The Rise of the Crowbane Cult

It's all over. The Kingdom of Northumbria may now take a well-deserved rest from the endless witterings of the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her psychotic side-kick Guardy-Ann, who, along with Delimell the Wailer and the Windy Pedant have occupied months of their time hitherto in speculating about the prospective Dearest Leader of the Redistributionist Faction. Deary me.

Since my last posting the momentous die has been cast, and by some inexplicable esoteric fluke, the bearded druid priest Crowbane has won the supreme seat of earthly power, or, at least, within the Redistributionist world of the lovely Kingdom. Since his appointment amid the customary ceremonial solemnities, the Crowbane has wasted no time in establishing his hold over the reins, and consequently there's been a rapid exorcism of the previous demons, followed by the replacement of spirits seven times more malevolent than the ones deposed. A cult has thus been well and truly established, with Crowbane as the arch-druid, and a coterie of likeminded pagan priests and priestesses as his admiring entourage. My master Caedmon refers to them as the synagogue of Satan, and not without good reason; pagan groves have been re-established, and stone circles have been pressed into service by dog-breath bongo players, yogurt weavers and professional soap and employment dodgers. It's all so very sad.

Dagwald Caedmeron - the Banana Superior of the Tree Faction - has similarly wasted no time in responding to these awe-inspiring events, and the machinery of Tree Faction propaganda has been swiftly wheeled into action. They've been decrying the Crowbane as a threat to the safety and security of the Northumbrian Realm - particularly in view of his past courtship of and betrothal to the various Edda-quoting Viking blood cults, as well as his predeliction for whispering sweet nothings into the shell-like lugs of those whose idea of friendship is to ritually dismember Anglo-Saxons on an industrial scale.

The average Northumbrian is at a loss to understand why this sinister power has so suddenly erupted like a boil on the buttock politic; fishermen, farmers, labourers and tradesmen shake their heads in stunned disbelief at these unfolding events. But boils - although painful for a season - have a habit of erupting like volcanoes, scattering their unpleasant contents and falling into dormancy. Your Cat expects this to happen sooner or later. I just don't want to be around when it all goes pop...

The Crowbane Legend

Since my last posting, a significant momentum has accumulated in favour of the future king of the Redistributionist Faction known as Crowbane, the aged and bearded druid priest who - according to popular folklore - hails from a small settlement in Frankish Gaul called Sibannac, which is renowned for its idiosyncratic residents, who in their unique custom stand around in stoned circles.

Despite the fact that he hasn't yet been enthroned, the soothsayers are excitedly predicting his incumbency with a blasé certainty saturated with smugness. It's almost as if they're deliberately aiding the prophecy's fulfillment.

Amid the scare stories being peddled by the Tree Faction and its faithful drones, an alternative narrative is starting to emerge; tales of his courageous exploits with the chieftains of various Viking enemies of the Northumbrian Kingdom, and stories of his adoption of obscure and deeply unpopular causes like the dismantling of the Northumbrian Kingdom and the banishment of King Alhfrith to the nether regions.

He's also expressed his undying support for the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, and particularly for the cultivation of new strains of plants and of course, magic mushrooms. Such enterprises are of great importance to bizarre and eccentric druids, as their auguries from the mangled deliberations of their muses depend solely upon these organic substances. Very important!

One of his more controversial aspirations is to turn the realm into a glorified vegetarian pigfarm, and to remove iron and various other metals from the land in favour of pieces of wood, twine and stone. Such ambitions have already earned him a great deal of admiration from the yogurt weaving communities and climate doom merchants, who, for the sake of the gentle polar bears and the allegedly receding Arctic ice, would also like to see the use of fire forbidden during the winter months.

Despite these often conflicting reports, the soothsayers are already smacking their voluminous chops and anticipating what Crowbane will do when he gains the coveted seat of power. Naturally, they're assuming that his leadership of the Redistributionists will be but a mere step away from the wielding of absolute authority over whatever is to remain of the Kingdom. As if it's already a done deal.

As far as Crowbane is concerned, this destiny is certain. Cometh the hour, cometh the druid. Your Cat is quite convinced that it is certain. In Crowbane's addled head, that is...

Taking The Rei(g)n

Your Cat has been transfixed for weeks by the unceremonious and often brutal competition for the leadership of the Redistributionist Faction, which followed the demise of Edweird the Milliner after the Great Count Disaster earlier this year.

The Redistributionist Faction - renowned for mutual love, respect and adoration among its members - has been busy following its ignominious defeat with the spectacle which can best be described as a bear pit, with the potential starry-eyed candidates for the coveted Leader's Throne cast into the ring in order to parade their respective charms and to decry, denounce and denigrate their opponents as base and unworthy trash. This has inevitably brought about a great deal of fevered excitement for some members of the bemused public, as well as the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her sweaty, spotty and uliginous ally Guardy-Ann.

Since the passing of Eddy, most Northumbrians who bother to take any interest in such things would have expected the Faction to take a radically different direction from the reign of its previous incumbent, and one would reasonably expect the scent of moderation to fill the nostrils of the faithful and refresh their weary psyches. But fear not.

The most likely possessor of the crown is an aged and bearded druid priest called Crowbane, whose toxic presence has graced the Redistributionist ranks in the Witangemot for millennia, and who hitherto has been regarded as an offbeat heretic with a penchant for wormwood and gall as well as the inevitable magic mushrooms. Crowbane has presented himself - and been adopted, much to his surprise - by the eager hordes of Redistributionists as their new deliverer, and his popularity increases day by day. His following - previously restricted to certain boss-eyed members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction - has burgeoned as a consequence, and an entire cult has developed around him. Beeby See are salivating at his every utterance.

The Tree Faction have also been very excited about this, since his kingship has the potential to consign the Redistributionist Faction to obscurity for years to come, while hailing him as a man of principle - despite his unbridled enthusiasm for various violent and vicious Viking viceregents who in the cold light of day are nothing more than common thugs and criminals.

Your Cat can't summon any more enthusiasm; it's exhausted itself after fifteen picoseconds...

Caedmeron's Great Escape

Dagwald Caedmeron really doesn't know what a charmed life he leads.
Since my last posting, there's been a dramatic change of direction in the Tree Administration, and consequently the proposals to reintroduce fox hunting have been put to one side - to the palpable relief of my bushy-tailed friend Feaxede.
Without any attempt to take the credit for such a development, your Cat would modestly like to point out that he has been the catalyst for this monumental volte face.

While contemplating the Creatures' Council proposal I outlined to you the other day, it suddenly occurred to me that Caddy's attempt to turn animals into fair game wouldn't obtain a sympathetic hearing from the Caledonian Independence Faction, whose sole existence in the Northumbrian Witangemot is - as the significant minority - to present a belligerent and largely incoherent problem to the Northumbrian Sassenachs, whom they courteously loathe, despise and detest. Since everything that the Sassenachs do is repugnant to their brutish and uncivilised eyes, I thought I might go and pay Caedmeron a casual visit. If he were to heed my counsel, he could save himself a great deal of embarrassment, since it doesn't look too clever to be losing votes as a newly elected majority faction. Besides which, the hassle of calling a Council of the Kingdom's animal population would be a logistical nightmare, and I'm at the age where frankly, I really don't need the aggravation.

After a gentle word in his shell-like ear, I departed and left common sense to finish the job in Caddy's addled noddle. The result is the Great Climbdown, which was deliriously slobbered over by the soothsayers.

Caedmeron has saved his own skin - not only from the machinations of the haggis hunters, but from the teeth and claws of legions of badgers, weasels, foxes and stoats...

Feaxede's Foxhunting Phobia

I'm sorry I've not been blogging for a while, but I've been terribly worried about my vulpine friend Feaxede – particularly since the results of the last Great Count, which saw the return to power of an invigorated Tree government under their Great Panjandrum Princess Dagwald Caedmeron, along with a nascent and brutish Caledonian Independence group – much to the chagrin of a reduced Redistributionist representation and a now practically extinct Liberationist Faction.

To be perfectly frank, Feaxede – my fellow creature and co-watcher of the human political sphere in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria – never really recovered from the humiliating defeat of the Redistributionists. Even though he'd courted their magic mushroom-driven ideology and agendas to the point of becoming a member, he soon became disenchanted with them and their idiosyncratic ways and beliefs and bade them farewell. Be that as it may, the old hankerings and mental habits have persisted, and my old friend still exhibits some of their pink and fluffy sentimentality. I can't say that I'm altogether too surprised about this – especially in the light of the Redistributionists' ban on the sport of fox hunting some years ago under the grinning dominance of their now fallen arch-demon Tondvig the Blur.

Feaxede's present state of acute anxiety, angst and biscuit has been the proposal by the Tree Faction – now uninhibited by the shackles that preciously bound them to the corpse of the Liberationists – who've declared their intention to reinstate the barbaric practice. The principal rationale stated for this is that these fine creatures are pests, and hunting them on horseback with packs of hungry dogs is an efficient and caring way of keeping their numbers down. With the majority of Northumbrians, this will render the government deeply unpopular, as their natural affection for the ruddy, bush-tailed creatures is undiminished. (The majority of Northumbrians don't keep chickens.)

Even so, I can see the reason for Feaxede's worry and sympathise with him; if the Trees reintroduce fox hunting, how long will it be before they also legitimise cat hunting for pleasure and profit? Or weasel hunting? Or dormouse hunting?

One idea I've had to counter Feaxede's great concerns is to call a General Council of all creatures in the Kingdom and put to them a practical and workable suggestion.

Politicos are the human equivalent of vermin. They serve no useful purpose, and along with their theatrical gesturing, chronic mendacity, lavish expense accounts and their pathologically habitual lawmaking, they're an enormous drain on the resources of the long suffering Northumbrian population.

I think you know what's coming. And I know I'm backing a winner...

On The March

In the aftermath of Dagwald Caedmeron's astonishing and unpredicted defeat of the Redistributionist Faction in the Northumbrian Great Count, those of the Redistributionist mentality have been busy, either licking their significant wounds, fighting and arguing amongst themselves about the future (downward) direction of the Faction. This area of conflict has been primarily centred around the election of their next Great Leader and who the future chieftain should be. All of this to-do has been most entertaining for your Cat - especially since the most popular potential leaders selected are those whose intake of hallucinogenic mushrooms is the highest.

Although the fly agaric chewers have been particularly self-absorbed with their manifold problems, the charge can't be levelled at them that they've been idle. Despite the current pre-occupation of their priests with their burning questions, their laity has been busy, creating their own kind of unholy stink throughout the beautiful Northumbrian Kingdom.

Today has been a Great March against the demonic Tree god Austerity, whose devotions have consumed the Tree - and erstwhile Liberationist - Administration for the last few hundred years. Following the years of profligacy, wild borrowing and biscuit of the Redistibutionists under the witty, smiling and charming Guffmund the Brown, the Tree Faction was - and not for the first time - left with a mountain of unpaid bills and unforgiven sins. Upon their election, the Tree Faction solemnly pledged themselves to make reparation for the inherited waste and to placate the god Austerity by sacrificing valuable resources and treasures as offerings. Sadly, Austerity is an avaricious deity, and the donations to its altar was evidently regarded as mere breadcrumbs. The oracle of the god therefore declared that more offerings were required, and in view of this, more stringent sacrifices were planned and executed. However, the sacrifices proposed have never actually been of sufficient seriousness or severity to cost the politicos anything from their own personal treasuries; this honour has been confined as usual to the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayer.

Surprisingly enough, the marchers against this god and its cult aren't Northumbrian taxpayers; they're a broad affiliation of magic mushroom devotees, diversity coordinators, yogurt weavers, bongo players, pigeon psychologists, professional idlers, layabouts, loblollies, lunatics, soap evaders, members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction (whose business is not to be gainfully employed). The odour of dog breath, unwashed armpits, posterior sighs, lentils and bean sprouts headily permeates the air around the marchers, and is gently wafted by the breeze in the direction of the innocent bystanders. It's all so very sad.

Naturally, Caedmeron isn't terribly worried about this - although the aroma is causing a significant health risk to the wider populace. At least it's keeping them out of trouble, and giving them some other pointless way of occupying their time...

Bladder Wrack

The entire civilised Dark Ages world is reeling; these are dark and foreboding times, dear readers. The soothsayers have been chirping and bleating about the same matter for ages now, and in reaction to their latest outburst, the entire Northumbrian population is wandering in a state of ashen faced bewilderment, barely comprehending the gravity of the news that has so suddenly imposed itself upon their consciousness.

Schlep the Bladder has resigned. Weep, ye heavens, and be amazed. Blow your nose.

After a reign of thirteen thousand years upon the Holy Roman Empire Football Association - a realm characterised by steadfast righteousness, integrity, honesty, humility, civility and biscuit - Schlep has been deposed by a cabal of power-hungry ruffians, mountebanks and professional bribe collectors after falsely charging him with being an incorruptible good egg.

The entire world is waiting with baited hooks and breath, wondering what is going to happen next.

Your Cat is wondering how this news is going to affect the feline population. I've worried about it for all of fifteen nanoseconds...