Off His Tree

There's been a recent announcement by the Redistributionist Faction - headed by the Beloved Leader and Dear Father Edweird the Milliner. Hooray for the Reds! Long live the victorious Class Struggle Against Universal Prosperity, Accountability and Freedom! I'm so pleased.


Apparently, the Great Strategy that is going to be unleashed by the  Redistributionists in their never-ending war on the evil superstitions and vulgar values of the Tree Faction is that they're going to attempt to demonstrate how Dagwald Caedmeron is becoming more of an extremist - a sort of Tree monster, who beguiles innocent and gullible people with smooth, hypnotic talk and kidnaps and eats their children as a mid-morning snack when their feckless parents aren't looking. Other Tree leaders from the past have been similarly subjected to such calumnious propaganda; Hilda the Tiler - the famous Tree lady leader from many centuries back was reviled in similar fashion.


As a strategy, it's destined to be wildly successful, given the unswerving support of the most influential Redistributionist soothsayers - Beeby See and her weird, pustule-faced and poison-tongued pal Guardy-Ann. Assuming that the members of the Northumbrian public are as routinely bovine and unquestioning as ever, they'll lap up anything that these wicked messengers say, and unthinkingly assume that it's Gospel truth. And when the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic (called their Jamboree because the jam comes tomorrow) takes place in a few weeks' time, the faithful will be in ecstasies. Deep joy. Yet another astonishing political triumph for Edweird the Milliner! Let's chalk it up with the other imaginary victories, children.


And so the show goes on. The Redistributionists are intensely jealous of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance, since they're now in the supreme Seat of Power - the same seat they themselves occupied for nine hundred thousand years. During that time, they established universal bankruptcy and criminalised the majority, while getting fabulously rich in the process through an intricate system of bribes and back-handers. And now they're simply desperate to spend vast amounts of money that the Northumbrian Kingdom doesn't even have, so that they can produce a formidable fighting farce of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and cat license administrators. Every kingdom needs them, don't you know? That's what built Rome.


Considering Caedmeron has made identical noises as - and emulated the deeds of - his charming, chronically mendacious and bloodthirsty Redistributionist predecessor Tondvig the Blur, has opted for a mandatory quota of token women, Vikings and homeopaths to stand for the Witangemot, has waged a war in the hapless land of Cyrene, has enthusiastically ignored the people and contrary to public opinion has immersed the Kingdom deeper into the malevolent embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I really fail to see the difference. And if there's no essential difference between the Trees and the Redistributionists, why do they spend such an inordinate amount of time and money (that doesn't exist) demonising the opposition who resemble them anyway? Aren't they simply demonising their own likeness? Isn't that.... rather odd?

Why Should The Cat Care?

As I walk out on my feline rounds through this lovely realm of Northumbria, my eyes and ears are greeted by the now all too familiar sight and sound of politicians and soothsayers slinging accusations at each other, protesting their own unsullied innocence and integrity. It's very touching to see that this Anglo-Saxon kingdom - now reduced to a mere provincial backwater and vassal state of the fly agaric-led Holy Roman Empire (which has no rightful claim to either a Roman heritage, holiness nor the dignity and greatness of an empire) is busy arguing the toss about the activities of the Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach soothsaying empire while the remaining serfs, yeomen, farmers, artisans, bakers, spinners, weavers and every other specimen of humanity are struggling to keep flesh on the bone - and the Grim Reaper is gadding about with a permanent smile on his face.

But why should I care? After all, I'm a mere cat in this grand scheme of things; at the drop of a hat I can forage for mice and birds, go feral like my ancestors, prowl, climb trees, spray marker scents on trees and gateposts and fight territorial battles with trespassing fellow felines.

True enough; I have enough of my original instincts to make my own way through life without being involved in the sordid and terminally stupid affairs of fallen human beings. But the fact is, I have good human friends like Caedmon whose company I enjoy, and having an innate propensity to idleness and an easy life, I know which side of my bread is buttered. The fact is, I Care. The Latin name for a cat is 'felix', which means 'happy.' We're happy and purring when we have the attention and the affection of humans, can chow down into a hearty bowl of fresh fish and curl up in front of a fire on a cold winter's night.

And when humans are happy, then so am I. But the politicos and the soothsayers don't want the ordinary humans to be content or self-sufficient. They want them to be desperately poor and permanently dependent on the scraps of rotten food and disinformation they condescend to throw them - which is why the Redistributionists - under the inspirational leadership and tutelage of witty psychopath Guffmund The Brown - kindly brought the Kingdom to a state of bankruptcy and indebtedness to line the coffers of the poor Moneylenders. And his ideological cousins - the Trees and Liberationists - are determined to make sure that the ordinary people pay dearly for all the colossal debts for which they're neither responsible nor liable. Bless.

I have a feeling in my bones that people are starting to realise that the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) is something we neither want nor need - especially when the feckless puppets and clowns in the Witangemot have voted to sign away even more of our Kingdom's debt to offset the debts of the poor, benighted Greeks..

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...