers for those who compliantly fall in line with the Powers That Be. It was a Tree Leader from three thousand years ago called Edweird The Teeth who led the Kingdom by the nose into the waiting deadly embrace of power-crazed Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman, Hermit The Rumphole. Since that time, the values of the ordinary, hardworking Northumbrians have been stealthily and quietly discarded, while those guilty of such machinations have cleverly pretended to continue to espouse the very values they've abandoned - including Withdrawal from the Evil Federation. This, of course, is merely intended to give the impression to the unreflective Tree rank-and-file that it's Still The Same Faction. Whatever.

With this dissimulation in mind, this Cat can readily understand why a faction - hitherto blessed with a clear set of working principles - is now characterised by suck-it-and-see pragmatism and not a little of the same hallucinogenic substances that inspire the policies and the attitudes of The Enemy. It also helps to explain why Caedmeron - the silver-tongued, shifty and untrustworthy Shepherd of the Tree Flock - has changed his mind about key policy decisions several times within the space of a morning - just as the previous Redistributionist incumbent comedian Guffmund The Brown did when he formulated the policies that led the Kingdom to debt, bankruptcy and increased thralldom to the Accursed Empire.

I'm getting dizzy form all the policy changes that are taking place... I think I'll lie down for a bit...

In The AV

Over here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, there's an air of expectancy and excitement. You can feel and see it wherever human beings gather – whether in the streets, the markets, the inns, the fields or their workshops. They're so excited about the forthcoming local elections and – most especially - the Great Referendum on the new Alternative Voting System; there's a definite festive air to the seaside town of Streonaeshalch; bunting flutters in the Spring sunshine; acrobats and mountebanks are performing their routines in the streets, musicians are playing, singers are baring their tonsils and their brown teeth, the mead and ale is flowing down gullets, and everyone is ecstatically happy.

Well – perhaps I'm exaggerating. Just a tiny bit… but I did see a seagull deliver a monstrous payload out of sheer joy – it settled on the al fresco fish supper of the local Alderman. Happy days.

Blaeck Clegge – the Dear and Revered Leader of the Liberationist Faction is very excited about the Great Referendum; he's been harping on about it for about a year, but Liberationists are always intoning about voting reform, since they've never had the opportunity to win a Great Count in their own right. The idea of some hare-brained new complicated voting methodology is their only potential ticket to success, since the outright winners of such elections are seldom those who by a majority of preferential votes achieve the overall mandate.

Having dealt with one set of serial losers, I now turn to the fly agaric-led, chandelier-swinging Redistributionists. Unlike their Liberationist brethren, for whom Alternative Voting is an article of holy dogma, these are divided on the issue. Some are foaming at the mouth in delirious anticipation at the prospect – others are not so wild-eyed and enthusiastic. Edweird the Milliner – the deluded Beloved Chief of the faction has publicly declared that he doesn't personally see the need for the new proposed Voting System, since the existing one has amply served their purposes for seventeen thousand years. And since the Redistributionists have already brought the fine art of vote-rigging to a state of near-perfection, why make the process more intellectually demanding for aspiring cheats? I see the logic.

The Trees – and their Chief Cock and Bluebottle-Washer Caedmeron – have also been ambivalent on the issue. For the most part they've said that they're against the idea, since they purport to be intellectually resistant to change. But they've been perfectly happy in previous times to make radical alterations to the running of the Kingdom by selling it over wholesale to the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) so that Northumbria is now no more than a mere vassal state or province at the behest of the megalomaniac Emperor Jose Borracho and his sandwich-short-of-a-picnic assistant Hermit.

As for the public - who are being relentlessly force-fed the idea that the Alternative Voting System is a Good And Desirable Thing by Beeby See and other delusional soothsayers – they're simply confused.

As for me – I suddenly feel very tired and my eyelids are getting heavy. I'm going for a nap. Wake me up when it's over. And don't bother telling me the result…

Where The Truth Lies

If there's one characteristic that the soothsayers and politicos can never be accused of (including those of honesty and integrity), it is consistency. The more I hear them drivelling on about the death of the Great Enemy Olaf Ladensson, the more puzzled I get, and my whiskers get twitchy. 

There's been ecstatic rejoicing and back-slapping about the demise of a Viking religious fanatic, whose life and activities has been surrounded by what can best be described as a foggy aura of mystery, hearsay and legend. There's no definite proof that he departed this mortal life when and in the manner described; all we have is the accounts of the legend-makers and fantasists, which are paraded as Gospel truth. Furthermore, it has been reported by the soothsayers that the cadaver was disposed of at sea from the side of a boat by some jolly jacks - to the sound of solemn sea-shanties. Thus the legend continues. Was he discovered after years of diligent searching - and did he actually die from a well-aimed arrow to the skull? Or did he actually contract some noxious pox and fade quietly from the scene some years ago? Or is he still alive, selling fly agaric from a vegetable stall in a shambles somewhere? Was anything ever said about him really factually verifiable?

Whether he was real or not - and whether he died in the manner described or not, there's a lot of noise made about him.

In the meantime, real Cyrenian people and their offspring are being accidentally murdered by the ill-equipped raggle-taggle band of anti-O'Daffy rebels, who are being encouraged by Anglo-Saxon and Frankish military advisors, along with their biscuits and pet rabbits, all cheerfully supplied by the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). These killings happen day by day in the sacred name of Demockery-cy without much fuss.

Apart from the moral bankruptcy of the unwelcome interference in Cyrene, it's bizarre - to say the least - that our soothsayers and politicos expend more hot air and rhetoric over a will o' the wisp fantasy like Olaf Ladensson than the issues of real life... or am I missing something here..?

No Guesses for the Guest List

It's been quite a pleasant and peaceful weekend - other than having to console poor Feaxede. His application to stand as a  Redistributionist councillor in the Streonaeshalch local election has been turned down by the Faction; I can't say I'm terribly surprised. When he came over to tell me the bad news, I could see that he was close to tears. I told him that he was a very astute and worthy member of the animal kingdom, and he would only have become corrupted by those venal politicos if he'd been accepted as a candidate. It's a human-eat-human world out there.

The reason for his rejection was (ostensibly) that he hadn't been in the Redistributionist Faction for long enough - and he lacked the political experience. To all outward appearances, those reasons sound plausible enough, but I have a sneaky feeling that they're masking the true reason; it's my suspicion that despite their obsession with their inclusivist dogma, they're actually closet foxists - the sin that dare not speak its name. But I didn't share that reservation with Feaxede - it would be unkind of me. I'm his loyal friend - and I want to remain as such.

Feaxede came back to see me a few hours afterwards; his demeanour was quite different this time. He didn't give me a chance to greet him when he excitedly told me that he'd discovered a piece of vellum. This time it wasn't in the local dump - much to my surprise. When I asked him where he'd found it, he was rather bashful and reticent, but when I pressed him on the matter, it transpired that he'd decided to pay a social call to the house of the local Redistributionist Faction chief. To his surprise, nobody was at home, but the front door was open. He went in, found that there were no chicken carasses or other scraps of food, and he was about to leave the premises when he noticed a sheet of new vellum with fresh writing on it.

I questioned Feaxede's morality in doing such a deed, and he told me that he was so upset at his rejection that he wanted some kind of reassurance from the Resistributionist boss. Since he wasn't even at home, Feaxede decided to console himself with a 'borrowed' item. I asked him where he'd put it - and he led me to his lair, where the splendidly elaborate vellum was already stretched out. He asked me to read it to him, and I told him in no uncertain terms that he must return it to its rightful place if I were to do so. He solemnly assured me that he would.

The vellum turned out to be a guestlist for Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha's forthcoming wedding. It had the names of some of the invited guests. This information was like a goldmine, as I knew that the list of names is a closely-guarded secret. Among the invited guests was King Jose Borracho - the megalomaniac Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit. It also listed O'Daffy (the chandelier-swinging, khat-chewing leader of the Cyrenians), the deposed Pharaoh of Egypt - Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy and the former Redistributionist Premier Guthmund the Brown. But Caedmeron and Edweird the Milliner were conspicuously absent from the list. My secret agent Láréow wasn't on the list either, sorry to say. The choice of guests leaves a great deal to be desired; I suppose that King Alhfrith and his dirty-mouthed Queen Hillida aren't too fussy about the company they keep. If I were some bandit chief or small-time gangster boss, I suppose my guest list would be similar.

This begs an interesting question. How on earth did some low-grade Redistributionist lackey get hold of such privileged information? The name of the Faction leader wasn't on the list either, so it was of no consequence to him. Having given the matter some thought, I concluded that the Redistributionist had also come by this information through dishonest means. Feaxede was surprised. What should he do with it?

I told Feaxede to take it to Beeby See or Guardy-Ann and offer it to them in exchange for anonymity and a substantial reward. I reckon Feaxede has a lot of chicken dinners coming his way. That's all the consolation he needs. He deserves it.

A Burning Issue

Life would certainly be boring if human beings and their institutions were wise and sensible. If that were the case, I wouldn't bother writing my blog - after all, I've better things to do - like catching mice and birds, and depositing fur-balls and post-alimentary offerings on Beeby See's carpet. But that would be too mind-numbingly pedestrian for this kitty. I'll leave the mundane cat activities to my prosaic cat colleagues. They have nothing better to think about.

Here's one piece of news that's reasonably fresh and steaming: a Northumbrian National Faction member has been arrested by the Costumed Thugs for committing an execrable offence. Sit down, close your eyes and take in a deep breath, children... he burned a copy of the Vikings' sacred book - the Eddas - in the privacy of his own home. The consequent  fallout has been considerable, and the governmental hordes have been foaming at the mouth in hysteria. The soothsayers have - as usual - squealed like demented pigs.

Now, as far as this cat is concerned, he doesn't give a gnat's whisker about the Eddas; they may be sacred to the Vikings, but they're not sacred to me. Anyway - what's special about a book? Granted, it takes some considerable time to write one out, and it's an expensive exercise; I'm sure sometime in the future, they'll devise a way of producing them quickly and cheaply. But a book's a book - covers, binding, pages and writing. It's nothing magical. Now, I'm aware that there are certain Christians who have an undue reverence for the Bible (as if it were more significant than the One who inspired it), but they don't actually worship it: that would be a desecration of the Second Commandment. But the Vikings thus revere their Eddas; according to their strange creed and theology they believe that they were dictated directly by the god Odin to somebody or other. And the Witangemot, their hangers-on and the legions of no-hopers who help to prop up this shabby wasteland of a Kingdom have - in their infinite wisdom - decided to favour the Vikings above other religious groups. So the desecration of an abbey or a church would be deeply upsetting to the many Christians of the realm, but should that happen, they'd simply be expected to put up with the injustice, turn the other cheek and manfully carry on.

The Vikings, however, aren't likely to take such iniquities lying down. They would proclaim a sacred fast, chew sacred mushrooms and go on the rampage, sacking, butchering innocent bystanders and pillaging Anglo-Saxon settlements. The upholding of Odin's honour is their justification for such unruly and brutal activities. It appears to me that Odin is pretty well powerless to defend himself, so he's dependent on his warrior followers to fight his own battles for him... bless.

Anyway. The main issue is that some bright spark decided to burn a copy of the Eddas in the privacy of his own home. Big deal: every Anglo-Saxon's home is his sacred and inviolable castle; he is king of the realm of his own hearth. Why shouldn't he burn whatever he likes? If he wants to burn a book, that's up to him - if, that is, he bought it or obtained it by other legitimate means. My master Caedmon burns copies of his poems that he's dissatisfied with; nobody cares about that.

But there's a nagging question. Why was this Northumbrian National Faction member arrested? Were members of the Costumed Thugs peeping into his doorway to make sure he wasn't burning something forbidden? I struggle to imagine that this were the case. Nobody pops their head through Caedmon's doorway to check on the kindling.

Did someone in his household see what he was doing and report it to the Costumed Thugs? Possible - but family loyalties are very tight here in Northumbria. So I'll rule that out as a valid reason. So, that leaves me with one remaining theory. The Northumbrian National Faction member announced beforehand that he was going to wind up the Vikings - and the knuckle-dragging authorities - by burning a copy of the Eddas. He was making a public statement. What other possible reason could there have been for his arrest? A show trial in the Moot is likely to follow with Beeby See and Guardy-Ann licking their slavering chops.

He made a statement. And the statement he made to the world is this: "I am terminally stupid."

Duhhhh....

Oswine's Bellicose Budget Bunfight

'Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities' - Voltaire

Today is a lovely day here in the lovely country of Northumbria. I'm not merely saying this because of the spring sunshine, which is causing the early flowers and leaf buds to emerge; it's a wonderful day because Oswine - the Supreme Treasurer and Dogsbody-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist administration - and Caedmeron's right hand man - is announcing the Budget. Hooray for Ossy! Everyone is so happy!

I know this because I wandered through the town of Streonaeshalch earlier to watch the fishermen unloading their catches and sorting them on the quayside. (I often get some fresh titbits from those of them who are kindly disposed towards cats.) Everyone seemed to be very animated about the Budget. I've come to the conclusion that they're all looking forward to making a greater contribution towards the good of the community at large - and the politicians in particular. I'm also sure that they're thrilled at the prospect of increasing degrees of impoverishment as the cost of bread, suet, ale, mead, oats and firewood increases once again.

Without a doubt, Beeby See has had a valuable part to play in setting the general mood of optimism for the populace; as the country's most favoured soothsayer, she cheerfully rabbits on about the cuts in public services - and like some modern-day Jeremiah, she vividly describes the apocalyptic desolation to come. Everyone loves to hear her pronouncements, and eagerly hangs on her every halitosis-breathed word. The Tree/Liberationist administration also contributes to the general happiness of the population by declaring that there's no more money in the Kingdom, because the magic mushroom-led Redistrbutionists took great care to ensure that the Kingdom was brought to bankruptcy in their last Witangemot administration under the maniacal Guthmund The Brown. To do this they created legions of fantasy jobs for their fellow fantasists in order to promote their support and loyalty. Caedmeron is now repeatedly telling all and sundry that hard decisions have had to be taken to bring the country back to a place of solvency once more, and funds for important social and welfare projects are being slashed.

There's also a degree of excitement about the Cyrenian War initiated by Caedmeron the other day, and the soothsayers are being eagerly sought for up-to-date information and comment on what's happening. She cheerfully regales her audience with tales of bloodshed and various heroic deeds of carnage.

Everyone wants to see the khat-chewing, chandelier-swinging O'Daffy deposed from power, so that the hapless Cyrenians can enjoy the same blessings as the Anglo-Saxon Northumbrians. I assume from this that they would also like to enjoy lovely Budget Days like ours. That'll be nice for them; they can share the experience of ever-increasing taxation to fund the lavish lifestyles of their new democratic political masters. And I'm sure they would also love to have diversity coordinators, pigeon psychiatrists and tree quota accountants to further enrich their existence.

But it's all very peculiar: while there's such excitement about these current budgetary and bellicose activities, nobody has yet explained to me where the money for this Cyrenian war is coming from. Is it from the back pocket of King Jose Borracho, the power-crazed thug chieftain who - with his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit - heads up the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)?

Something doesn't add up...

Breaking Ranks and Breaking Out

I was very intrigued to hear the ruminations of one of Beeby See's former stooges recently. Sigismund was until recently one of her principal front men, and we Northumbrians have become accustomed to the sight of him delivering the daily dose of despondency with the kind of gravity associated with elderly theatrical gentlemen.

What caused my ears to prick up was that Sigismund – now he's retired from his position as Senior Soothsayer at Beeby's house – has admitted that there is a secret cult working under the surface of the soothsaying institution. Now, in saying this, he's not telling me anything I didn't know already; nevertheless it's quite gratifying to hear from the horse's mouth that your assumptions have been correct. It would appear that Beeby See's house is dominated by a secretive inner circle of fly agaric-chewing disciples of His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the crazy but influential global warmist (who repeatedly declares that our cold winters are caused by an excessive number of bonfires and wood burners). The result of this is that every piece of information, news and advice dispensed by the beloved Beeby has to be vetted by this secretive cult beforehand.

Not content to take this at face value, I decided to investigate for myself, so I wandered down to Beeby's place and climbed in through an open window. I wandered unnoticed through the many rooms of Beeby's place, all of which were humming with frenetic activity. I came to a door marked with the word 'Private' and decided to wait for an opportunity to slip in. I heard the low droning of voices which were coming from the room.

After 20 minutes or so, a middle-aged woman with a roll of vellum in her hand came to the door and knocked loudly. 'Who is it?' came a voice from within. 'Frithswith of Brus' the woman replied. 'Enter' came back the response. The door opened, and I quickly ran in past the woman's ankles, and hid behind a large chest in the spacious and sumptuously-decorated room. From where I was hidden I could discern a group of a dozen or so enrobed people who were sitting round candles, wearing garlands and swaying gently to the sound of discordant humming. Frithswith was talking with one of the assembled devotees. 'I've no idea what to do with this story. What brief do you have for me?' she asked tersely. 'There's no brief needed, dearie,' came the jovial reply. 'Have a look at yesterday's Guardy-Ann: you'll get enough for your brief from there.'

This was sufficient to confirm to me that what Sigismund had said was true. Beeby was getting her information and opinions from Guardy-Ann – who's one of the most rabid supporters of Bishop Georges Moonbat - and the bizarre Redistributionists and their leader Edweird the Milliner.

I decided to leave a calling card before I slipped away. As I sauntered jauntily through the door, I heard the same man say, 'Frith – have you farted?' 'I most certainly haven't!' came the brusque and indignant reply. I made a rapid exit, trying not to laugh out loud.

I felt satisfied that I'd done a good job. Since they're good at spreading ordure, they can tidy some up…

Love's Libraries Lost

As the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Witangemot administration approaches its 9^th month, the antipathy and resentment from the Redistributionists smoulders away. Not content to have taken 13 years of power to bring the Kingdom of Northumbria to colossal debt and the brink of bankruptcy, they continue to snipe and growl at any measures taken by the Alliance to address the economic problems they created. Each day brings yet another litany of public spending cuts, gleefully announced by Beeby See and the other soothsayers, who report it with the faux gravitas of a child snitching on a companion to the school headmaster.

The most recent furore has been about the reduction of services to the libraries. Since the Alliance is on a campaign to reduce public expenditure in a bid to reduce the gargantuan mountain of debt (kindly bequeathed by the Reds), it was deemed necessary by the central Witangemot to reduce the amount of money apportioned to local authorities. Consequently, various public sector jobs have been axed, and as I've already stated before, a multitude of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists, cat license administrators, fish quota accountants and environmental health enforcement officers have been released from the burdens of toil and wages. Furthermore, services like libraries have been obliged to continue with reduced numbers of librarians and archivists – and they've been forced to reduce their opening times. One of the soothsayers reported that a renowned novelist referred to the impact of expenditure cuts on libraries as tantamount to child-abuse. Most of the children brats I see don't haunt libraries in the first place – unless they're abnormally intelligent or geekish. To be seen entering such a place would reduce their status in the eyes of their contemporaries; to die in a shop window would be a more desirable alternative. They contribute to their own development by hanging around street corners, drinking mead, chewing magic mushrooms and behaving with the dignity and decorum of a herd of half-starved pigs when the swill arrives. I would love to introduce them to my mate Leo.

Absurdities like this are never far away from the public arena; Edweird the Milliner and Caedmeron recently had a lively exchange of views in the Witangemot over the strategy to reduce the Northumbrian debt. Weirdy postulated the all-familiar fantasy idea that the Alliance should have encouraged business in order to improve the economy – rather than reducing services to enable the debt to be paid off. Caedmeron countered that by asserting that you can't encourage business when the moneylenders aren't making loans – and anyway, you can't spend what you haven't got to get you out of the debt you're already in as a result of spending what you never had in the first place. (You didn't get that, did you?) Needless to say, the two leaders started to brawl. Edweird came off worse – he had two black eyes to add to the ones he already possessed.

It's amazing what theatrical stunts these clowns will pull to maintain their elaborate illusion. It's great entertainment – and it suitably occupies me until the next Ð Factor. I can't wait for Erik the Pickle to appear on 'Strictly Come Morris Dancing'…

The King's Speech

The other day, Feaxede the fox excitedly loped towards me with something in his mouth. Could I possibly tell him what it was? I took a look at the object; it was immediately apparent that it was a scroll of vellum, which is a thin skin of hide used for manuscripts, books and documents. I asked him where he'd found it, and he told me that it was in the dump, where he does most of his researches. He asked me if I could read it. Since I was taught to read by Caedmon as part of my Christian education, I took a look at the document. It was rather dirty and sodden, but the writing was clear enough for me to discern that it was a transcript of King Alhfrith's Christmas message; it had probably been discarded by Beeby See - or one of her minions - following the Christmas season. Usually the soothsayers read out to the local populace the latest communication from the Great and the Good – and even our noble King. Since I was very tired this Christmas, I hadn't bothered to go to listen to the latest proclamation, so the content was new to me.

I read through it while Feaxede eagerly listened. I can't remember the full content verbatim, but as I recall, the speech started off with the King addressing his loyal subjects and talking about the Bible. It would appear that this year is an anniversary of the translation of the Bible from the Latin Vulgate into the Anglo-Saxon tongue. The monks at the Abbey still read the Latin version, so this was news to my ears. The King went on to say how the Bible brought people together. It would appear that the King then got some Viking, Bulgar and Frankish children to read a passage to him from the Bible, so one of them started with the words:

On frymðe wæs Word, and þæt Word wæs mid Gode, and God wæs þæt Word. Þæt wæs on fruman mid Gode. Ealle þing wæron geworhte ðurh hyne; and nan þing næs geworht butan him. Þæt wæs lif þe on him geworht wæs; and þæt lif wæs manna leoht. And þæt leoht lyht on ðystrum; and þystro þæt ne genamon.

Feaxede was puzzled. Why didn't the King read the passage himself? And why wasn't it read by Anglo-Saxon children? I explained that the old boy can't read; he always gets others to read to him. He uses his thumb to sign important documents and charters whenever a signature is needed. And in these days of diversity, it's important to exclude Anglo-Saxons, since they are mere incidentals in the unfolding political Plan of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire).

When I read the next portion of the speech, I became as puzzled as Feaxede had been: the King then went on to talk about football, and how it – like the Bible - also brought people together. I can't understand how the Bible is supposed to bring people together in a day when the country is being systematically de-Christianised, and where signs of our Anglo-Saxon Christian heritage are being mocked or stealthily removed in favour of the Vikings and their Eddas. As I understand it, the Master in the Gospel said that He came to bring a sword rather than peace (by which He refers to division rather than unity).

And how on earth does football bring people together? Some people come together to watch Madcaster United and their star striker Wade Rune, but only to watch the game and to bellow unceremoniously when something happens on the pitch. When the game is over, they either go home or get drunk in the meadhouses, where I've heard the most acrimonious arguments between football supporters. Blood has been spilt. I also know that whenever Milwall supporters visit, the costumed thugs have to assiduously brain them with big sticks to keep them in check, and to prevent further outbreaks of violence.

So, what was the King waffling about? I'm blowed if I know. Mead and ale certainly bring people together; dances and entertainments do the same. Work – out of necessity - brings people together, whether they like it or not. Poverty and adversity also unite. But as I see it, the Anglo-Saxon Bible and football are unlikely companions in the task of uniting people.

Perhaps I'm missing something. Or maybe the King is losing his marbles. I suggested that Feaxede that he take the document back to the dump, where it could carry on doing what it had been communicating – rot.

A Parallel World

What's reality? - That is the question that some fly agaric-chewing sorcerers in the sacred portal of Beeby See were asking yesterday. They were talking the usual guff about parallel universes; they were telling us that our view of reality is by no means definitive; the dark arts of sorcery and the cranial somersaults of the wizards are producing strange numbers from which even more bizarre theories are now hatching. This is the kind of cleverness that strays into the fantasy land of the demented. To be honest, I wasn't taking too much notice of their ramblings; I've heard their sort of La-La Land claptrap before. Many times. In my book, reality is a cosy curl-up in front of a warm fire. It's singing feline shanties with my mates at full volume outside Beeby's mansion at dead of night. It's a mouse within striking distance of my paw - and a dish of cooked mackerel, bought fresh from the quayside of Streonaeshalch. Reality is certainly not the abstract and obscure ravings of the seers and sorcerers that Beeby See and her lickspittle friends favour so much.

Why does Beeby want to share this idiocy with us? Apart from the fact that Beeby is buddy-pal with the Witangemot, (who pay her vast numbers of groats, extracted by force from the unwilling vassals and fiefs of Northumbria), I suspect there's a more fundamental reason. It's become evident to all thinking humans beings - and to this cat - that the Northumbrian State is distancing itself from the influence of the Christian faith, which hitherto has shaped the way of life and the values of human - ahem - civilisation. I referred some time ago to a de-Christianised Christmas; this outburst of folly is to my feline reckoning just another manifestation of the same foolishness. It's also the same kind of  frothy-chops folly that Edweird the Milliner was spouting yesterday. It's an escape from the truth. The pedestrian facts, which are so boring and so wretchedly inconvenient.

In the parallel world of these overpaid fantasists, everything is moulded into contorted shapes, directed by their feverish imaginations. A bit like shamanism, I suppose. Chew the mushrooms and the special herbs, throw the bones, sing the same song for several hours and everything will look better. For a while..
Idiots.

History - Whose Story?

All this tormented feline brain wants to do is to switch into standby mode, relax and purr, stalk a few small rodents and birds - and have some semblance of normality.

Unfortunately there are so many things happening in the human realm that get my whiskers itchin' and my tail a-twitchin'. (And by the way, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the ways of the cat kingdom, a cat's twitching tail is generally a sign of hostility and annoyance - not the delirious expression of pleasure so beloved of the unreflective mutt community.)

Let me explain my unrest. Edweard the Milliner appeared in the sacred portal of the soothsayer Beeby See recently - a place that he and his ilk are known to haunt with monotonous regularity, given the more than evident sympathy that the allegedly impartial Beeby See displays for the Redistributionists. He was asked by Beeby's minor stooge Maerr whether the Redistributionist Faction accepted any responsibility for the state of the economy of Northumbria, since it was under the previous Red Witangemot administration that the financial collapse first manifested itself. An audible gasp was heard from all those humans who have a sense of perspective and aren't idiotised by the bread-and-circuses handouts of the ruling elite and the puerile knockabout of politics. Why were they shocked? Because Edweird the Milliner denied that the Red administration bore any responsibility for the mess of the Kingdom's finances.

As I recall (and Caedmon has confirmed this to me), the Red Faction held the Witangemot office for a full thirteen years. When they first took over from the Trees, who'd held office for years beforehand, the economy was thriving and the birds were singing. The good people of Streonaeshalch were going about their daily business, and life was comparatively good. This state of affairs continued for some time, and before long the Red chancellor - Guthmund the Brown - took the kudos for the stability of the Kingdom's finances. No more boom and bust. Whatever. In fact, he was simply claiming credit for the work of his predecessor, while selling off the Kingdom's gold to the Bulgars at bargain basement prices. After all - what did we need it for? Anyway, the money would come in handy for more diversity coordinators, pigeon psychiatrists and fish quota accountants. Full employment. Jobs for the pals. Big wages - loads of groats and fancy coats.

The moneylenders were given permission to do whatever they liked; life was good, and the living was easy. They started to take liberal doses of magic mushrooms, and consequently their collective judgement was impaired. They started to loan groats to goats and to sell debts to each other in an attempt to profit from these bizarre transactions. No. Really.  After a time, things started to unravel - as they always do when the fantasy bubble bursts.

And now Edweird the Milliner (I'll spell his name this way from now on - you don't mind, do you?) has denied that the Red administration had anything to do with the calamitous state of the economy. I'll tell you something: Feaxede the fox doesn't believe him. My big mate Leo doesn't, either.

But I'd bet my whiskers on the notion that there are human beings out there who do believe him. But can he just rewrite history like that? I don't think so. Truth has a nasty habit of catching up with those who repeatedly invent lies. The Creator defines truth - because He's the objective Truth behind everything. The likes of Ed Weird can fool other thinking humans, but they can't fool a cat, a fox or a big cat. And if they think they can fool the Creator, they're even bigger fools that I first thought.

Cat-echism

In view of all the foetid air that proceeds from the orifices of the Witangemot, Beeby See and the other soothsayers, it seemed fitting for me to compile a new creed or cat-echism for those who are undiscerning and gullible enough to hang on their every utterance:

I believe in fairy stories.*

I believe in the integrity, wisdom and beneficence of the Witangemot.**

I believe in the sacred right of politicians to reward themselves lavishly for their labours whenever they like. At everyone else's expense. Everyone else who is ungrateful can go hungry and get lost.

I believe in the inviolable sacredness of Taxation. It is a privilege to pay it and a Good Thing for the benefit of all.

I believe in the Divine Right of King Alhfrith and his dynasty.^

I believe that the Municipal Costumed Thugs are solely committed to pursuing the evildoers to bring them to justice. They are good people. Really. No joking.

I believe that all Vikings must be accommodated into society and their beliefs preferred accepted. At all costs. Whatever.

I believe that Christmas should be jettisoned in favour of the Viking Yultid festival - we mustn't offend them with references to the Incarnation of Christ. That would be a criminal offence.

Vikings who are zealously committed to their Edda writings and beliefs are a potent danger to Anglo-Saxon civilization, but they must be encouraged to remain in the Kingdom of Northumbria.

I believe that Elderly Ladies who allow their dogs to drop intestinally-evacuated adornments on the streets, Litter Louts and Graffiti Artists are criminals who should be dealt with most severely.

I believe the Cuts to public services are the greatest crime to humanity since the last one. Whatever that was. Pigeon psychologists are a vital asset to the economy and should be re-employed immediately.

I believe in the sense of justice and fairness of the Moots. They are not there to make money. Ever.

I believe in Santa Claus. I saw him after I chewed a Magic Mushroom last year. I swear. Honest.

I believe in man-generated Global Warming.

I believe in the honesty and impartiality of the soothsayers - most especially the respected Beeby See.

I believe that the pontifications opinions of experts and scientific sages are to be trusted above commonsense and accepted as definitive. For all time. Whatever.

Amen.

* I am reliably informed that Beeby See relies heavily on the services of fairies, so their accounts must be valid.
** The expenses scandals were merely accounting errors made by politicians under considerable pressure.
^ I don't know if he has a left - I haven't looked.

Climate Conference Apprentice

I hear that one silver-haired member of the Witangemot Supreme Governing Council - a certain Húne - known as 'Horehound' - has been to some exotic location in Ultima Thule for an expensive drunken orgy conference dedicated to the eradication of Global Warming. For the benefit of the readers who might be blissfully unaware of this matter - this is a scare-story put about by soothsayers like Beeby See and the Witangemot which has been designed to frighten the public with apocalyptic stories of sea levels rising and enveloping poor frightened little polar bears. This - so they tell us - is because human beings have been lighting too many home fires and bonfires; blacksmiths and potters are particularly guilty of this, owing to their need for fires in their kilns and forges. The net result of this is that the amount of soot and other noxious gases released into the atmosphere is causing the temperature of the earth to increase. Whatever.

As I look out on this frosty landscape here in Streonaeshalch, I can't see for the life of me what they mean. I'm sure that there must be some reasonable justification for this story, but since the puddles here are frozen solid, the cattle troughs are full of ice and nobody ventures out into the freezing cold unless really necessary, I'm at a loss to see why they are so confidently asserting this. Since it comes from Beeby See and the Witangemot, it must be based on fantasy. The desired outcome for the political and soothsaying illusionists who put on stage plays for the unreflective members of the population is - wait for it - Money! They will raise lots of money by imposing additional taxes, leaving a population in poverty - and in fear of their lives should they be tempted to light a fire on a winter's day. I know how it works. Whatever.

I've been watching the entertainment known as 'The Apprentice' lately. Last night was the Final, when Father Simon the Cowl Aellan the Sugardaddy chooses between the two remaining contestants for the coveted prize of a place in his workshop. I would dearly love to get Húne and his other fairy-tale spinners into Egbert's pottery, coat them in glaze and shove them into his kiln - and shout, 'You're Fired!' Caedmon thinks that's very unChristian of me - but I keep telling him that's what happened to Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-Nego in the Book Of Daniel. I suppose Leo's cage is an alternative. Daniel knew about that, didn't he?