Catnapped

I'm so terribly sorry not to have posted for so long. While a litany of excuses could be provided as to my absence from the blogosphere, a pedestrian explanation will have to do, I'm afraid.

The reason for my silence over this last month is down to a curious experience which befell me. In a word, your Cat was abducted - much, it transpired, to the distress of my poor master Caedmon.

It all happened one morning as I was doing my territorial rounds; a couple of large Vikings approached me - one of them with a sack in hand. The next thing I knew I was inside the aforesaid bag, scratching and struggling to get free from my abductors. However, my escape wasn't possible, so I had to resign myself to the fate that awaited me.

To cut a long story short - and to spare you a myriad of trivial details - I was taken to what I gathered to be a large building in some unrecognisable village, and found myself along with a host of humans in some kind of a school. It was explained to me that I'd been specially chosen - along with the humans present - to attend and participate a training course for future leaders - and they needed to include a literate Cat.

The purpose of the training was to help us all to appreciate the value of the Redistributionist religion, and for that purpose, copious amounts of the Sacred Fungus were available for consumption whenever they were needed. For most of the human trainees, this was pretty well continuously... The one redeeming feature of this new location was the quality of the meat and fish dishes presented to me - at the Northumbrian taxpayers' expense, of course.

There were lectures, seminars and times of what I would describe as a cultic form of worship of the goddess Redistributia, whose high priests wore red robes and nasally droned their invocations. Bones were thrown and augurs consulted. All the ususal tedious stuff.

At the end of my education, I was returned to Streonaeshalh in the same bag in which I'd been originally transported, and henceforth released at the identical spot from where my abduction took place weeks previously. I returned to the joyful welcome of my master, who treated me to a splendid fish supper and asked me what had happened.

The one question you'll all doubtless be wanting to ask is: Did the 'training' experience have any effect upon me? Let me categorically assure you, dear reader, that my core values and opinions haven't changed one iota.

The politicos of Northumbria are wonderful people, who've seriously taken the good of the ordinary people to their hearts - they are not self-serving, posturing cretins. Caedmeron, Clegge and Edweird the Milliner are paragons of saintly virtue. As for the Holy Roman Empire - it's a veritable earthly paradise, whose elders love the myriads under their charge.

Now - I must sign off and go to sit at Guardy-Ann's feet; I believe there's some wondrous wisdom to be found there... I can't wait!

Complaint of the Cat

Ever since I was elected Beloved Leader and Guiding Light of the Feline Redistributionist Faction (Jobs for the Faithful, Magic Mushrooms and Equal Rights for all like-minded Cats), I've been more than aware that there have been significant forces working tirelessly against me since I donned the mantle of high office. This is most upsetting, since all a Cat want to do is to carry out his public business to the best of his ability and obtain a few Holy Groats on the side - what on earth is wrong with that, for goodness' sake?

A number of soothsayers have particularly had it in for me - particularly those whose ideology aligns itself with those depraved Tree Faction types, who make me singularly sick. Things have got to a pretty pass recently when one of the soothsayers - none other than the ranting and hysterical Dellimell - published scurrilous information about my late father (blessings and mice be around him). Now of course, he's no longer around to defend the honour of his name, but I can certainly vouch for him as a cherished son and heir.

While it must be said that he did have rather eccentric views about the world, feline society and the redistribution of fish and mice to the common cat (i.e. any active Redistributionist Faction member), his extreme world view - contrary to the poisoned narrative of the obnoxious Dellimell et alia - made no room for violent struggle with claws and teeth in order to achieve universal poverty and biscuit. I know for a fact (for I studied his mannerisms very closely) that he never bared his teeth in anger to tear off the ear of another cat. And he certainly never was known to use the natural sharpness of his claws - and I have the scars to prove it.

Furthermore, I refute the allegation that my dear old father hated the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, King Alhfrith, the feudal system, the Christian Church and the costumed thugs. He was more than happy to affectionately adopt the Kingdom which welcomed him as a stray, put fish in his bowl and gave him the abundant leisure and thence the opportunity to develop his formidable intellect. He simply didn't like them - in fact, he loathed them.  And, contrary to popular belief, he didn't redistribute thousands of Holy Groats into his own personal hoard. My own considerable wealth has derived from other quarters, and I'm not prepared to discuss that matter any further, as it's none of anybody else's business.

So therefore I'm determined to destroy those soothsayers who gainsay me and oppose my political position, and I'm prepared to grind their bones to powder. My late father taught me a great deal...

The Cat's Dream

All of these Annual Unfortunates' Outings and Picnics - and the soothsayers' slobbering excitement about them - have been stimulating within this Cat a desire to sleep excessively these days.

Recently I had an odd dream in which I found myself confronted by some strange chimera - a kind of hybrid between a human being and a politico. This bizarre creature appeared to have an insatiable appetite for Holy Groats, taxation and control - not to mention fine cuisine. Through this encounter in my reverie, I was also able to discern that this creature uttered words which seemed to make some kind of cogent sense, but on closer examination were nothing more than skilfully crafted rhubarb and biscuit.

The encounter with this odd creature was hardly a pleasant one, and to be perfectly frank, I felt the urge to regurgitate my previous meal.

However, I woke up - which spared me the unpleasant emetic effect of my soporific ordeal. And then I found out that I hadn't been dreaming after all.

I hope that in my next nap I have more pleasurable visions of mice with golden wings. That's more to my liking...

Wreck Creation

It's been such a long time since I last posted; my master Caedmon has been away to visit his friends Cuthbert and Aidan, and I suspect he's also paid his mate Bede a visit as well. This has left me holding the fort while he's been away; there's been a glut of mice and other verminous rodents of late - to swell the numbers which already infest the Northumbrian Witangemot - so I've been very busy!

While the non-existent Liberationists hold their mythical Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic, another piece of news has reached this Cat's ears through the excitable gibberings of the soothsayers. It would appear (if there's a vestige of truth in what they tell us) that there's a spectacular mission to restore a wreck from the depths of the briny. The disaster happened in the recent past, when an enormous and ungainly vessel came into collision with rocks in shallow waters and capsized, resulting in enormous distress, dismay, desolation, damage and biscuit.

The bloated carcass has been visible for miles around to those onlookers interested enough to admire such gruesome sights, and a considerable tourist trade has been built around around the spectacle. Which is nice.

However, there are those who sit in exalted places who dislike such enterprise; following their deliberations behind closed doors, a decision has been made to restore the wretched wreck to some measure of uprightness so that the unfortunate hulk can be towed to a nearby port, where legions of happy workmen can carry out repairs and restore the ruin to its pristine glory.

When they've finished the restoration work on the Emperor Jose Borracho, what use are they going to put him to? If he sank once, he'll sink again - perhaps in deeper waters next time...

Eddie's New Epithet

Your Cat has been most intrigued by a description of Edweird the Milliner that has been recently disclosed to one of the soothsayers (and subsequently trumpeted from the Northumbrian rooftops). It appears that Edweird the Milliner - the ubiquitous Tribal Chieftain of the Redistributionist Faction, whose absence from the public arena of late has been largely unnoticed - is a cooking font.

Now, as a Cat with a rudimentary education in matters ecclesiastical (owing to the patient tuition of my good master Caedmon), I already know that a font is a stone-carved basin installed in churches for the purpose of baptising children and penitent adults. I'm also aware of the process of cooking - an entirely human activity, which involves kindling a fire and baking bread or cakes, or burning meat, fish and vegetables. However, when it comes to combining these two concepts within a single term, I struggle to wrap my feline head around it. What's going on here - a cooking font?

So in an endeavour to further my education, I sought my friend Feaxede the Fox, who shares with me more than a passing interest in political matters. Sadly he was unable to enlighten me, and the chicken struggling and loudly squawking within his jaw was no help either.

I was therefore resigned to having to remain in blissful ignorance, but then I remembered that Lareow - the Chief Secretary to Caedmeron's Department of Rodent Affairs - has always provided me with vital insights in the past, so I went to pay him a call. As ever, when I found him, Lareow produced the goods.

Edweird the Milliner oversees the secret ritual of slow roasting of children within the temples of the Redistributionist religion. This is accompanied by the masticating of magic mushrooms and the singing of hymns and anthems to the false god Redistributia. When I asked Lareow how he came by this information, he simply gave a conspiratorial wink, and said that his master Caedmeron is a fount of all knowledge.

What I'd dearly like to understand is how he knows this..

Deja Vu Again

Since your Cat last posted, there seems to have developed a strange chronological phenomenon. Every now and again, I've chased a bird - or caught a mouse - in some part of my territorial patch and I've suddenly been overcome with a feeling that I've done this before - the same rodent/bird in exactly the same place, and in identical weather and light conditions. Of course, I just shrug it off and pursue my quarry - after all, if I pondered these things too long, I'd lose my snack, not to mention the thrill of the chase.

But this is also happening on a grander scale as well; the soothsayers of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria are currently very animated about developments happening over in the Levant. Some years ago, when this Cat was somewhat younger, the Redistributionist Principal Minister Tondvig the Blur (known by that epithet because of his tenuous hold on reality, as well as an inability to discern the difference between fantasy and reality) urgently called the Witangemot to a special moot to persuade the Kingdom that it was vitally necessary to send soldiers to the Levant to assist those from the as yet undiscovered Ultima Thule in deposing the ruthless chieftain Sadman Hussy, who - according to the reliable reports of the day - was preparing to invade the Northumbrian shores with legions of soldiers on a flotilla of quinquiremes at a moment's notice; furthermore, he'd carried out shameful atrocities on his own people for the sheer fun of it, and reliable witnesses had confirmed this. Moreover, it was argued that Sadman also had access to Greek Fire - that feared and mysterious weapon which held the oriental promise of death and desolation for those who came under it. Something Must Be Done - and very quickly. Consequently, the majority of the Witangemot voted to proceed with the invasion of the Levant.

Later on, it was discovered that all of these stories were obtained from a piece of parchment found in a children's school playground following a creative writing lesson.

Some years later in the present day, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Looby of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance administration - has urgently called the Witangemot to a special moot to persuade the Kingdom that it is vitally necessary to send soldiers to the Levant to assist those from the as yet undiscovered Ultima Thule in deposing the ruthless chieftain Basher O'Sad, who - according to the reliable reports of the day - is preparing to invade the Northumbrian shores with legions of soldiers on a flotilla of quinquiremes at a moment's notice; furthermore, he's carried out shameful atrocities on his own people for the sheer fun of it, and reliable witnesses have confirmed this. Moreover, it's been argued that Basher also has access to Greek Fire - that feared and mysterious weapon which holds the oriental promise of death and desolation for those who come under it. Something Must Be Done - and very quickly. Consequently, the Witangemot are being persuaded that a vote to send in soldiers is The One And Only Option.

So this Cat suspects that there's a children's class which has been busy again. And as for the blacksmiths - I realise that making swords, shields, helmets and body armour is great for their business, but the noise of their incessant crashing, hammering and the roar of their furnaces is doing my feline head in..

Eggs Act Science

Amid all the usual euphoria and excitement, your Cat (as well as his vulpine friend Feaxede the Fox) have recently come to notice an intense cult following around the legendary Redistributionist Dear Leader, Edweird the Milliner.

While it's been suggested by certain soothsayers that Edweird and his immediate coterie of starry-eyed believers in the Sacred Geometry of Redistributionism have recently been conspicuous by their absence from the glare of popular attention (claiming to be taking a long and well-deserved break from their holy business), some sinister forces have been insidiously at work, weaving a spell of enchantment which has produced some surprising results; Edweird has suddenly become exceedingly and embarrassingly popular.

This phenomenal rise in popularity has evidenced itself in his public appearances, where crowds of normally apathetic Northumbrians have gathered to strew his path with brown canine political statements, and to adorn him with eggs. Considering the sacrifice of a perfectly good source of nutrition in these straitened times, this can only compare with the breaking of the alabaster jar in the Gospel account. Strange, indeed.

Your Cat has a sneaking suspicion that he's been consulting with demons - and by this I don't mean his usual companions in the Redistributionist Faction, but those of a more ethereal nature. What else can explain his meteoric rise in popularity, a growing number of his colleagues singing paeans of praise, not to mention Northumbrians spontaneously showering him with gifts and waiting expectantly on every syllable which proceeds through his nasal passages? I rest my case.