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...

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...

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.