The Campsite On World's End

It appears that The End Is Nigh - or so Beeby See smirkingly tells us. This beloved soothsayer - satiated with her own smugness - has reported that some strange religious leader called Harold The Campsite in Ultima Thule has predicted that the world will end this weekend. The atheists - so Beeby gleefully tells us - are planning a huge party as a gesture of contempt and ridicule. Much ale, cider and mead will be consumed - and many magic mushrooms will be chewed, no doubt. Whoop-de-doo.

Well - bully for Harold. He's evidently party to some esoteric knowledge that isn't imparted to the majority of Christian mortals. I wonder where he got this juicy morsel of hot news from? Did the Almighty have a quiet word in his shell-like? I doubt it. If I were a betting cat, I'd lay a few groats on the probability that he juggled around a few biblical symbols and metaphors, threw a few bones, did a few sums - and lo and behold! An End Date For The World.

Sorry, Harold, old boy. You're just one of a legion of daft old goats who have made a sport and pastime of this kind of thing throughout history - and if I had a groat for every such prediction that failed to deliver, I'd give Croesus a run for his money. The Redeemer clearly said that the date wasn't up for grabs - not even to the best guesser or the most astute interpreter of Holy Writ. And the Almighty has a tendency to let such prognosticators get egg on their faces for good measure - usually smelly and rotten. And then the Date gets mysteriously re-scheduled as they try to justify themselves... dorks, or what..?

As for Beeby See, the other soothsayers and the atheists - they can bray and guffaw as much as they like. Let me make a prediction of my own: I predict a lot thumping heads and bad stomachs the following morning - and at some indeterminate time in the future, but certain nonetheless  - a very unpleasant surprise. And its precise date and time is not in a human timetable.

Idiots...

Trouble In Alliance Paradise

What with Húne - known as 'Horehound' and all of the intrigue around his alleged misdemeanours - along with those of deposed luminary Claws - the Alliance is having more than its fair share of troubles. You can't imagine the tears I've shed for them all in these last few days. Well, I suppose you can: cats don't weep, so none. ;-)

What has made Caedmeron's day even worse is his Witangemot Supremo Clerk for Justice - a rotund, bumptious buffoon with a dismissive, devil-may-care attitude to life and the price of fish. Frankly, I'm surprised he's stayed in the job as long as he has, given his outstanding track record for talking complete gibberish.

The Supreme Clerk was speaking with a Beeby See lackey today, and the subject came up about rather unsavoury kinds of personal assault - which I will henceforth refer to as Pulling Legs Off Poor Spiders (PLOPS), since it requires the perpetrator to be of a similarly heartless and moronic disposition.

I fail to see how anyone can be minded to pull wings off butterflies or pull legs off poor spiders, but the reality in a fallen world is that certain specimens of quasi-humanity do commit such things, and the poor victims are left with a terrible emotional and physical legacy - a cost which has also to be borne by their loved ones. I'm very relieved that there's such a thing as Divine Retribution.

Anyway. A poor female victim of a PLOPS assault asked the Supreme Clerk about sentencing in view of the proposed changes in prison terms for such evildoers. It appears that there are so many old ladies who permit their dogs to pass brown political comment in the streets, and the prisons are unable to cope with the number of them awaiting justice, so the length of incarceration for serious offenders needs to be reduced to allow the real criminals to be punished.

And the old joker started waffling about 'classic' PLOPS attacks - and attempting to make a distinction between various forms of this nasty assault. The lady was in tears as the old fool dug himself deeper into his hole of stupidity. I swear I heard the sound of boiling blood throughout the Kingdom of Northumbria. And the sharpening of blades. Edweird the Milliner has awoken from his magic mushroom-induced slumbers and has smelt blood.

Caedmeron - I think you've got your work cut out, old son. My fellow moggies and my mate Feaxede could do an infinitely better job than some of the feckless clowns you seem to want to employ.. and all they want in return for remuneration is daily fish suppers and chicken dinners. It would solve the deficit problem overnight. Go home and think about it, there's a good lad... you know it makes sense.

King Alhfrith's Grand Day Out

It's a Great Day today; it must be, because Beeby See has told me so - and she should know. She knows everything- or so she would like us all to think. This cat is inclined to believe that Beeby See knows nothing - but she proceeds under the illusion that if she keeps talking, she'll actually learn something. Pardon me while I just avoid the colorectal payload of a passing flying pig...

It's a great day today because for the first time in recorded history, King Alhfrith has touched the shores of the Emerald Isle - that bastion of independence and rabid anti-Anglo-Saxon sentiment. I do hope he's decided to leave his foul-mouthed Queen Hillida at home - she has such an aptitude to fart loudly, get drunk and indiscriminately tell dirty jokes, thus offending sensitive souls. I'm surprised she hasn't caused an international incident...

Actually, I wasn't completely accurate there: it wasn't for the first time an Anglo-Saxon monarch landed there to pay the Hibernian Scots - known as Irish - a visit: King Edwin went there about thirty thousand years ago - when the Irish were more kindly disposed towards the barbarous Germanic hordes.

Most Irish people will be quite happy to see the old boy grace them with his presence as he waddles his way, waving benignly through the streets of Dyflin, but inevitably there will be those detractors who insist on making a noise and a stink about it. In view of the fact that Anglo-Saxons have traditionally assumed that the Emerald Isle was reserved for them - and they've been quite content to bludgeon the poor inhabitants into unwilling submission, I can't say I blame their resentment. But Alhfrith goes there with a good will - especially since Caedmeron and his merry band of brigands and flim-flam men in the Witangemot have decided to help our Irish neighbours in their hour of financial need. At Northumbrian taxpayers' expense, naturally.

But I suspect that the real attraction is the horses. Alhfrith is a sucker for a good gee-gee - and a flutter with the bookies. And the Irish know a thing or two about them to be sure, so they do.

The Smooch Of Death

You can always tell when someone's political career is about to reach its inglorious conclusion when the Beloved Faction Leader publicly expresses full confidence in the person concerned...

A certain Liberationist luminary called Húne - known as 'Horehound' has been in hot water of late. This gentleman was originally given the task of heading up the Ministry of the "Environment" - which - as the pre-eminent non-job in the Witangemot - is a ragbag of assorted fantasies and fairy stories, perpetuated by the likes of His Holiness Archbishop Georges Moonbat - the world's leading fly agaric chewer and global warming shaman. Horehound has thrown himself zealously into the fantasy, attending prestigious and expensive "Environment" conferences around the fleshpots of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and Ultima Thule on behalf of the Kingdom of Northumbria, travelling to these exotic locations on the best possible longboats, and faring sumptuously from the feasts - all laid on, needless to say, at taxpayers' expense. No expense spared to save the Planet, the Environment, and the poor polar bears who are getting stranded and sunburned on the melting ice. Whatever.

Horehound has been out of the picture recently, since there's only a limited number of times that a politician can wring his hands and plaintively utter platitudes like, "This Is The Last Chance For Our Planet" and "Something Must Be Done," - which, roughly translated into human speech means "We Need To Raise More Taxes From The Unwashed."

But we needn't worry about the poor chap; his life hasn't been completely devoid of meaning and purpose. He's been busy breaking the Law Of the Northumbrian Kingdom by riding his cart at breakneck speed, thus putting the lives of elderly ladies, children, cats, dogs and chickens in considerable danger. But his trusty former wife has apparently come to the rescue and secretly admitted responsibility for his crimes, and out of the goodness of her heart has paid his hefty fines so that no one would ever know he was the actual transgressor. Noble indeed - especially from a former wife..

But now the truth has come to light, and he's been keeping a low profile. And his Liberationist mentor Clegge - along with Caedmeron - the Chief Cock And Bluebottle Washer of the Tree Party and the Leader of the Alliance Administration - has expressed his full support and assured him of his complete confidence.

The blacksmiths are busy of late. I hear the sharpening of knives...

A New Nation Is Born

What I'm going to tell you may not be completely factually correct, so please don't pass the contents of this posting to the media - unless you've checked it for accuracy beforehand, of course. The Cat is not liable for any factually inaccurate information. I can perfect the purrs, but I know I'm not perfect - and I'm not above getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. Cats were never designed by their Creator to be political animals; I have to face up to the fact that I'm some aberration - an exception to the rule.

As I understand it - and not many know this, but a new Nation is secretly in the throes of being born.

It started in the faraway-somewhere place I refer to as Ultima Thule, where a costumed thug referred to some females of the human species as Sluts.

Now, I'm pretty well-educated, and I've had a great deal of exposure to the realms of human existence. But when I asked my master Caedmon what a Slut was, for some reason or other, he wouldn't tell me. So consequently I've had to do some digging around to get to the bottom of the issue.

I commenced my search with my trusty friend Leo. He's a Big Cat in a cage, and he's pretty clued in about human things. I asked him if he had any idea, but he hadn't heard of the term. But it was nice to see him, for all that. After exchanging a few bits of news with him, I moved on to look for Feaxede, the fox-about-town. I found him (you'll never guess where!), engaged in his favourite hobby of archaeological research.

When I asked him what a Slut was, he told me he'd heard of the term; he'd heard it used by intoxicated wasters during his perambulations on a Saturday night - but he didn't actually know what it meant. A chicken carcass beckoned, so I left him to his frenzied activities.

Having exhausted all my usual avenues of enquiry, I checked out my pal Láréow - the feline secret agent Rat-Befriender who is my prime source of tasty gossip from Caedmeron's Official Residence. When I asked him the same question, he immediately told me what it meant, but owing to the sensitivity of the subject, he had to tell me that he couldn't swear on the accuracy of his information. I get the drift...

The country of Slutland is fast moving to become a separate Nation, as it divides from the Anglo-Saxon sphere of influence. It will have its own Parliament, and its own separate culture and Sluttish language. This development has been the outcome of the steadfast endeavours of the Sluttish National Faction under the able and inspirational leadership of its First Minister, Angus McTrout. Whatever.

The Sluts are very pleased with the idea, but in their evident enthusiasm and nationalistic fervour, they seem to be blissfully unaware that their utopian dream of independence will in reality lead them to the welcoming stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and its power-crazed megalomaniac despot Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-baked henchman Hermit, who - despite claiming a soft spot for the Sluts - have no benign plans for them.

But who am I to tell them? I'm only some common-or-garden moggy...

Differently The Same...

Every soothsayer of note in the lovely realm of Northumbria is talking about The Anniversary. It's now One Whole Year since the Tree-Liberationist Alliance decisively swept to power in the National Witangemot and delivered the Kingdom from the Powers of Redistributionist Darkness under the malevolent, magic mushroom-intoxicated sway of Guthmund The Brown - the world-saving Bankrupter-In-Chief.

Some of the soothsayers - for example Beeby See and her pustule-faced cousin Guardy-Ann - have been claiming that the past year has been an Unmitigated Disaster. One of the reasons for this pronouncement of damnation is the fact that the Alliance administration has imposed Severe Cuts to the public purse; consequently, hovel improvement pack officers, diversity administrators, carbon-neutral petshop co-ordinators, pigeon psychiatrists, fish quota accountants and other feckless drawers of worthwhile salaries and pensions have been cast into the Outer Darkness of the jobseeking hordes. The Strongholds of The Wicked have been torn down. Nearly.

In the woes pronounced by these soothsayers, the entire basis for Civilised Society has been destroyed by the malicious, brutal and heartless Tree-led Alliance, who are imposing their own agenda on the Kingdom under the pretense that there's a financial crisis that doesn't really exist. Alas, alack. Pass the champagne, magic mushrooms and handkerchiefs, Parly Toywasp...

Even more traditionally sympathetic soothsayers are failing to lavish paeons of praise upon the nouveau régime. Dellimell - one with a usually hysterical and effusive disposition in favour of the Trees - has taken a lot of trouble to highlight the divisions and differences between the disparate Alliance factions and their Revered Leaders.

So - what difference has a year really made?

For a start, we're no longer delighted by the brooding and cheerless countenance of the psychotic Guthmund The Brown. The effect of his demeanour upon the realm was as refreshing and as welcome as an outbreak of the Bubonic Plague. The relief of not having to see his physiognomy is enormous. This must not be underestimated.

Also, it must be said that our beloved Leaders are no longer taking out enormous loans from unscrupulous loan-sharks and spending it on frivolous social projects designed to boost the odds of re-election for Redistributionist politicos. The Alliance is still spending groats, however. But I don't know where this money comes from; my master Caedmon suggested that it's only silly groats, stamped with King Alhfrith's gnarled profile - and fundamentally worthless. But there seems to be enough of this worthless stuff around to enable the Kingdom to assist the Realm of Ireland in its hour of need. We're regularly told that we're peering over the abyss, but it seems to my feline mind that we're leaping into it in an attempt to try and catch those who leaped over the edge ahead of us...

Apart from that, we have an administration that's beset by corruption and internal fighting, that starts wars in foreign parts and still pays homage to King Jose Borracho - the power-intoxicated Emperor and Senior Flyswatter of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and his faithful slave Hermit. It's widely rumoured that all new laws passed by the Witangemot are simply the same ones dictated and directed from the Sinister Empire over the other side of the Channel.

Happy Birthday, Caedmeron and Clegge. You're doing a great job. When I work out the essential difference between you and your predecessors, I'll celebrate by eating Edweird The Milliner's socks. I'm wanting to live dangerously...

Falling Down and Falling Out

I have to admit it: cats make mistakes. For example, Scead - a fellow feline of my acquaintance - misjudged the distance between two tree branches and consequently fell to the ground. I frequently remind him of this - much to his irritation. I'm obliged to confess that I also made a mistake - although my error was not one of physical judgement, but rather of logic. In my last posting, I applied the premise that everything that the soothsayers utter is either gross exaggeration or sheer mendacity. Using this logical principle, I rashly assumed that the Liberationists had done exceedingly well in the recent elections - especially since they'd heralded their voting results as a momentous success. In view of this mistaken assumption I visited Clegge's house and left him a congratulatory token as an ingredient for his chorizos.

Since then, I've come to understand that they actually did take a hammering at the elections, so the soothsayers (for once) were correct. Serves me right for assuming that the Liberationists' assertions were factual. I'm going to have to revise my logical model, and come up with something more reliable. When soothsayers can't be trusted to lie continually, it makes life very difficult for me...

So. Blaeck Clegge - the Head Mangold-Wurzel of the Liberationists Faction and Second-In-Command of the Unholy Alliance - has been severely humiliated by the electorate in the local Witangemot council elections. The People Have Spoken: in their own bovine way, they've sent an uncoded message to the Liberationists that they don't rate their performance in the Northumbrian political arena very highly.

I wanted to find out why they had been so ignominiously defeated, so I asked Caedmon if he could give me some perspective. He shrugged, and suggested that perhaps it was because they were too enchanted by the allures of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Although I'm aware that the Liberationists are rabidly in favour of bringing the Kingdom to sink and drown in those corrupt, sewage-saturated waters, I'm not sure that their starry-eyed and groat-infused enthusiasm is the sole reason for their demise.

So I contacted Láréow - my eyes and ears in Caedmeron's lair - and asked him. I'm very impressed with his political insight: his new role as Chief Rat-befriender in Caedmeron's residence has done him a power of good. He told me that the Liberationists were an unprincipled bunch of chancers who didn't have a scruple between them. He said that Caedmeron has secretly admitted that nobody really knows what the Liberationists actually stand for - but for reasons best understood by psychiatric research, many people voted for them because they've always been there. Despite this, there must have been a lot of people who - having previously supported them because they wanted something different - had now voted against them. I asked Láréow why he thought this had happened.

He told me that they were a party who are very skilled at facing three different ways - depending on who their audience is. This makes them untrustworthy in the eyes of the electorate. He also told me that Clegge had made a specific promise to the comforter-sucking schoolchildren that he wouldn't raise the cost of their kindergarten fees. Ever.

They then wholeheartedly supported the Trees when they proposed an increase in kindergarten fees. They reneged on a solemn promise to The People. And now, Clegge has pledged to oppose the Trees in their deranged endeavours to reform the Northumbrian Herbalist Service. It sounds as if he - and his Liberationist colleagues - only have one principle - and that is to abandon it at all costs.

Jerks.