The Star Turn

Yesterday was a pivotal moment in the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic. Or so the window-licking Tree acolytes would have me believe.. I've already passed my judgement.

As promised, Tondvig the Blur Dagwald of Caedmeron gave his definitive performance at the Ð Factor beano. I spoke with Caedmeron beforehand, and he told me he was going to give it his best shot, and a life in Political Leadership was the only thing he wanted - more than anything else in the whole wide world. I tried to look sincere as I wished him the best of luck. I'd already overheard Caedmeron's strange bird that instructs him in the ways of rhetoric and public oration, so I had a shrewd idea of what was to follow. All that remained was the actual performance before the judges.

With characteristic smoothness in his stagger, he strode onto the daïs and proceeded to sing his heart out. A number of verses were delivered immaculately in a different key from the mood music that was being used as his backing. The audience grimaced. Some wept or slept. Some passed wind noisily at both ends. Others died. On several occasions, his impeccable timing caused to him to start a verse half a bar behind the orchestra. I heard one of the admirers in the audience refer to it as "syncopation", but I know for certain that it was what is referred to in musical circles as a cock-up.

He sang about cats (there seems to be a strange obsession with cats at this Picnic), and hard times a-plenty; he deviated from one of his verses and praised the Northumbrian public who were paying off their debts to help the poor, moribund economy and the suffering leetle cheeldren of the Moneylenders. The original verse enjoined the noble Northumbrians to :

"..pay the Moneylenders' dues,

you know you simply can't refuse.."

This change of message caused no little controversy among the soothsayers, who were drunk with excitement and mead.

In the last verse, Caedmeron stepped up his performance and delivered a fortissimo anthem in praise of the mythical 'can-do' spirit of the Northumbrian people on their journey to their long-lost inheritance. Paradise is over the horizon (where it was yesterday, and will be ten thousand years' hence). It was rousing stuff. The enraptured crowd jumped to their feet and cheered in response to the sound of drawn swords from the Picnic's Thug Praetorian Guard. The judges were nowhere to be seen.

I crept into a corner, curled out a brown verdict - which I left uncovered - and promptly left. I'd had enough..

Dropped

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Love's Libraries Lost

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

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

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

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

Cat-echism

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

I believe in fairy stories.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe in man-generated Global Warming.

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

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

Amen.

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

Climate Conference Apprentice

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

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

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

Trading Places

Beeby See and the other soothsayers have been relentlessly turning the handle; the usual litany of doom-and-gloom about Witangemot-directed cuts - and the apocalyptic desolation they're naturally bound to cause - is the standard diet the Northumbrian people are being fed - along with yet more alarmist stories about the forthcoming freeze. Yet more global warming is on its way by courtesy of the Arctic.
For my part, I simply couldn't care less; there are times when I must confess, I find human business tedious and simply.. well, boring. As a domestic moggy, I shouldn't even be occupying myself with the concerns of humans - and the streams of nonsense and bull business that accompanies the matters of politics and soothsaying. I can see the cant, the posturing, the treachery and the insincerity for what it is, and I know (unlike most of the human beings here) that it's all an elaborate stage show, meticulously organised to occupy and preoccupy the majority - and furnish them with the illusion that the Witangemot are their dearest friends, paying excessive taxes is their privilege, and that as subjects of the Northumbrian Kingdom, they have some democratic control over their governance and their own lives. Whatever. I could cheerfully spend all my time wandering around the fields and the cliffs that overlook the North Sea, hunting mice and birds - and hanging out with Leo and my smaller feline buddies. I don't really need this human biz.
Nevertheless, there's usually just enough of this nonsense to provide a glimmer of amusement. The other day, Edweard The Milliner - the Dear Leader of the Redistributionist (Red) faction and leader of King Alhfrith's Loyal Opposition - publicly invited any disaffected members of the Liberationist faction to join the Reds. Caedmeron - the Most High Autocrat of the Trees (and Pre-Eminent Minister of the Witangemot Supreme General Council) invited disaffected Reds to join the new 'progressive' Tree faction. Clegge - the Cheer Leader of the Liberationists and Deputy Pre-Eminent Minister of the Witangemot Supreme General Council - invited disaffected Trees to join the Liberationist cause (whatever that actually is). As a result, there was a remarkable scene in the Witangemot, whereby disaffected Liberationists left their seats to join their Red brethren on the opposite site of the Witangemot, disaffected Reds deserted the ranks and moved over to the Tree faction, and disaffected Trees moved over to the Red rabble on the opposite side. The soothsayers warbled on about it for hours; it was great business for them. When I heard that this was happening, I suggested to Caedmon that they should carry out this process to the accompaniment of music - and remove a seat when the music stops. If that were done on a regular basis, the Northumbrian financial deficit could be halved, since there would be fewer politicians to draw salaries and their lavish expenses. He wasn't impressed - but I have no idea why. It sounds perfectly sensible to me - and it would make Witangemot more relevant  entertaining for the masses.
I'm going over to see Simon the Cowl and suggest it to him. I'm sure he'll love the idea, since he'll get the royalties from the music.

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..?

A National Tragedy

I've just heard that it has been announced that Northumbria will not be hosting the forthcoming Holy Roman Empire Football Competition. This is a tragic day. The soothsayer Beeby See has announced a day of mourning, and the good people of Streonaeshalch are looking very dejected. The bells of the Abbey are tolling mournfully, and the goatskin flags and banners are flying in the snow at half mast.

So, where is this momentous competition going to take the place? Oddly enough, it will be in the Kievan Rus. King Borislav the Magnificent has enchanted the Football Committee and persuaded them to choose that great wilderness of a place. I wonder if it was through the carrot - or through the stick? What a strange coincidence in view of recent developments! Life's like that, isn't it?

The Criminal Kingdom

Well, amid all the gloom-and-doom reports from the soothsayers about the snow and cold weather (attributed to global warming, which, we are told by Those Who Know, has been occasioned by the excessive use of bonfires and home fires by careless humans), a little ray of sunshine has emerged.

This little interval of light relief is connected with the disclosure of private correspondence and the substance of private conversations that I mentioned the other day. Yes - like the weather, it's an issue that rumbles on at a relentless and monotonous pace.

It would appear that some high-ranking official described the Kingdom of the Kievan Rus as a 'criminal state'. Shock and horror. The soothsayers have confidently told us (and they should know) that it's being run by a cabal of predatory gangsters and thugs who have - over a period of some years - jostled each other into positions of power, authority and wealth within that vast realm. If what we're given to understand is correct, there are no rulers who operate according to the principles of honesty, integrity and kindness.

What has caused the soothsayers to twitter all the more is that the aforesaid correspondence is also associating Borislav the King of the Kievan Rus with the same gangsters. So a kingdom that is powerful and influential within Christendom is actually a vipers' nest of thieves and murderous brigands. They are exploiting the poor through protection rackets under the guise of taxation and terrorising them with the sword. They are seizing lands and driving the original inhabitants out - without so much as a thank-you. They are milking the land of its natural mineral and vegetable resources and making a lot of money for themselves on the back of it all.

As a consequence of these disclosures, King Borislav has been obliged to unequivocally declare that he has nothing to do with such people. His Kingdom is a model of righteousness and integrity, and he has never compromised his good name. Whatever.

It makes me snigger behind my paw. The irony is exquisite and delicious. It's almost as entertaining as The Ð Factor ! I wonder how long it's going to be before our own King Alhfrith is going to have to publicly deny that he's power-mad, on the take, beating serfs with rods and entertaining floozies when the Queen isn't around? When is Caedmeron going to have to stand up in the Witangemot and publicly declare that he has never run a protection racket, broken a promise or sold magic mushrooms to small children? When is the Redistributionist leader - Edweard the Milliner - going to look his fellow humans in the eye and say with a straight face that he has never danced with the Devil? And one question keeps revising my feline cranium and it won't lie down: what makes everyone imagine that Northumbria is any different to the Kievan Rus? Are they eating the mushrooms?

I visited Leo in my travels yesterday; I like to see a cat whom I can admire and respect. Although he's in his cage, he's quite happy. He has plenty of meat, and his noble owner seems to like having him around. But I get the distinct feeling that Leo is biding his time, waiting for something. If he ever gets loose, he'll sort these petty despots out. And it won't be pretty.

The Royal Wedding Announcement

I've heard today from the soothsayers that the happy couple - Walthelm and Gytha - have announced the date of their wedding; it's going to be on the 29th April next year. Such excitement abounds here in Streonaeshalch!

I then began to wonder what I could do to provide them with a bottom-drawer present to help the couple as they prepare for their nuptials. I asked Caedmon for some ideas, but he was most unhelpful; he doesn't summon a great deal of interest with the affairs of great and the good - unless they happen to be clergy in the Church or men of letters.

So I went for a stroll, and during my perambulations I happened across Feaxede, the local fox, who'd been on a foraging mission in the local dump. (He and I have a cordial relationship, and we often help each other on a quid pro quo basis, since we have various tastes in common.) Since he depends upon human habitations for a lot of his business and food intake, he was quite keen to join in the spirit of things. He told me that there are lots of interesting things that we could choose from, and led me to the tip from which he'd just emerged.

After some considerable time of looking and sniffing around, I came to the conclusion that the couple might not need a worn-out shoe or the bony remains of a chicken carcass. They've probably got thousands of them already, and besides, they don't want for anything, do they?

Anyway - what on earth am I getting so excited about? They don't give any thought to a white cat, so why should I bother with them? They're only nobles, after all. I much prefer the excitement and hullabaloo of The Ð Factor'. It's such a shame that the page boy got heaved out so unceremoniously. How do the Waggoner and the Weasel manage to remain in the competition?

The Royal Engagement

Well, amid all the gloom and doom traded by the soothsayers concerning spending cuts, the Viking threat, the financial problems of Ireland and the usual puppet-theatre knockabout of the Witangemot faction leaders, we've received news which - dare I say it - even eclipses the glory of 'The Ð Factor'. Prince Walthelm and his female companion Gytha have announced their intention to marry. The royal wedding will take place sometime next year, and I can already hear the potters, merchants and moneylenders rubbing their hands with glee. This is going to guarantee them work and business for months. As they say here in Streonaeshalch: 'Every clod has a silver lining'.

Oh, the joy of it all! The soothsayers have been cooing about this like doves possessed by some frantic spirit; they've talked incessantly about it for hours. I'm sure there are more momentous and weighty matters that they can pronounce and pontificate on - it's starting to get monotonous.

One of the most influential soothsayers is known as Beeby See, but many refer to her as 'Auntie.' Since I'm only a cat, I'm not privy to information regarding the whereabouts of the aforesaid prince and his intended - and Caedmon is rather vague about these matters. So I came to the conclusion that the next best option would be to bring an engagement gift to Beeby See herself. She could then deliver it to the parties concerned.

Last night while Caedmon was writing, I decided to visit Beeby's luxurious dwelling and creep in through the front door unnoticed. The air was cold and the moon was bright in a cloudless night sky, and I excitedly made my way through the streets. I was so apprehensive of the idea of bringing them my gift that I actually felt quite ill. Nevertheless, I presented my offering at Beeby's large and malodorous feet. She wasn't even aware of my presence: she was so busy holding forth to the various hangers-on who were dancing attendance upon her.

Having disgorged the entire contents of my stomach on the mat on which she stood, I quickly withdrew and returned home. I feel so much better now.

Cat's Ð (Eth) Factor

I've been so excited about the Singing Contest. I went and told my feline friends about it, because I know they all share my enthusiasm for music. Ro (my red coated pal) was very interested, but Scead and Wann, my grey and black friends weren't so keen at first. That disappointed me, as I know for a fact that they have excellent singing voices. Nevertheless, they all turned up last week at the Contest to see what I'd been telling them about. Because of the abundance of warm laps, entertainment and pie crumbs on the floor from the audience, they were thrilled to have been there. Result!

Then I had a brainwave. It came to me one night as I was curling up to sleep (it's funny how the best ideas come to you when you're tired): why don't we get together as local cats and practise singing? I think we all have a rare gift, and it would be a shame for it to go unnoticed. Unparalleled glory could await us if our gifts were recognised by the humans.

So I shared the idea with them - and to my surprise I found that they all were eager and willing to have a go. So we went to a secret place in the woods and - having agreed an anthem known and loved by us all - we practised. We soon found our various parts, each of them fitting with our own vocal register. After several days of practice, we all concluded that we'd reached a level of competence that would qualify us to enter the Ð Factor. But how on earth could we communicate this to Father Simon the Cowl?
Scead had a great idea. He said, "Let's sing to him tonight - we'll put on a special performance! That way he'll notice us." We thought that was a stroke of genius.

So - at the appointed hour we assembled outside Father Simon's window. The moon shone brightly in the trees, and the peace of the night afforded us an ideal backdrop to display our collective and individual talents. At the count of three, we opened our mouths and started our song. Ro started with the melody, and one by one, Scead, Wann and I lent our voices to the air in respective counter-tenor and baritone parts. Oh, the joy of raising our voices in song! The strains of our anthem overwhelmed us all with such sublime happiness as we sang in praise to our Creator and His works. The melody reached a point where it changed key to G sharp from D - a particularly moving part of the song - when the window opened suddenly. The next thing I remember was a gush of a vile-smelling liquid wetting my fur with an icy cold thrill. I don't know what it was, but it had a vaguely familiar aroma about it..

Needless to say, we all scarpered rather quickly, cleaned ourselves vigorously and decided that despite the sacredness of our anthem, perhaps human ears weren't so delicately tuned for our subtler melodic offerings.. but it hasn't put me off attending the next Ð Factor contest, though.

The Ð (Eth) Factor

Every year in Streonæshalch there is an autumn Song Contest called The Ð Factor, running for a period of several weeks until Christmas. It is now so well-established in the calendar that it has become one if the high points of the year. Solo singers and groups (and even hopeful mature ones) descend upon the Abbey from all over the country in the hope of being among the fortunate finalists. Some singers are downright awful, but are so hopelessly deluded that they imagine that they are guaranteed success. It's very sad - but strangely fascinating at the same time.

The contestants appear and sing and dance before a panel consisting of the Chief Judge - a priest called Simon (nicknamed 'the Cowl'), a jovial Irish monk called Brendan and 2 erstwhile female singers. There is also a sizeable audience consisting of monks and nuns, the local townspeople and hordes of visitors from outlying districts of Northumbria. Much mead is consumed at these contests, and a merry ambience fills the hall. The monks are more restrained in their mead intake; they know what awaits them from the Abbess Hilda if they over-indulge and make fools of themselves…

The rules are simple: the contestants take their turn to sing a song for the judges and the audience. The panel pass their opinions on each contestant’s performance, and the members of the audience vote on their favoured contestant. The singer with the least votes drops out of the contest each week; this process is repeated weekly until the last - and favourite - contestant remains. In the event of a tie, the panel has the casting vote. Thus a winner is selected for his or her singing prowess; the rewards for the performer are substantial, as fame and fortune awaits the winning singer or group. However, I suspect that it’s more than talent that informs the decisions of the voting audience and the judges; it’s not very often that an elderly, overweight, spotty or unattractive contestant gets very far in the rankings – despite the talent he or she may have.

And oh, the emotion of it all! Each year we are greeted with the sight of jubilation on the part of those contestants who have been selected for the next round - and floods of hysterical tears from those who are eliminated. The failed female contestants also weep inconsolably. I ask myself: is there a void in their lives? Or is this pure theatre? I can't make my mind up.

And how do I - a mere cat - know about these things? I know because I sneak into the hall when the proceedings are about to start and park myself in the welcoming lap of a friendly member of the audience. There's no shortage of hosts to choose from. It's a great arrangement: I keep his or her lap warm, and I get a fuss and a ringside seat. I love it!

Not everyone is as enthusiastic about the Ð Factor, though: Caedmon refuses to have anything to do with it. He believes it to be cheap and vulgar entertainment for the masses, and instead of going to the Contest, he sits in the candlelight at home and composes his spiritual poetry. On this issue, he and I don't see eye to eye. For all this, I have a sneaky feeling that Caedmon has a great deal more talent and will be far better known in future generations than any of these songsters will ever be.. Sic transit gloria mundi.