Aerial Warfare

The Witangemot's demolition of the Northumbrian peoples' wishes for a vote regarding continued membership of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) has caused something of an uproar in this beautiful Realm, as ordinary Northumbrians have started to wake up to the realisation that they're not being represented by their local politicos at all, but are being governed by a cadre of patronising, unprincipled and spineless placemen at the behest of the Evil Emperor King Jose Borracho and his vapid, half-witted henchman Hermit the Rumphole. My master Caedmon is quite philosophical and phlegmatic about it all, since he has a biblically pessimistic view of the nature of human nature and political institutions..

My good friend Feaxede the fox, on the other hand, is hopping mad about the sad and sordid business, and he's been passing on the news through his own vulpine corner of the Northumbrian vineyard, but sadly, none of his fellow-creatures seem to be remotely concerned or even interested. (However, despite their failure to grasp the implications of these issues and their apparent indifference to matters human, they do have more than a passing passion for the trivial fripperies of 'The Ð Factor' and 'Strictly Foxtrot.')

Even so, life is full of surprises - and surprising ones at that. I learned today that the avian members of the created order are already primed to take action - and they mean serious business. I'm particularly referring to the Seagulls, who adorn the cliff faces and roofs of Streonaeshalch - as well as the municipal dump, where they carry out their own assiduous research. These birds are fearless, cheeky, intrusive and can grow to considerable sizes. I stalked and killed a small gull once; I won't ever repeat that folly, as it took several days for my injuries to heal: they have very sharp beaks. And the taste wasn't worth the battle anyway.. You live and learn.

The greatest asset of these greedy, noisy and aggressive birds is their aerial eloquence in making weighty statements from a considerable height. As I've mentioned elsewhere, they're also known to coordinate their efforts and make their pronouncements in choro. Which is just as well, since the politicos have been recently deeply concerned about their growth in numbers, and consequently have been plotting to reduce their numbers through proposed programmes of population control and Herodian slaughter.

A campaign of aerial warfare against the Witangemot is therefore now in operation. Squadrons of the blessed birdies are already descending upon their Moot Hall in clusters of several thousand, gaining ingress to the inner chamber and giving the politicos the benefit of their colorectal opinions. Repeatedly. With bells and whistles.

What the seagulls deposit on the heads, shoulders and benches of the honourable members is a great deal more desirable than the foul stuff they habitually serve up. I don't feel at all sorry for them; I'll be cheering from the wings. Bring it on, boys!

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..?

Now You See Him – Now You Don’t

The word 'cynicism' comes from the Greek word 'kynos' – which is their term for those tail-wagging, barking idiots called Dogs. How dogs are associated with cynicism is beyond me: I'll have to ask Caedmon about that. In my book it should be 'cattacysm'.

Please excuse the articulation of cynicism you're about to read – I realise that it's not a characteristic normally attributed to kitty cats, but regular readers of this blog should be well used to it by now…

Here goes. It's so delightfully reassuring that the politicians and the Royal Family have such highly tuned foresight and moral principles to live by and work with. Like the prophet Moses carving a path through the open waters of the Red Sea, they too - in their own little way - blaze a moral trail for their unreflective and bovine followers to deferentially follow. With exemplars like that, we have every reason to be confident of a great future for the Kingdom of Northumbria.

I feel so much better now: it's akin to the paroxysm of relief experienced in making a long-deferred colorectal statement.

Let me explain. I'm sure you must be aware by now that the soothsayers are ceaselessly haranguing us with hideous tales of barbarity, cruelty and viciousness from the Cyrenian and Syrian despots, who are being relentlessly castigated for robustly resisting attempts to unseat them by their respective detractors, who are allegedly fighting to establish Freedom and Democratic Government in their homelands. Apparently, it's not good practice for a tribal chieftain, king or emperor to defend his position from usurpers. Perhaps they should benignly smile while allowing their opponents to plunder their realms and massacre their households.

If these rebels are fighting their fellow countrymen to establish the kind of 'democracy' enjoyed in the lovely country of Northumbria and the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), they're in for an ocean of disillusionment. But I'm not the cat to tell them; that's for them to find out by their own bitter experience.

Among the invitees to the Great Royal Wedding (and I saw this on the guest list that Feaxede liberated the other week) was the Emissary of Syria. In view of the fact that the guest list was drawn up a few weeks ago – when the first stirrings of dissent and brutal governmental suppression had manifested themselves – it's a surprising choice, but who am I to question the infinite wisdom of Those Who Matter?

Anyway. One day before the Great Weeding Wedding, it has been announced through the soothsayers that the Syrian Emissary's invitation has been withdrawn.

Hardly has the poor fellow dusted off his ceremonial robes, scimitar and turban when he's had to put them all away again. It says a lot for courtesy, doesn't it? What kind of imbeciles make invitations that they subsequently retract? No, I don't understand, either. And with forethought like that, we're really going places, folks.

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...

Led By The Nose

Each new day bears another eloquent testimony to the knuckle-dragging imbecility of those donkeys who pretend to preside over the governance of this lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

As I've previously explained, the Kingdom has a monarch and a cardboard-cutout constitutional democracy, which is designed to pacify naïve natives and impress visitors; it's currently administered by a combination of 2 otherwise rival political factions: the Trees and the Liberationists. This state of affairs – or so we are told - arose because the battered and bewildered Northumbrians failed to vote for any one faction in convincing enough numbers to secure an overall majority (despite the extensive and assiduous vote-rigging which went on in some Redistributionist circles). Horse trading therefore ensued between the respective faction leaders, resulting in the seemingly blessed compromise solution presented to us. Whatever.

Naturally, when 2 factions hold the reins of this fantasy coalition government, each side is obliged to abandon its original political objectives; manifestos are torn up before the ink is even dry. (It would be misleading of me to suggest that they are forced to abandon their principles, since it's evident that they don't have one between them.) Each faction in the alliance counterbalances the other; this inhibits any of the fanatical and bizarre ideas that might otherwise have taken shape as policy with which to bludgeon and afflict the long-suffering populace. The fact that the ratio of Northumbrians represented by the 2 colluding ruling factions doesn't correspond to a 50-50 split has no bearing on the matter; the Liberationists only represent an insignificant percentage of doddery ancients and wild-eyed eccentrics, but for all this, they wield considerable power over the otherwise bizarre and fanatical aspirations of the Trees.

With all this in mind, it strikes me as rather odd that the seedy and disreputable honourable and esteemed members of the Redistributionist faction – now outnumbered by the paired factions in government - have recently adopted the habit of referring to the present administration as 'the Tree-led government.' This new tactic is probably intended to lay the blame for any disasters squarely at the feet of the Trees, who are sworn enemies of the Redistributionists.

In view of the fact that the Trees – like themselves – don't have the full weight of public support, this epithet flies in the face of reality. The Trees are in no position to lead anything. (Although I'm given to understand that at the end of the morning the Tree Leader Caedmeron is usually the first man out of the Witangemot assembly hall, and he leads the way so that he gets his lavish and expensive public-funded lunch before anyone else.) But as the Franks often say, 'Noblesse oblige.'

I'm not sure that Edweird the Milliner has enough influence to lead himself out of a paper bag - let alone the faction he heads up, so he has no room to talk.

So from now on I'm going to refer to Edweird the Milliner and his cohort of slavering drones droning slaves cronies as the Fly Agaric–led Opposition, since that seems to be the active ingredient behind their incoherent and delirious blitherings.

Just thought I'd let you know…

Demockery-cy

I'm coming to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with me. While I go about my usual feline pursuits, I find that my mind goes into overdrive. Unfortunately, the turbo boost my mental process experiences doesn't serve to enhance my effectiveness in hunting and killing prey one bit - in fact it becomes a wretched distraction. Countless mice and birds have escaped my claws and teeth because of my preoccupations; the latest object of my uncontrolled ruminations has been democracy.

It's a word I often hear drip from the chops of the various Witangemot puppets who spout from the sacred portals of the soothsayers. The other day I asked Caedmon what he thought democracy was. His reply was that it was the rule of the people; it was devised by the ancient Greeks (has no one put the old gits out of their misery yet?). Now, I understand that the Northumbrian people carry with them a blissful illusion that they have a say in the way they are governed. They fondly think that their voice is heard - and that it carries some weight with the Witangemot government. They vote for their most favoured factions, who lavish them with eloquent promises about a better future, a classless and just society, greater freedom, more rewards for their labours and so on. And according to the plausibility of these promises - and the individuals who make them - they cast their lot to select their desired Witangemot representative.

As a moggy - who is able to explore various areas that aren't available to the common and garden human being - I have insights not available to the world at large. I gatecrash parties and meetings, purr contentedly around the legs of the assembled guests or delegates and eavesdrop their conversations. I amass the things I see and overhear, and cogitate incessantly until a conclusion drops into place with a deafening thud.

But this time no such thing has happened. I'm finding democracy to be a very strange idea, and this is why: people nurse the idea that Witangemot and other democratic institutions reflect the wishes and aspirations of the majority. The other day, I heard that in the Suffolk area of the land of the Angles, the people were invited by their local Witangemot to vote for the image they thought best identified what the county stood for. The loyal people of that area of the Anglian kingdom duly submitted their chosen icon, and after the deadline date, the votes were counted. The result was that the good people of Suffolk voted for a band of unkempt, unwashed and rebellious young musicians called the 'Cot Of Dirtiness'. Not my preferred choice, I'll have to admit - but that's what they voted for. Whatever floats your longship. The Witangemot leaders didn't like the choice however, so they agreed to adopt the image of a horse for their county emblem instead. So - what was that all about?

And that's not all. King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) presented the various nations with a new treaty, the acceptance of which depended on a popular vote. The people of Ireland voted against it. Fair enough, Joe boy. You can't win 'em all. So, what happened next? King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) waited until a particularly uncertain time in the Irish economy, and foisted the same vote upon them. Again. No kidding. And this time, the poor suckers voted in favour of the treaty. And now - as I write - the Irish are up to their ears in debts, poxes and innumerable calamities.

Democracy. What's it really about? Perhaps you can now understand why I don't get the picture - and why the mice are getting away...