How Much Is That Moggy In The Window?

As I approach a few days' Cat break - where mousing will be heavy, and blogging will either be non-existent (at worst) or light (at best), it's very satisfying for this Moggy to discover that there are other areas of this terrestrial vineyard where the idiocies of the Northumbrian politicos, their soothsaying country cousins and the ruling classes are exceeded. In fact, I'd go as far to say that they're not only exceeded - they're outclassed. If there were ever a Holy Roman Empire (neither holy, Roman nor an empire) Idiocy Games, the Northumbrian contestants should immediately pick up their knuckles from the ground and discreetly withdraw in shame to contemplate their crushing defeat.

My dear readers - wherever you are on this globe (yes - it is the circle of the earth: the Bible says so in the Prophecy of Isaiah), prepare for The Big One. Sit down - making sure you've found a chair first. Pour yourself a flagon of mead, chew a red, spotty magic mushroom - or find some alternative way of mentally preparing yourself for what I'm about to tell you.

Ready..?

Somewhere in the far-away land of Ultima Thule, an entire city has decided to ban the selling of pets to its citizens. Read it again - slowly. If any member of a human family in that benighted parcel of earth wants to take a kitty or a bunny home - or even a puppy if absolutely necessary - then he or she won't any longer be able to go to the shambles and make a purchase of a cuddly animal from a pet trader. An entire industry is going to cease - and pet stall proprietors are a species facing rapid extinction.

Of course, there will be an underground trade; business is business, and there's a hardy breed of entrepreneur found in every community who will continue undaunted to meet the market demand - with frequent, furtive glances over his shoulder. But at what cost? In that land - renowned for its savage and uncompromising treatment of those members of the criminal fraternity who don't achieve the exalted and privileged ranks of the political classes, the jails are going to be heaving with apprehended kitty merchants, and the gallows will be working 24/7 shifts to dispose of this evil - root and branch.

I know from Caedmon that he obtained me from a kindly local farmer; his pet cat - a formidable mouser - had surprised him with a litter, and once weaned, I was parted from my mother and siblings at no cost to Caedmon. Many of my feline peers were bought from the shambles and markets of the district.

The likely outcome for Those Wise Ones in the administration of Sacred Law in that Ultima Thule metropolis is that they'll reap the whirlwind from the breeze they've sown; a surge in good-neighbourliness and human kindness will result in animals being given away for free, and the population of cows, sows, cats, gnats, bats, rats, frogs, hogs and dogs is going to increase exponentially. There will be legions of street cleaners, hopelessly and frantically sweeping up brown colorectal statements from the pavements, unable to keep up with the volume of production.

I will be joyfully contemplating this over the next few days - if the supply of mice has reduced, that is...

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...

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…

Bogey On Down

Well - following the excitement and feeding frenzy around the Wedding of Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha, things had started to settle down. The deferential and sycophantic slobbering of the soothsayers had started to diminish, and once again attention was turning to the Cyrenian war, where the delusional, khat-chewing psychopath O'Daffy has been getting a pasting from the combined forces of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), who are acting as military advisors and toothpicks to the raggle-taggle Cyrenian rebels.

And then the announcement came. Olaf Ladensson - the legendary Viking homicidal maniac and religious fanatic - has been killed. Really.

Olaf Ladensson was a legendary figure, whose purported aim was to win the entire civilised Anglo-Saxon world to the Norse customs, gods and the Eddas - the Nordic holy book of fairytales and heroes. A noble aim, if you like that sort of thing - but unfortunately for Olaf and his crew, the majority of Anglo-Saxons simply don't give a monkey's for their offbeat beliefs. Some of them - my own master Caedmon included - are devout Christians, who would never renounce the Gospel. Since Olaf Ladensson recognised this reality, he purportedly made it his mission to use gentle persuasion to tenderly woo the Anglo-Saxons to his beloved religion. So they tell us that he inspired his faithful and equally fanatical followers to go berserk in busy marketplaces, and kill as many Anglo-Saxons as possible. This they did - with deadly effect. They also burned buildings, causing devastation and severe loss of life.

Oddly enough, after the main atrocities attributed to this Viking had been committed, the hysteria whipped up by the politicians and the soothsayers about Olaf Ladensson gently and gradually dwindled. In the meantime, Great Security Measures were taken to intimidate ordinary travelling Anglo-Saxon folk. At every settlement they passed through, their belongings were assiduously searched for weapons - just in case they were actually Viking infiltrators on a crazy suicide mission. Everyone was now a suspect.

And suddenly, after years of silence, lo and behold! Olaf Ladensson has been found and summarily executed. And there are some elections coming up in various places. Hmmm...

If Olaf Ladensson hadn't existed, it would have been necessary for Those Who Know Best to invent him. He's been very useful figure - like Father Christmas, Elvey Preslode or - perhaps more appropriately - The Bogey Man. And now he's gone.

Time for a new one, I suspect...

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....

Caesar Opportunity

We're half awake in a fake empire.
The National: Fake Empire (Bryce Dessner)


If I were to take on board all of the misery peddled by the soothsayers and suchlike, I'm quite sure I'd be a neurotic, gibbering kitty by now. Day after day pours forth a further torrent of gloom and despondency from the soothsayers, flavoured by all kinds of alarming developments in the world of human beings.

Cuts, Health Scares, Murders, Battles, Wars, Pestilences, Plagues, Poxes, Pizza, Tax Increases, Global Warming, Mildew and Rising Damp are all standard fare on the gloom-monger's breakfast table. And, of course, there's more of the same for lunch, tea and supper too. And how about a tasty nibble of Desolation between meals? It won't spoil your appetite. Much.

But a lively Christian faith balanced with a sense of humour and ridicule get you a long way, and they go far to help me regain a balanced perspective on the world. And when I hear about Hermit - the half-witted henchman of King Jose Borracho of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I can't help but smile. Bless his little padded jacket ;-)

It appears that the Emperor Caesar Borracho has - in his unbounded wisdom and magnanimity - wheeled Herman out for an hour or two, and even permitted him to move his mouth and to utter quasi-intelligible noises to a congregation of window-licking lackeys and soothsayers. Now, that's a very dangerous undertaking, since it's by no means predictable what the dolt is going to say. But life is full of risks, isn't it?  Just ask any out-of-work Health And Safety Administrator for details.

And Hermit hasn't disappointed. He stated that he - singlehandedly - well, with a teensy-weensy bit of help from the Franks, the Anglo-Saxons, the Jutes, the Danes, the Gauls, the Dacians, the Magyars and Uncle Tom Cobley and all - has successfully prevented O'Daffy - the chandelier-swinging psychopathic despot over Cyrene - from beating his rebellious opponents to a pulp. Not one innocent person has died as a result of the Imaginary Empire's military looting, pillaging and sacking  adventures. One more stunning triumph for the emerging Beast From The Sea - Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Hooray! Rejoice with me, people.

Consequently, there have been parades, flags and celebrations here in Streonaeshalch. There's been dancing and the unrestrained drinking of ale and mead in the streets; the bunting has been flapping merrily in the breeze. When I asked some half-cut Saxon youth what he was celebrating, he looked at me blankly and managed to say through slurred words that he had no idea. But everyone else was celebrating, so he was simply joining in. He then went off to disgorge the entire content of his stomach somewhere. For understandable reasons I didn't hang around.

I can't help but cheer up when I hear deluded claptrap like that. There's a saying that those whom the gods wish to destroy they make mad first; certainly Nebuchadnezzar learned that lesson from the Almighty - but he was fortunate enough to have his sanity restored. The empires of men have always been established on the same illusions and fictions used to perpetuate them. The problem is that there are always casualties resulting from their delusions of grandeur and adequacy. Sooner or later, something is going to sink its sharp, needle-like teeth into the padded posteriors of the kings, the princes, the satraps, the nobles and the hangers-on who wallow in their self-importance and feast off the ill-gotten fruits of the labours of the serfs. Its name is Reality.

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...

All's Fair In Love And War..

Despite the fact that I'm a cat - a member of the animal kingdom - I'm nevertheless intimately familiar with the language, social habits and values of humankind. This is attributable to the fact that I've spent the greatest part of my life in the company of humans - and Caedmon in particular. I owe to him a great deal of my understanding of what makes people tick, and I've consequently acquired the ability to observe people and form my own conclusions.


Anglo-Saxons are - for the most part - a noble breed, with a highly developed sense of justice and fair play, and unlike their more excitable continental counterparts, they possess a disposition which is markedly reserved and undemonstrative; they're also masters of understatement, which is usually accompanied with a subtle hue of underlying sarcasm. Less reflective foreigners perceive Anglos to be placid and taciturn, but this isn't generally the case. Of course there are always exceptions to the rule; every settlement has its resident hothead or blabbermouth.


All this considered, I've found it not a little surprising that Cyrstréow of Blodfag, the wife of previous Witangemot leader Tondbert of Blodfag has recently publicly divulged quite intimate details about her relationship with husband. As a result, the soothsayers have been twittering endlessly like awakening birds in the Dawn Chorus. One consequence of this is that Caedmeron - Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Head Cock and Bluebottle Washer of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has suddenly decided to singlehandedly declare war of the land of Cyrene and its demented, psychopathic, khat-chewing despot O'Daffy. Perhaps he wants to inspire admiration in his missus too: stranger reasons have underlined military and political decisions…


Following the Mesopotamian and Bactrian military fiascos which deprived countless people of their lives, Tondbert of Blodfag deservedly earned for himself (and his fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction) a reputation for bloodlust, rapacity, duplicity and treachery - all achieved through a silken tongue and a stage presence worthy of an accomplished actor. To give him credit, Caedmeron hasn't resorted to subterfuge to justify battling with O'Daffy and his psychotic cut-throats; the Anglo-Saxon sense of fair play appears to be the principal motive. The revenue from Cyrenian olive oil, silks and spices may incidentally have some bearing on it - but nobody ever mentions that. On the other hand, this could simply be the implementation of a devious plan by the power-crazed megalomaniac King Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman Hermit to bring yet another country under the yoke of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)..


For my part, I don't give a monkey's about the Blodfag marriage or - how it works; it appears to me that they're displaying the prurient mentality of the vile soothsayers - and the imbeciles who lap up their scatological offerings..


I'm sure they have earned a great deal of awe and respect from the window-lickers. They've earned none of mine.

Goodnight, Cyrene

The wheels of idiocy continue to turn; the placid serenity of everyday Streonaeshalch in this lovely Kingdom of Northumbria provides a marked contrast with the furore that has recently erupted in the Witangemot. This surrounds the current rioting and unrest in Cyrene – a North African country once a noble outpost of the defunct Roman Empire, now populated by Berbers and Arabs.

As in Carthage and Egypt, the local population of Cyrene have decided that It Would Be A Good Idea to rise up and challenge their eccentric and malevolent king – a khat-chewing psychopath called O'Daffy, who has benignly oppressed and tormented his subjects for the last ninety years. O'Daffy has been the darling of the Redistributionist politicos, who in previous years have visited his kingdom on jollies fact-finding missions to pay him sycophantic homage and drum up more trade. He has been regarded as the very embodiment of Redistributionist thought; he efficiently redistributed the entire nation's wealth into his back pocket, while living in a smelly Bedouin tent. (This was rumoured to be merely for the purpose of amusing and entertaining his lickspittle visitors – he returned to his sumptuous palaces once they'd disappeared from sight.)

After so many years of oppression by O'Daffy and his cadre of self-serving and vicious henchmen, the people of that Kingdom have decided that they've had enough of being exploited in grinding poverty and being easy prey for his torturing pals. So there has been a bloody stand-off; many Cyrenians have already been killed by O'Daffy's army, who've had no qualms about cheerfully murdering their own countrymen.

There's always been a large community of foreigners living in Cyrene; these have been Franks, Irish, Danes, Westphalians and Anglo-Saxons who've been more than happy to feast cheaply on lavish Cyrenian fare despite their knowledge of O'Daffy's vicious grip on his people. When the rioting first started, the Franks, Irish, Danes and Westphalians quickly acted to send ships and horses to evacuate their subjects and take them to somewhere safer. The uproar has been about the perceived delay in getting these feckless people out of danger. The Anglo-Saxons over there are understandably worried, since no help whatsoever has arrived from Northumbria yet. But I've just heard that they needn't worry any longer: Walthelm the Hag – the eggshell blond Foreign Secretary of the Witangemot has arranged for an ancient boat to pick up the hapless Anglo-Saxons. It'll get there in 3 months with a right wind – if it doesn't sink first…

The Prince And The Porkers

This is such a busy week for your moggy; I was really hoping to take some time out - you know, catching mice and kitty stuff like that - but once again, I've been provoked by yet another episode in the continuing saga of our window-licking superiors. Why can't they simply let a cat have some peace for once? Pah!

This time we've been hearing about our esteemed Prince Ethelbert, who recently appeared in pomp and splendour before the Supreme Soviet of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire). Prince Ethelbert has given a speech. Whoop-de-do. Hold on to your hats, people.

Now, if there were any sentient beings bearing the slightest vestige of human resemblance who certainly do not deserve the natural gift of communication, then this man must surely be one of them; in fact, it is this cat's considered opinion that he should be confined to a field somewhere, feeding pigs, mending fences or doing other constructive things. Over the years, this aristocratic buffoon has ably demonstrated to the rest of humanity - as well as those of us of the feline realm (and of course, not forgetting my mate Feaxede the fox) - his unbounded capacity to offload his phenomenal ignorance and spout complete rubbish. He's already successfully carved for himself a career by upsetting people infinitely more knowledgeable and experienced than he.

Our Clown Prince - at the invitation of the pig-faced Emperor Jose Borracho - has this time demonstrated his lack of knowledge and understanding of Climate Science; his expertise in this delicate subject can be considered to be inversely proportional to the size of his ears.

In his speech to the assembled adoring herds hordes, he suggested that all those people who cast doubt on the Holy Climate Change Dogma (taught by His Holiness Bishop Georges Moonbat, the fly agaric-chewing sage and spiritual leader of the drug-crazed World Climate Disaster Cult) should be held accountable. How will they face the next generation? Great question, Princey boy.
 
Guess what he's been chewing, guys..

Well, I never. Who'd have imagined that such a delicate petal of this lovely realm of Northumbria should come out with such imbecility?

It underlines to me my suspicion that this fellow and his wealthy associates have more than a vested interest in the success of these magic mushroom-inspired theologies. Methinks he and his family want to use the good offices of the crazed and deluded Bishop Georges Moonbat and his wild-eyed acolytes to keep the underlings poor, deprived and hungry. Such is the measure of their esteem for their subjects. After all, if honest men are no longer allowed to light fires and burn wood for their hearths and their forges for the sake of 'saving the planet', how are they going to keep warm, cook food and make a living? The irony of it all is that the Prince lives in unspeakable luxury and wealth, and has thousands of log fires to keep his houses and his lackeys warm. Bring up some more standards, boys: we haven't got enough to go round..

Lash the serfs a bit more - keep 'em under the whip and squeeze more groats out of them. Whatever.

It's often said in these parts that it's better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. Prince Lugfest Ethelbert is a living demonstration of the wisdom of this saying.

I'd love to pay him a visit in his sumptuous residence. I have something to offer that would enhance his refined palate...

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…

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.

A Blame Duck

One of our occasional lodgers - Alfmund - stayed with us over the weekend. He's a seasoned traveller who often regales us with stories he's heard in the course of his wanderings. This time he told us that a female politician in Ultima Thule was seriously injured - and several other people were killed - by a deranged young man with a crossbow a few days ago. Understandably, this terrible event has caused a great deal of unhappiness and soul-searching in Ultima Thule, and as ever, the soothsayers are having a field day; they scarcely witter about anything else. The young man responsible for this atrocity was siezed by the local costumed thugs, and is now languishing in jail, awaiting the next session of their Moot.

What's also significant about this development is the fact that the political faction to which the injured young politician belongs is laying the blame for this unhappy incident at the feet of a rival faction. This comes in the context of fierce political rivalries, which regularly find expression in hastily chosen words and angry exchanges in (and outside of) their Witangemot. It's all part of the showbiz of Witangemot politics. The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd.

According to Alfmund's account, the young man responsible for this violence was a strange and disturbed soul, who on a previous occasion had asked the lady politician some rather bizarre questions. Perhaps he'd been chewing the magic mushrooms and drinking mead at the same time - but we're not sure about the cause of his insanity - or whether it's temporary or not.

Nevertheless, the politicians in the faction accused of provoking this incident are understandably angry at this unjust accusation - especially since the young fruitcake had no political or ideological affiliation with their particular cause. The accusing party have evidently run out of intellectual road. They deserve a lot of pity. There should be special care homes for them, poor dears. I'll have a word with Caedmon about this and see what he thinks.

It seems to be an unfailing trait of human nature to look for someone to blame. When Caedmon told me about the biblical account of the Fall in the Book of Genesis, he told me that when Adam was discovered by God to have disobeyed the one commandment given, Adam promptly blamed his wife Eve. She'd passed the forbidden fruit to him. It was therefore her fault. Eve in turn blamed the serpent who'd given her the idea in the first place. It was his fault. Neither of them actually put up their hands and said "It's a fair cop. My fault." Nuff said.

So. Somebody or something is to blame for this outrage. Let's look for someone, shall we? Where shall we start? Let's blame the crossbow manufacturer. If crossbows didn't exist, people wouldn't be injured or killed by them. We should ban them. Let's pass a law. The crossbow lobby would be up in arms about that.

But hang on a minute: crossbows are made of wood. If wood didn't exist, crossbows and bolts couldn't be made. It's the trees' fault. We must ban trees. Let's pass a law. The mucous-sleeved urban tree huggers would be up in arms about that.


This is getting silly. Let's blame global climate change, the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and the parents. Oh - and the Witangemot.

The Exit Factor

Now that the Card has won The Ð Factor, things have settled down in the Kingdom of Northumbria; the broken glass has been swept up, the costumed thugs have been assigned to their usual duty of persecuting litter-droppers and elderly ladies who allow their dogs to adorn the streets with brown decorations. The young rioters have all gone home and returned to their customary habit of lying in until noon. It's been quite a time.

One fresh area of controversy has come to light, however. According to Beeby See and the other soothsayers, an elderly priest from Ultima Thule has been invited by the Anglo-Saxon Defence Band to come to Lea Tun in Mercia and address the anxious  residents concerning the evils of the Viking religion. In recent times this priest threatened to burn the Eddas - the Viking holy book. This would have been a very provocative act - one that would severely displease and enrage the Vikings, who hold its writings with fervour and reverence. Violent attacks against Saxons and their churches could well have resulted if he'd decided to carry out his threat.

The Witangemot Domestic Secretary of the Lib/Tree administration - May Trees - is thinking about preventing the old priest from entering the Mercian kingdom. He should not be allowed to come. He must not be heard. His views are obnoxious. He will stir up hate against the Vikings. He is a troublemaker. Whatever.

When I heard this from the soothsayers, I asked Caedmon about it. What did he think? He told me that when he was a young man, people's views and opinions were heard and respected - even if they were contrary to received opinion. But he said, "Nobody thinks any more - they just recycle opinions that others have made for them." As he left to attend his herds, I reflected on what he'd just said. So much of what I've seen and heard bears this out.

Thought and tolerance have made an exit from the land. I think I know why - and the Witangemot politicos are a significant part of the problem. With this in mind, I went to May Trees' huge dwelling and, mustering all my intestinal fortitude, I left an exit message of my own on the doorstep. I couldn't parcel it in an envelope of soil because the doorstep was swept clean (as you would expect for a Domestic Secretary). So I just left my statement as it was. What else can a cat do..?

Snow Business like Show Business

Since I last posted, a thick blanket of snow has descended upon Streonaeshalch, and the countenance of the entire landscape has changed. Even St Hilda's Abbey looks beautiful on the top of the cliff, and the monks are wearing habits of heavier grade wool to keep themselves warm. The soothsayers are talking as if they've never seen snow before, and the prognosticators are telling us that this cold spell will stay with us for another week at least - but it might stay for the rest of the year. Apparently it's because of global warming - humans have been burning too may bonfires, and the resulting generation of smoke is altering the temperature of the climate. Whatever. Naturally, we're being regaled by the customary tales of woe: schools closed down, people trapped in their homes under several feet of snowdrifts, the stiff corpses of frozen stoats and badgers, businesses that have been bankrupted because of lost trade - all the usual stuff. It keeps the soothsayers busy - and entertains those who are dumb enough to hang onto their every word.

Another great disaster is the disclosure of many hitherto secret conversations between representatives of the kingdoms of the Northumbrians, the Mercians, the people of Wessex, the East Angles and the Jutes. If we're to believe what the soothsayers are so authoritatively telling us, the transcripts of all kinds of conversations between their politicians have been revealed to all and sundry. The resulting embarrassment of those dignitaries whose private conversations and correspondence have been disclosed is presented to us as tasty morsels of delightful gossip. For example, one senior Danish administrator in the Mercian Danegeld referred to the eldest daughter of the King of Wessex as a 'slapper' - much to everyone's amusement. The soothsayers have told us with a straight face that this could well occasion an international incident, and blacksmiths are being advised to beat ploughshares into swords in preparation for the coming Armageddon. I asked Caedmon what a 'slapper' was - but he wouldn't tell me. He's such a sobersides at times - I'll try to remember to ask him again when he's had another cheeky mead. I promise not to drop dead from the passive drinking fumes.

Are these disclosure stories true? The jury's out, but I'm pretty sure that it's just fodder to entertain and preoccupy the masses; after all - who pays the soothsayers and keeps them in a job? As for the real entertainment business - the Waggoner and the Weasel have been summarily dismissed from The Ð Factor'. That's good enough for me.

The Great Passive Danger

The soothsayers - and those who pay them to talk their addled drivel - have been at it again. They've recently announced that hundreds of thousands of people are dying as a result of passive drinking.

For the sake of those who don't quite understand this, I'll explain. The imbibing of alcoholic refreshments is a pastime that has been part of human life since the dawn of time; even the ancient Egyptians brewed ale as they built the Pyramids and flogged their slaves. Even squirrels, sheep and rabbits like to nibble at the occasional fermented apple and get a bit jolly; it makes life more enjoyable - well, at least until the morning after. I laughed myself silly when I saw a hung-over goat with his horns stuck in a tree trunk after a drunken session the other day. Cats like myself don't bother with such things; we just like to get stoned on catmint. Mmmmm - I'll hold that thought...

The problem is that once people have had a sip or two of ale or mead, their breath starts to exude alcoholic fumes. I can always tell when Caedmon has partaken of a cheeky mead or two; when he gets home he lavishes me with more than the customary attention, and tends to be a little more uninhibited and noisy in his conversation, and the fumes fill the room. I haven't told the Abbess Hilda about this. She would be most displeased.

So, what's so sinister about alcohol fumes, you might ask? If the soothsayers and their sources are correct, these vapours have a deleterious effect on those who share the same atmosphere as the drinkers. Since alcohol is a toxin which is lethal and severely addictive, people are taking ill and dying. They're dropping like flies. On the streets. Every day. The gravediggers are having to work overtime, and the priests are being run ragged because of the relentless number of last rites they have to administer - and the subsequent funeral masses they have to take.

I wandered through Streonaeshalch earlier, and I must say I haven't stumbled across a human corpse yet. I'd have expected to have seen heaps of them by now - if the soothsayers' accounts are to be taken at face value.

I went to see Leo to ask his opinion about it. Leo is a new friend I met while I was wandering around the home of one of the wealthy nobles a few weeks ago. He's a cat - but he's enormous, and he has a shaggy mane. He's kept in an enormous cage, and his owner feeds him sides of raw meat. Lucky thing. He's a nice fellow, but his breath smells positively awful. And I don't get too close - even though we're in the same branch of the animal kingdom; he can get rather enthusiastic with his huge paws and teeth.

When I told him what I heard, he said it was news to him. But if I could help him get out of his cage, he'd happily go to town and take a look; if there were any dead bodies, he would gladly help clear them up. I really believe that he would as well.

I thought better of Leo's suggestion, however. I feel sorry for him because unlike me, he isn't free to roam as he pleases, but somehow, I don't think it would be a good idea to let him loose - except perhaps in the house of Beeby See and the other soothsayers who talk such guff. I'll have a think about that...

Hasn't Anybody Noticed Yet..?

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but once more in Streonaeshalch we've received reports from the soothsayers that young people have been meeting in various towns in droves to protest at the increase in their education fees. These had been announced by Caedmeron and Clegge and their government owing to the vast deficit in the Kingdom of Northumbria's finances. In places, these gatherings have turned ugly, as children have exhibited the kind destructive behaviour I've come to associate with the human race. Even Feaxede the fox doesn't do such wanton damage - and he's a vandal par excellence. He loves to leave headless chickens around the place like some untidy teenager. The rioting youths have damaged property and torched buildings; scuffles have broken out as the municipal thugs have tried to contain and control them.

On the face of it, the young people have good reason to be angry. After all, before this present Tree/Liberationist alliance administration came to office in the Witangemot, Clegge himself made an unequivocal pledge to the Northumbrian people that his faction would on no account support any increase in education fees. So there's been a complete volte-face on the part of the Liberationists. Nothing new there; promises and pledges from politicians are like vapours - but less tangible.

Naturally, the Redistributionists (Reds) are putting on a display of their own infantile style of theatre, and trying to make some political capital out of it all - their impudence is breathtaking. The  financial catastrophe that the Kingdom is allegedly encountering is a direct result of the years of their own reckless and feckless profligacy. Even Caedmon - who is normally a placid and saintly man, not normally given to intemperate language - has described them as thieving degenerates and spendthrifts.

As a cat, I can afford to ignore it all. Quite frankly, I don't give a rat's backside. But what does bother me however is that the people of this realm are so chronically forgetful, shortsighted and dense. Any fool in the animal kingdom will tell them that whichever faction - or factions - run the Witangemot makes no difference to the actual business of government. What's a government without a litany of broken pledges and discarded principles? I'm quite sure that Judas Iscariot would have made a fine politician. Actually - the Church should make him the patron saint of politicians. It would be so fitting. I'll have a word with Caedmon about it.

One of the monks told Caedmon that he actual word 'govern-ment' appears to come from two Latin words: guberno (to rule) and mentiri (to lie). Hasn't anybody noticed yet?

The Prince and the Paupers

I'll have to admit it - I just don't understand human society. To be sure, I admire them for their ingenuity - and for the kindness that most of them show to us kitties. But for all their wisdom and intelligence, why do they insist on being dominated by other humans? I hear the hushed reverence in the tones in which the local people, the monks at the Abbey - and even Caedmon - refer to the local potentates.
We cats don't have other felines to lord it over us; we're territorial animals, and if some cat turns up on the scene with ideas bigger than his (or her) station, we just stand our ground, bare our teeth, hiss, spit and growl - and the offender usually slinks away. Occasionally we may get a scratch or a torn ear for our troubles, but we air our differences and consequently everything finds its own equilibrium. Often the bitterest enemies become the firmest friends after such encounters. The Abbess' cat and I had a stand-off once, but now we go on hunting expeditions together.
But not so with humans: oh no! They have someone to rule over them, demand their allegiance and their money through taxation. They also expect people to fight for them. Yet these rulers live in opulent habitations with their families and hangers-on, while their subjects continue to live in their hovels. Why? It beats me - but then, I'm only a cat.
Only the other day, I heard that a prince from such a family has been on a visit to a faraway place where many of the humans live in dreadful poverty. He was so impressed by what he's seen that he's declared that he supports the idea of living in poverty, because it creates wonderful communities where people live in harmony. Caedmon says that they also continue to live hard lives. There's nothing that unites more than a common adversary or adversity. Of this I'm quite certain - this prince won't take a leaf out of his own book and live in such a place; he'll go back to the comfort of his fine food, his hounds and his lackeys, and his subjects will continue to reverentially gush over him. Pah! Example is better than precept. I wish I could convince Caedmon..