Strike Me Pink, Bite Me Red

Well, the much-anticipated day has finally arrived. I've been so excited about it that I've been sleeping a lot better than usual. After a wonderful fish breakfast first thing this morning, I wandered from Caedmon's hovel to survey what was happening here in Streonaeshalch, and to gauge the mood of the people. Since I'm only a cat, I can make casual appearances, and no one gives my presence a moment's thought - if they even notice me at all.

My port of call was the local school - normally a hive of frenzied activity and noise. When I arrived there, it was closed as if the day were a Sunday. For a moment I wondered if I'd turned up far too early, since I have a different sense of time from human beings. But I didn't have to wait long before I noticed some bedraggled people arriving at the school gate wielding crudely crafted placards. They looked decidedly hung over, and their hair was dirty and unkempt. They were accompanied by myriads of flies. They didn't look at all like pedagogues; they more resembled the occupants of the hedgerows.

Soon, more people showed up with banners and bags of magic mushrooms, which I suspect were brought along to provide them with inspiration for the daunting task that lay ahead of them. After half an hour or so, there was a substantial crowd of educators with their mushrooms and placards. They started to drone, bawl, yell incoherently and jeer. I looked around to see the object of their vocal outburst, but I perceived no one. The mushrooms were evidently working.

In view of the fact that the school only has ten pedagogues on its staff at the most, I was intrigued by the high numbers of people protesting outside the gates, so out of curiosity, I edged a little nearer to the frenzied multitude. It didn't take me long to discern that the greatest majority of the happy throng weren't teachers at all. Their banners were carrying the insignia of the Redistributionist Workers Faction, which I happen to know is a professional political body consisting of magic mushroom addicts, no-hopers, wasters, political fanatics, ne'er-do-wells, luvvies, drunks, homeopaths and various other off-beat specimens of humanity. They all have one common denominator: despite the carefully-crafted name of their club, they have neither experience nor even a concept of industry or labour, since their revenue is provided from Northumbrian benefit groats. One of them staggered towards me with a malevolent gleam in his eye; I read the warning signs, and as my reflexes kicked in, I hastily sunk my teeth into his outstretched hand. I was pleased with the resulting cuts from my needle-sharp gnashers and his howl of protest, but decided I ought to take evasive action and climb a tree to avoid retribution.

Some passers-by - men and women on their way to their market stalls, fields and workshops - growled and sneered at them as they walked by. They too seem to understand that this Strike is a cause celebre for those who regard a life of Riley at public expense as a Divine Right while ordinary mortals suffer the deprivations consequent to over-taxation.

I wonder what will happen when the supply of magic mushrooms runs out? It would be tempting to assume that most of them would wake up from the illusion they've fondly carried around with them. But I suspect that some of them are so ingrained with the collective Redistributionist mentality that an alternative would be too horrible for them to contemplate. I only hope the blood from that protester's hand wasn't contaminated with fly agaric toxins. All the same, I can understand why Leo gets enthusiastic about his fantasy lunches...

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...

Castor And Pollux

The realm of Northumbrian politics has all the hallmarks of those of our illustrious predecessors, the Romans. Those who've been blessed with a decent education and a curious mind will doubtless be familiar with the stories of the Caesars, many of whom were either psychotic and paranoid sociopaths, psychopathic and decadent despots, ruthlessly ambitious rulers - or, like Caligula - just plain nut jobs.

When we learn about the Redistributionist Faction, we soon come to a shocking realisation that beneath a seemingly benign and dottily idealistic surface (nourished by the chewing of an endless supply of magic mushrooms) seethes a nest of vicious, backstabbing vipers. And that's just among the rank-and-file.. (For the sake of any vipers who might be reading this - I'm very sorry - I didn't mean to malign or demean you by comparing you with human politicians: I for one know that you're actually very charming and beautiful creatures.)

Edweird The Milliner - the present Beloved Ruler of the Witangemot Redistributionist Faction and Leader of His Majesty's Loyal Opposition - has been in the attention of the soothsayers a great deal of late. Not - I hasten to add - because of any significant pronouncement that he's made or majestic deed that he's done to further his deluded cause; the fact of the matter is that he's failed to make any gains in the credibility of the reflective members of the Northumbrian population. According to many soothsayers, it's a matter of conjecture as to how long he'll survive in office in view of the internal civil wars, plots and intrigues that are currently in motion.

Eddy Boy's meteoric rise to prominence in the Faction took everyone by surprise, given the fact that he's never been either a popular or a charismatic figure - unlike his predecessor Guffmund the Brown, whose cheery countenance, quick-fire humour and merry demeanour inspired admiration and respect throughout the Kingdom, which he successfully and joyfully bankrupted. Eddy competed with his brother Dagwald for the coveted prize of Faction Leader, and whilst the contest was in progress, it was assumed that Dagwald - the more outgoing and personable of the two chimps - would be crowned King of The Redistributionist throne. Alas - it was not to be. Like the ancient biblical story of Jacob and Esau, the likely lad was cheated of his natural birthright by the machinations of his devious younger sibling.

Since that traumatic day, the soothsayers have been surmising that Dagwald - bitterly disappointed at his defeat by his feckless brother - is biding his time, waiting for the One Catastrophic Failure that will provide him with the I-told-you-so excuse to seize the reins and direct the Faction to government, and propel the Kingdom to a further period of oppression, secrecy, profligate spending and unfettered borrowing. By my calculations, the Realm already has ten thousand years' worth of debt to pay off through taxation from the last Redistributionist administration..

Whatever happens, the Milliner boys had better watch their backs; stories - like buoyant dog jobs - are surfacing about the cloak-and-dagger activities of Edweird The Spheres, the slobbering, mendacious bully-boy who was appointed by Eddy to the position of Shadow Keeper Of the King's Balls. We're told that this unsavoury piece of work was responsible for bringing down Tondvig The Blur...

Personally, I'd like to see them all locked in a confined space - like ferrets in a sack. With any luck, only the bones will be left. I'm sure my mate Feaxede the fox would approve: it would make a change from chicken...

Look Left, Look Riot

Monday again - and I'm pooped! It's been such a busy weekend, what with helping Caedmon to fill in the Census forms for a number of poor illiterate Streonaeshalch residents and everything. At least that's over. I managed to persuade Caedmon not to fill in the 'religion' slot on his own form. He reluctantly agrees that it makes sense. Fortunately, kittycats are exempt from filling the forms in, so I haven't had that dubious pleasure. However, I did manage to put 'Brain Surgeon' down as the occupation of one large and intellectually-challenged gentleman. I was relieved that Caedmon didn't notice - otherwise my intestines would now be gracing a stringed instrument somewhere…

Census aside, there's been such a lot going on lately. My poor little feline brain is reeling from the relentless cascade of events that have been taking place this last couple of days.

On Saturday I heard all about the Big Protest down in Yorvik, the Capital City of Northumbria. Myriads of diversity coordinators, schoolmasters, pigeon quota accountants, fish psychologists and assorted environmental administrators converged on the city, waving placards bearing unintelligible and badly-written slogans damning the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration for their brutal cuts to public expenditure. They were accompanied by assorted partisans, artisans, labourers and hangers-on from the various trade guilds (skilled and unskilled), schoolchildren, toddlers, university students (complete with with bibs and comforters) and - to everyone's surprise - representatives of the concerned gentlefolk from the leafy shires and hundreds. An uneasy alliance, I suspect.

They headed en masse for a large area of common land where people usually put horses, pigs and sheep to graze, and they were addressed in grand style by - among other tub-thumpers - Edweird the Milliner, the Dear Leader of the fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction. What a day it was! There were celebrity luvvies, musicians and picnics, and the mead and ale flowed freely. The sound of jaws masticating the magic mushrooms broke the occasional tranquillity of the afternoon. Until Edweird spoke. And the faithful followers weren't disappointed. He loudly proclaimed that this was a fateful day, and that he was Boadicea the Briganti Warrior Queen, who was once regarded as a British heroine. As the rhetorical dams burst, he went on to  proclaim that he was a Berliner (which is a kind of Westphalian doughnut) - and the crowd roared its approval. (I wonder what flavour the jam was? My preference is strawberry.) Those mushrooms must have been wonderful, Eddy boy. How's your guts and your head today?

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Yorvik, other protests were happening. These protesters were a less sedate and civilised bunch. They were young thugs, dressed in black and waving clubs and anything they could lay their hands on. They set buildings alight, and scuffles inevitably ensued with the Municipal Costumed Thugs. These protesters were mainly zealots of the Redistributionist Workers Party - a chandelier-swinging, halfbaked offshoot from the official political faction, which has designs on a worldwide Red empire. I don't know why they name themselves as Redistributionist Workers - most of them have no idea what work actually is, as they're too busy plotting the downfall of the established order, chewing hallucinogenic fungi and drinking mead and ale at the expense of the public purse.

After the magic mushrooms wore off, the rioters were either arrested or allowed to go home with a thick ear to their anxious mothers, where a warm bowl of porridge awaited them. How nice. The poor citizens of Yorvik are picking up the pieces and tidying up the mess. Once again.

But what these imbecilic window-lickers have failed to accept is that they themselves are the reason for the financial crisis that have made the expenditure cuts necessary, since they've all been cheerfully draining the taxpayers' money on their frivolous, illusory enterprises for centuries. But I don't think they're listening. Their brains aren't wired to accept unpalatable things like facts. That's why the magic mushrooms are so popular, I suppose...