Caddie’s Caledonian Cri De Coeur

News has reached this Cat from the sacred auguries of the soothsayers that Dagwald Caedmeron – the Archangel Cake-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration – has been on a visit to the wild and inhospitable uplands of the Caledonians.

Surprisingly, the reason of his visit hasn't merely been for recreation, rhubarb and uisge beatha; nor, it must be said, has it been to survey the rugged crags and cliffs, banks and braes in the howling rain and driving wind. This visit has been of Momentous Importance – well, at least to himself and his sycophantic window-licking acolytes. He's gone to those barbaric realms to appeal to them in the light of the forthcoming Wee Referendum Votie, the results of which will determine whether or not the Caledonians remain in the existing loose affiliation to the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

The High Chieftain of the Caledonians – Angus McTrout – has never concealed his desire to pull away his people from the benign Anglo-Saxon sphere of influence, and has tirelessly campaigned among his compatriots to persuade them of the beauty and the utter necessity of separation from the wicked Sassenachs (for whom he has the highest regard and the deepest contempt).

In spite of this posturing, many Caledonians are either ambivalent or unconvinced by the rhetoric, having realised that such a separation would spell out ruin rather than romance, since the average Northumbrian taxpayer has unwittingly helped to maintain the Caledonian Kingdom in magic mushrooms, Holy Groats, oats, boats, coats, goats and stoats. How possibly could they support themselves if the goodwill of Northumbria is withdrawn?

In view of this, Caddy Boy has ventured over the border to address the Caledonians and appeal to those of their number who are of two minds.

This Cat sincerely wishes him well, but somehow suspects that the majority of the indigenous populace won't understand a word he says – unless he affects an appropriate accent. Perhaps the uisge beatha will help; after a few bottles of it, his speech should be slurred enough to be discernible…

On The Run

I was quite intrigued to hear this morning from the soothsayers that a crocodile has been reported as having been seen loose within the Kingdom of Wessex.

For the benefit of those who are unaccustomed to the intricacies of life on these glorious islands, I must point out that crocodiles are not indigenous to the Northumbrian, Mercian or Wessex lands; indeed their own native habitat is to be found in the warm currents and sultry banks of the river Nile, along with other similarly humid regions where, in similar fashion to a Trade Guild chieftain, they indolently lounge in the sweltering heat, cheerfully tearing off the leg of a hapless passer-by for a tasty snack.

Naturally such a sighting has been greeted by a mixture of incredulity and panic by the Anglo-Saxon public; some have automatically assumed that such stories are apocryphal fancies designed to keep the gullible and malleable public in a state of fear, dread and biscuit. Others are genuinely afraid lest they should return home to their hovels to discover the creature making itself comfortable while digesting their family members.

Your Cat is quite sure that such accounts are indeed bona fide; the fact that the Slimy Yeoman has recently been deselected by his Tree Faction constituency is surely not inconsequential. After all, it's not natural to see crocodiles in trees, is it?

Strike Up The Banned

After weeks of sheer torpor from the politicos and the soothsayers, your Cat is pleased to announce a welcome break!

It's been announced that in certain shires it has been proposed by local aldermen to ban food from the lunches provided at the kindergartens. Their sustenance henceforth is to be the application of fresh, steaming supplies of dumplings of knowledge.

Breaking this new development to hosts of eagerly salivating soothsayers, the spokesman stated that this measure was being put forward in a bid to quell the unhealthy tendency of the present emerging generation to grow, which in turn necessitates a demand for even more nourishment to sustain this disturbing trend - hence a vicious spiral of supply and ever-increasing demand.

Many soothsayers decided to try to ascertain the mood of ordinary Northumbrians, and were pleasantly surprised with the responses they obtained. To a man, those who were asked for their views ventured the opinion that such measures were a Good Thing, and that the local authorities concerned were taking a responsible step to deal with this problem.

Naturally, those regional politicos who've submitted this proposal - evidently as a measure to prime the public for its intended introduction - will continue to wine and dine (at the taxpayers' expense, naturally) and to expand their own abundant waistlines.

What they've failed to anticipate is the forthcoming crimewave, when starving children are seen to break into bakeries and Viking fast food outlets to steal bread and ratburgers...

Honour Off

As we stride (or, in my case, prowl) confidently into another year, your Cat would very much like to take the opportunity to wish you all a very happy New Year in these turbulent Dark Age times. May mice ever be within your reach and fish be in your bowl!

The passing of an old year and the entrance of a new one affords Dagwald Caedmeron - the Archpalooka and Dancing Bear of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - a golden opportunity to grant awards to the more deserving members of this lovely Northumbrian realm. Each new year is invariably accompanied by the naive and childlike excitement of the soothsayers, who anxiously and endlessly speculate as to who's likely to be next to receive the highest honours that Northumbria can award its notable subjects. Without exception the resulting list of prizewinners ends up taking them by surprise.

I've just heard through my feline contact Lareow - the Rodentfinder General of Caedmeron's household - that one recipient of such an award as the Order of the Ancient Spheres is none other than Caddy Boy's personal foot groom. This particular lackey certainly deserves the honour - along with another servant whose responsibility is to tie the laces of the Great Leader's footwear (his wife - in open defiance of the terms of her marriage contract - has steadfastly refused to perform such a task for some unknown reason).

On careful consideration of this unusual award, this Cat has reached the conclusion that this honour is justifiably merited; only a minuscule percentage of the Northumbrian population would possess sufficient reserves of courage to remove the potentate's footwear without recoiling in horror, let alone scraping the hardened skin from the Great Man's heels and removing the dark and sinister deposits from beneath his toenails. Moreover, it must demand extraordinary powers of endurance to politely ask the despot where he's planning to go on his holidays, and whether or not he requires something special for the weekend.

Without doubt it's an infinitely more honourable occupation that the one his master is engaged in...

A Wintervaltide Greeting

While the politicos of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria slink back to their prisons and lairs, the general population of the Realm are busy preparing themselves for the pink and fluffy Feast of Wintervaltide – otherwise known to the majority of Northumbrians as Christmas.

Amid some of the worst weather we've had for many a week, people are rushing to their homes and hovels to gather with their kith and kin so that they can partake of the festivities – which in Northumbrian custom consists of mead and ale in industrial quantities. Many intelligent conversations at a gastro-intestinal level will be taking place, while heads will be thundering and railing tomorrow morning.

However, the more pious members of the populace are attending masses celebrating the entrance of the Divine Light into the human sphere. To this Cat's mind, they have the better deal.

The importance of His advent can never be overestimated. His very name – Jesus Christ – or in Hebrew, Yeshua Ha Mashiach – means the salvation of God, and the name is descriptive of the person to whom it is given. At the time of the Annunciation, the angel told Joseph that His name will be Jesus because He will save His people from their sins; during His ministry, He announced that He came to seek and to save those who were lost. Even his Pharisaical detractors in their mockery of Him on the cross recognised that He saved others even though He (to their eyes) could not save Himself.

The salvation He brings in His own person (and through His work) is of infinitely more value than the measures and means of men, and that's why my master Caedmon will be at the Abbey in Streonaeshalh tomorrow. I'll be hunting mice and patrolling my own kingdom as usual.

Happy Christmas to all!

CC

Signs Of Intelligent Life?

The cult of Nil's Son the Man Dealer continues apace; since my previous posting, there's been no sign of Beeby See and her Redistributionist cronies losing even the slightest interest in the Great Man. Daily prayers and devotions are being offered with all due reverence, flowers and candles and a somewhat aggressive piety; any persons found guilty of maligning the Man Dealer are lovingly awarded the punishment of blasphemy, and are consequently either sentenced to death or exiled to some wind-swept craggy island to feed the vultures.

The other day marked the memorial festivities for the departed Chieftain, and all of the notable monarchs, politicos, princes, satraps, governors, aldermen and other hangers-on from around the known world were present, pathologically anxious to be seen by their admirers to be paying their respects to expired greatness. It was a veritable Redistributionist bean feast. Bless.

The highlight of the solemn festival was the giving of eulogies by the hundreds of dignitaries; these lasted for several days, and the snoring from the audience was deafening. At the climax of the solemn occasion, Bugrake O'Barmy - the Holy Patriarch of the as yet undiscovered land of Ultima Thule - delivered his own oration. At his side stood a diminutive  Bongolian man, whose role was to translate the speeches into sign language for those members of the audience who were hard of hearing and still wide awake. As ever, Buggy Boy delivered a superb tribute to the fallen demiurge, and his cascading tones, meaningful expressions and skilfully crafted rhetoric tugged on the heart strings of the gathered assembly, and there wasn't a dry eye in sight.

However, the speech contained nothing that remotely resembled coherent thought or meaning, and the poor sign man had no choice but to signify by has hand gestures what was construed by the deaf members of the audience sheer gibberish...

Mourning Has Broken

After a protracted period of relative boredom with the machinations of the politicos of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, a little light of sunshine has finally insinuated itself into this Cat's life.

It all happened when my usual source of the latest news - Feaxede the Fox - caught me on an evening patrol through my own feline kingdom in pursuit of rodents. He excitedly told me that the soothsayers had just announced A Significant Event in the course of human history: Nil's Son the Man Dealer was dead.

As a sit down to chew my freshly-caught prey in awestruck silence, my synapses worked overtime, piecing together the strands of information I'd gleaned over the years about this remarkable man. A humble lawyer from the southern kingdom of Outer Bongolia, he had helped to set up a liberation movement (the Bongolian National Council) in a bid to cast off the tyrannical yoke of the ancient Romans, who in customary fashion had ruled the place with a rod of iron, plundered precious resources for their own personal fortunes and treated the poor and penniless aboriginal population with loathing, disgust and contempt.

In the course of his quest for the liberation of his people, Nil's Son the Man Dealer embraced the magic mushroom-fuelled cult of Redistributionism, and because of his active resistance to the tender ministrations of Caesar, ended up in an oubliette for seventeen thousand years, while a significant folklore grew around his reputation, which helpfully surrounded him with a swirling, misty mystique. Meanwhile, his supporters - in the absence of more subtle argument - were applying gentle persuasion to their opponents by tying faggots around their adversaries' necks and cooking them for dinner. Personally, I like the gravy, but I'm not so mad on the herbs, and to this Cat's mind it seems a bizarre way of preparing them.

Eventually, Nil's Son the Man Dealer was released from his confinement, and to cut a long story short, he ruled over reunited the remaining Romans and Bongolians in a New Era of Fluffiness. Which was nice. The legends around Nil's Son the Man Dealer continued to proliferate until his recent demise.

Beeby See - in conjunction with her numerous Redistributionist bosom pals - has organised co-ordinated mourning events and has already launched a new religion based on the mythology of Nil's Son the Man Dealer, and she's quickly appointed priests and priestesses to serve the new deity, who's expected to return from the Elysian Fields and usher in a global rule of peace, prosperity and biscuit.

I'm sure he was a thoroughly good egg, but I have my doubts about his divinity. Caedmon just rolls his eyes heavenwards..