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.

Rock Opera

The Saxon outpost of Rockhaven at the tip of the Iberian peninsula has been at the centre of a lot of hot air these days - and this isn't related to the uncharacteristically warm weather that has enveloped the Northumbrian Kingdom in recent weeks.

Rockhaven was formally adopted by a long-forgotten tribe of Anglo-Saxons as a spin-off from their historic punch-ups with the Iberians. Situated at the tip of the Iberian landmass, it sits a few miles from the North African coast. The reason for this acquisition was said to be so that Saxon sailors could easily defend the Saxon merchant fleet from Barbary pirates, thus protecting the transportation of magic mushroom consignments from the Levant, but this justification is somewhat apocryphal; a more plausible reason for this territorial grab is simply in order to rub the Iberian noses in their consequent indignity. Whatever.

The Iberian satrap - known as Ahoy - has unexpectedly launched an anti-Saxon rhetoric campaign out of resentment concerning their occupation of their ancient port, and has threatened to impose large amounts of taxation from Iberians and Saxons who pass to and fro over the border. Most Northumbrian soothsayers are suggesting that Ahoy - along with the rest of his kingdom deep in debt, poverty, ignominy and biscuit following the Great Deficit of the Ages - has decided that his people need some pleasant respite from their current miseries, and has provided some entertainment for them by way of a distraction. Which is nice.

However, this Cat is an assiduous student of human nature, and has reached his own conclusions. For what it's worth, I would like to share them with you. Often, erratic and extreme forms of human behaviour don't always stem from stated reasons, and they can often be unconscious cries for help. Your Cat has reason to suspect that Ahoy's actions of late have been in this category.

And what's the underlying problem giving rise to all this nonsense? I wouldn't be at all surprised if he has a fishbone lodged in his gullet...

Peer Over The Abyss

Since I last posted about the arrival of the New Addition to the Royal House of Alhfrith (he's doing very well, widdling, howling and making copious colonic political statements), I'm very gratified to report that the wider family of the Great And The Good is also burgeoning, albeit at a significantly faster rate than the Monarch's own dynasty.

Dagwald Caedmeron - the Paloocus Magnus of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has revealed to an awestruck Northumbrian public the latest leg-ups to greatness, prestige, power and biscuit. The awards of peerages by the administration du jour is a weekly event that's invariably attended by a great deal of soothsayer excitement, which in turn stimulates highly organised impromptu street parties and celebratory revelries by the less reflective members of Northumbrian humanity. The consequent carnage is delightful to a cat's eyes and nostrils...

The status of Anglo-Saxon earldom used to be a matter solely determined by birth, but in these increasingly Redistributionist times, the People - whoever they are: I've never quite figured that out yet - have relentlessly clamoured for Equality, Fair Play and a Level Playing Field, resulting in the elevation of chickens, pigs, professional whingers and assorted ne'er-do-wells to the elevated heights of Northumbrian society. The playing field is now several hundred feet below ground level. Oddly enough, these new appointees happen to be either politicos or their nearest and dearest friends. I'm sure this must be a coincidence. The hereditary earls avoid their new neighbours; from what I've gathered from my feline associate Lareow (Senior Rodent Commissar to the House of Caedmeron), it's because they don't like the smell..