Greece Monkey

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Sacred Primate, Pontifex Maximus and Dearly Beloved Leader of the Tree Faction and the Supreme Governor of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration – has made a Momentous Declaration today in support of the debt-ridden, flea-bitten, poverty-stricken Kingdom of Greece.

In view of the current instability of that benighted realm – where the people can't decide which ruler to choose because they're too busy fighting each other or merely trying to survive on their ever-dwindling means – this intervention by the Northumbrian Glorious Prophet is very timely. I'm sure they're all now breathing a collective sigh of relief. Hooray for Caddy – this minute's mighty deliverer of the Holy Roman economy!

In his inspired address to his adoring, knuckle-dragging and window-licking acolytes, the holy man declared that the poor people of Greece must be supported by the Northumbrian people – along with those of the Frankish, Westphalian, Viking and other ethnic groupings which comprise that diverse ragtag ragbag of mutually hostile tribes referred to as the Holy Roman Empire (which, of course, is anything but holy, Roman or an empire).

In view of the seventy zillion billion trillions of Holy Groats which comprise the total debt of the Northumbrian Kingdom's economy – not to mention the aggregate debts of the other heathen kingdoms - this Cat is most intrigued. Since when has a despot of the Tree Faction – a political grouping traditionally pathologically responsible with money and in constant fear, dread and loathing of debt, decided that he can fight another kingdom's debt (and conquer it, to boot) with even more debt, insolvency and biscuit? Where did he get that notion from?

I suspect that Caddy Boy has been hanging round with Redistributionists, and has been taking secret counsel from Edweird the Milliner over a few magic mushrooms.

What these politicos don't seem to realise is that the hallucinogenic fungi don't actually enhance their perceptions and understanding at all. They turn them into monkeys.

Sworn In

These are certainly glorious days for the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). One could almost declare that they're dog days – where the term 'dog' refers to an odious, noisy, malodorous, halitosis-ridden, flea-bitten creature with the refinement of a cowpat.

 

With the escalating financial problems encouraged by King of the Midden Emperor Jose Borracho, his faithful half-witted accomplice Hermit the Rumphole – along with their myriads of courtiers, lickspittles, camp followers and hangers-on, the Evil Intergalactic Empire is experiencing some hiccups – if not a severe dose of acid reflux; the Kingdom of the Hellenes is in a state of turmoil, as they're unable to select a monarch to lead them, and the ordinary Greek citizens are getting cheesed off with being driven into grinding and spiralling poverty, debt and rhubarb by the Holy Public Expenditure Cuts imposed by the Empire, and are threatening to abandon the cherished but worthless Holy Roman Empire Ducat in favour of their ancient currency, the drachma.

 

However, there's a silver lining to this dark and foreboding cloud. In every tragedy there's an element of comedy and sparkling irony. Yesterday, the new Frankish monarch Frankus of Holland was anointed, appointed, sworn in (as well as at), accompanied by great pomp, splendor and malarkey. How the people cheered! But the attending Northumbrian emissaries sadly couldn't understand the loud acclamation of the new King, since the crowds insisted on cheering in the Frankish tongue. Quel dommage, hein?

 

In his enthronement address, the new monarch stated that he would be concentrating on growth in the Kingdom rather than the despised austerity measures recommended by the Westphalian Empress Murk, who was a great confidante and knitting companion of the previous diminutive King Sarcus.

 

I'm sure that the growth to which this new potentate refers won't be even sniffed at by his adoring subjects. It'll all go to his pocket – and, of course, his waistline…

The Star Turn

Never let it be said that the Northumbrian people don't know how to enjoy themselves - despite these dire, dark and despondent days of Deprivation and Doings. We've all been mightily entertained of late by the great Travelling Circus called 'Northumbria's Got Talent' - like the Đ Factor, another lucrative enterprise established by the ubiquitous (and fabulously wealthy) monk, Father Simeon the Cowl.

Over the weeks, the bovine Northumbrian herds have been entertained by the sight of sundry acts attempting to sing or dance their way into the Venerable Father's treasure chest and the public's affections. Some of the attempts at selection have been - as with the aforementioned talent competition - more entertaining because of the appalling timbre of the singers' voices and the incoherence of their strains, or the uncoordinated gaucheness of the dancers. These acts have inspired the mandatory expressions of bitter hostility and inverted affection from the audience, as well as outright sarcasm and tender bile from the kindly but viciously sneering and condescending judges.

The other day was the Great Occasion of the Northumbria's Got Talent Final, where the very best of the best acts were pitched against each other in mortal combat for the coveted First Prize of a dinner at Father Simeon the Cowl's lavish manor house - and fifteen nanoseconds' worth of public fame. I gather from my friend Feaxede the Fox that they also have the onerous responsibility of performing before His Majesty King Alhfrith and his potty-mouthed consort Queen Hillida. Wonderful!

The act which succeeded in tugging at the Kingdom's sclerotic heartstrings this year was a less orthodox choice from the doughty denizens of the Northumbrian Kingdom: it was a performing duo consisting of King Jose Borracho (the Emperor of the Evil Intergalactic Enterprise affectionally known as the Holy Roman Empire (which, in actual fact, is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), and his cute dog called Caedmeron. It was - even to a hard-bitten cat's eyes - pathetically cute. The story of how Joe Boy was presented with a little bundle of puppy for a Christmas present - and the smile of delight on her face as she saw her gift - endeared them to the hearts of the nation. The act was captivating, as Caedmeron leaped, bounded, walked on his hind legs, wove deftly through Joe's legs and swiftly responded to every verbal signal from his mistress.

A great future lies behind them as a result of the public's choice. I suspect that the audiences throughout the Realm were more entranced by the dog than the owner. A shining career in politics awaits him; he'll go places. Mark my words - you've read them here...

Advance Party

Today is one of those many special days that serve to simultaneously delight and astound the good folk of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. As a gesture of their collective support (and undying esteem) for His Eminence Dagwald Caedmeron, the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration and their Great Programme of Public Expenditure Cuts, the public servants of the Great King Alhfrith have decided to take a day off from their onerous duties as fluffy diversity co-ordinators, equality administrators and pigeon psycholgists to gather together in Yorvik. Hooray! It's party time!

Naturally, the event is a festive occasion, and it's generally believed that it's a practice run for the forthcoming Kingdom celebrations, when loyal Northumbrians will be joyously celebrating the nine hundredth year of King Alhfrith's noble reign - ably aided and accompanied by his partner-in-crime and consort, the potty-mouthed Queen Hillida. Along the streets of Streonaeshalch we're already greeted by the flutter of bunting and banners, and the sound of bongoes and the smell of unwashed armpits, dog breath and beansprouts forms a heady sensory backdrop for this special occasion. Yes - the Redistrubutionist Workers' Faction is joining in. Such fun!

Ordinarily on such occasions, the Costumed Thugs are found in abundance on the streets, ready to administer a friendly word of advice to any over-exuberant revellers, and to benignly shepherd the crowds of drunken knuckle-draggers and hotheads to a small confined area, where they're able to tell their captive audience bedtime stories. These occasions are usually rumbustious and good-humoured, and not many accidental injuries take place.

However, today the Costumed Thugs are nowhere to be seen; I've heard from Feaxede the Fox that they've also willingly sacrificed their day's work and clad themselves in their regular tunics, and have anonymously joined in the celebrations.

This serves to explain why the pavements of the streets of our lovely town - and doubtless, others throughout the Realm - are currently festooned with unsightly and malodorous caramel-coloured canine colorectal curled offerings. The  legions of elderly ladies' dogs are taking full advantage of their temporary liberty to express themselves...

They should enjoy their brief day of freedom while they can. It won't last...

A Frank Exchange

The beautiful Kingdom of the Franks has been the subject of the latest obsessions by the beloved soothsayers, since this weekend was one of those rare occasions when the delightfully idiosyncratic Frankish people select from their number their equally eccentric King. Like the long-suffering people of the Kingdoms of Northumbria, Wessex, Mercia and the East Saxons, the Franks - fellow labourers under the burdensome and tedious yoke of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) - have had more than their fair share of woes, cares and fishpaste. Like every other kingdom on the earth, the Frankish Realm is also a blessed inheritor of the blights of bankruptcy, fathomless debt, impoverishment and business, and under the sacred guidance of their previous King - Le Roi Sarcus - they were exhorted to suffer deprivation as Brutally Savage Public Expenditure Cuts were introduced in an attempt to frustrate the inexorable creep of debt.

However, the Franks are not a people to tolerate fools gladly, and seldom did a minute pass without some ruction or other breaking out somewhere in the Royaume by some disgruntled sector of the populace or other in protest at the severe strictures placed upon them by their political overlords. With a Gallic shrug and an expressive pout, the diminutive Sarcus gently reminded his subjects (lovingly assisted by costumed thugs and other armed gangs) that they're all in this (dogjob, do-do and business) together, and nothing further can be done but put up with the pain. Again. Such assurances as this did little to assuage the growing discontent of the Franks, who perceived that their Great King was a close buddy-pal and associate of the Westphalian Empress Murk, and the pair of them were often seen to be attending overblown Holy Roman Empire banquets, where they were able to feast on the finest gastronomic luxuries and exchange their favourite recipes.

However, to the hysterical delight of Beeby See, Guardy-Ann and the Windy Pedant, the Franks have decided that Le Roi Sarcus is not to be their King any more: they've elected - after a decisive victory decided by three votes - to elect a Redistributionist King, Frankus of Holland. This new Netherlandish monarch already has defined the path that his people should take, and has already decided that the emphasis in his reign should not be directed towards sacrifice, deprivation and loss, but rather economic growth. Since one of King Sarcus' ministers - on inheriting his role as Treasurer from his predecessor - discovered a piece of vellum containing the words "Desolé - il n'y a plus d'argent! Bon chance, mon brave", one wonders where the money to fund these grandiose plans for growth is going to come from.

I suspect that the new King has a ready store of magic mushrooms to shore up his illusionary economics; the Franks - being very passionate about food - are very fond of fungus...

The Voice

The voice of the Northumbrian electorate has spoken, and an unequivocal message (the content of which is unclear) has rung out. After a ferociously fierce fight between Beoris the Blond, Kenwald the Deadweight and a plethora of also-rans representing the various flavours of Redistributionism that continue entertain, bedazzle, bankrupt and blight the Northumbrian political landscape, the Glorious Victor has been announced. Despite the other runners, the contest was essentially a battle royal between the Tree and the Redistributionist factions, respectively headed up by the charismatic, raffish Beoris and his deadly rival, the reptilian shapeshifting Kenwald - a seasoned professional Redistributionist politico with a considerable undeclared income (from sources best understood by the underworld) and a penchant for tales of historical fantasy to counterbalance a healthy contempt for his electors. Naturally, the deliriously wild and lavish electoral promises and the factual inaccuracies flowed like the River Ouse in flood, but it was an entertaining contest none the less.

Considering that the competition involved a certain amount of vote rigging on the part of Kenwald the Deadweight's side (there've been more votes from dead - and as yet unborn - Viking Redistributionist citizens than from the living), victory has eluded Kenny Boy. Beoris - the voice of reason, fun, biscuit and bluster has triumphed.

For his coveted prize, Beoris the Blond has the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to sing at the opening of the Holy Roman Empire (which are neither holy, Roman nor an empire) Games when they commence in Yorvik in the merry and riotous month of August. This could herald a completely new career path for Beoris. If he can sing in tune. If he can't deliver a pitch-perfect performance, then he can always fall back on the booby prize, and take up the mantle once again to administer the affairs of the Great City...

Fit For A Prince

It appears that the hubristic impudence of the politicos here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria knows no bounds. I was minding my own business this morning - you know, the usual stuff - marking my territory, catching mice and tenderly administering a torn ear to an aspirational young feline who had overweening designs on my patch - when my pal Feaxede the Fox came loping excitedly towards me. My young rival disappeared sharpish when he saw Feaxede coming, who had surely obtained some fresh and steaming piece of hot political gossip - I could feel it in my water. Sure enough, he animatedly told me that he'd just heard that the Great Assize had reached its Solemn Verdict.

When I enquired what this grand-sounding affair was, he told me that the Witangemot had pronounced its judgement upon His Royal Highness Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach - the venerable and fabulously wealthy owner of seventeen million soothsaying enterprises. There's been an in-depth witch hunt investigation by a cadre of impartially partial, illiberally liberal politicos, who've had their knives sharpened for Rupie ever since he decided to switch his allegiance. Having supported the bellicose and mendacious (but so smooth-talking) Redistributionist Tondvig the Blur (and for fifteen nanoseconds, his psychopathically jovial successor Guffmund the Brown) - and then pledged his allegiance to Dagwald Caedmeron's Tree camp, it seems that Rupie trod on a few toes. So sad. It naturally follows that the campaign against the Great Prince was primarily dominated by the Redistributionists themselves, and during the fifteen million sessions of the Great Hearings (held at taxpayers' expense, naturally - with sumptuous banquets every lunchtime), all manner of accusations flew around concerning the misdemeanours of Rupie's drudges, who allegedly had listened in to the conversations of Poor Unfortunates and reported their findings to their soothsaying masters, who kindly passed the tasty gossip to the discerning and sophisticated Northumbrian public. Shock horror, terror and fruitcake.

Following a feverish campaign of fear-mongering, loathing and biscuit - suitably whipped up by the politicos and their loyal allies, the righteous Beeby See and her bilious and pox-marked stooge Guardy-Ann, the Noble Prince was demonised, paraded as a pariah and generally treated with contempt, opprobrium and disgrace. One ringleader of the persecutors - Wart's Son the Fat - decreed to the sound of a tolling bell that the Prince was no longer fit to administer his soothsaying enterprises. Nobody laughed.

I thought it was wonderfully ironic that a team of Redistributionist inadequates - who'd never done a day's productive work in their lives, but had graced the taverns and mead houses of then Kingdom at taxpayers' expense and lorded it over the population, deciding what was Good For Them by passing myriads of laws in a bid to criminalise every normal human being - had decided to pronounce such a verdict...