Defeat of Strength

In all the months of being incommunicado, I've been completely absorbed by the Great Conundrum generated through the phenomenal advent of the latest Dear Leader of the Redistributionist Faction, the ancient, idiosyncratic and bearded druid Germius the Crowbane.

Despite the obscurity from which he's emerged blinking, belching and hiccuping into prominence, Crowbane - as my last post in the dim and distant past indicated - is a conqueror.

In spite of his many historical allegiances to villainous and ignominious forms of pond life who've been sworn enemies of godliness and Catholic virtue, Crowbane - like scum on a stagnant pool - has risen victorious to the top of the Redistributionist midden pile, accompanied by his equally bizarre companions, the fanatical shaman Murk Donal and the skilled numerologist, Demeter the Abbess, whose prowess with numbers defies the sum of human and feline intelligence. These acolytes have undoubtedly been either an éminence grise or noire behind the Crowbane crown.

In my researches about the aforesaid druid, I hopped in through a window in his sizeable mansion to see whether it might furnish me with any clues that could possibly betray the secret of his astonishing and unlikely success. Apart from having had some amusement in shredding some of Crowbane's incontinence accoutrements, and leaving a hairball in his sandal as a welcome distraction from the weariness of my labours, I came away none the wiser.

Why should an ancient and salivatory purveyor of an even more ancient and discredited creed suddenly erupt to the surface after years of hard-earned obscurity and biscuit? I still don't know.

This last week saw the annual gathering at Glastonbury of the Mystical Order of the Grunt, where legions of well-heeled young humans (and seniors who are old and potentially wise enough to know better) gather in squalor to enjoy wild music, bongoes, beansprouts, beer and fermented bilge water. Usually these events are little more than an inglorious pretext for industrial scale magic mushroom consumption and unwashed lasciviousness, but this year, guess who showed up to enrapture the lye-dodging hordes? - None other than the old dribbler himself, Germius the Crowbane, flushed with his defeat in the recent Great Count. However, his perspective on the relatively simple concepts of victory and defeat is at variance with standard understanding of these terms; in his conceptual road map, defeat is victory, but victory is not defeat. No, I don't understand either.

Assuming the stance of a Caesar who has entered a conquered city amid the scent of rose petals under chariot wheels, Crowbane charmed the gathered assembly with an oration that called on the thrilled audience to prepare for a new Golden Age of free goodies paid for by the long suffering Northumbrian taxpayer, and to rise up like lions. The chewing of magic mushrooms was deafening, and I can authoritatively declare that the only thing that was observed to rise up from that gathering was the collective odour of dog breath, human armpits, feet and various unmentionable regions...

Crowbane the Conqueror

Things are getting so exciting here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria - so much so, that I'd completely forgotten about my blog. Sorry about that, people :(

Since I wrote last time, Crowbane - the Archdruid of the Redistributionist Faction - has been under attack from his fellow Redistributionists. It would appear that his ideas for the Faction, coupled with his bizarre creed, have caused some of his own colleagues to wonder if he is somewhat unhinged. (It hasn't ever occurred to them that they might possibly be in a similar frame of mind, but then, what would I know? I'm only a moggy mouser.)

This overwhelming concern on the part of many Redistributionists has for the most part been fuelled by a growing suspicion that the Northumbrian electorate - who ultimately decide whether the likes of Crowbane are ever appointed to the holy office of Steward of the Realm - will ever gain their confidence. Your Cat can certainly vouch for this: in my varied travels throughout my own not insignificant kingdom I've asked ordinary people their opinions about the Great Panjandram, and every one of them has said that they believe that he's as mad as a box of frogs, or as the Hebrews say in their own patois, "a bisele mashugana".

This being the case, it was decided by the disillusioned members of the Faction (who'd selected him in the first place) that he should be deselected in favour of Someone Better. But it was not to be. By now, Crowbane was fastened to the leadership of the Faction as securely as a limpet, and he simply refused to budge. Such was the strength of the magic mushrooms. Therefore the obdurate dissenters had no choice but to call for a Leadership Contest, and a hitherto unknown figure called Owain The Balance was chosen to be Crowbane's antagonist. Owain - a soft-spoken Cambrian whose charisma could only be described in negative terms - started to campaign among his fellow Redistributionists for their support. He promised to reattach the Kingdom to the Evil Empire, thus ignoring the wishes of the majority of Northumbrians, who wanted a hasty and decisive exit from the stranglehold of that malignant confederation.

After a lot of blood, sweat, tears, flatulence and biliousness coupled with unbridled delirium by the soothsayers, who salivated like puppies in a butcher's shop, the Day of Decision came at the Redistributionists' Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic. The assembled gathering of yoghurt knitters, bongo beaters, mung bean aficionados, slebs, luvvies and deluded chewers of the sacred fungus listened in rapture to their respective champions and cast their sacred lot in favour of Crowbane. Owain the Balance was cast into outer darkness, along with other rebel angels. Job done.

Crowbane has consolidated his cast iron grip over his faction and removed the remotest possibility of a Redistributionist government for years to come. That's why your Cat is so excited. What's for tea?

The Tripehound Triumph

Things have been happening very quickly since Tressy the Mayfly assumed the shoes of her illustrious predecessor, Dagwald Someone-or-Other, whose name eludes me at the moment.

Since her ascension into the dizzying heights of Northumbrian politics at the head of the Tree Faction, she's presided over an impressive victory in a Witangemot vote concerning the future of an important secret weapon in the arsenal of the Northumbrian Kingdom: it's called Tripehound, and is doubtless named after certain species of dog (ugh) that bares its teeth, bites randomly, feeds on the stomachs and other offal of cattle and is characterised by breath that is equally as distasteful as its most refined tendencies.

Tripehound is the codename for a catapult that is mounted on longboats; it is specially designed to propel fireballs at high speed into the territories of the potential enemies of the realm in times of warfare. It has a bewildering mechanism of ropes, cogs, gears and pulleys whose end purpose is to deliver the infernal gift to its desired destination. It has never been used for its intended purpose, as the very thought of its use strikes dread, fear and loathing in those who might otherwise be inclined to invade these islands. (Except certain Vikings who would willingly dispatch themselves to the imaginary portals of Valhalla while taking Franks and Anglo Saxons with them.)

The weapon has existed for over five hundred years, and owing to its advanced age its bones, ligaments and joints are beginning to creak, crack and fracture. This has necessitated a requirement by the senior military leaders to replace it with a new set of catapults, built to more innovative designs and capable of more accuracy. This has been a source of Great Concern among certain Redistributionists, who believe in violently beating swords into ploughshares and allowing the Kingdom to perish at the hand of its foes without weapons in hand, but at least with its pacifist principles intact. However, there are other Redistributionists who welcome the idea of a weapons upgrade, since it will deliver much needed employment and prosperity to their electors. With such a tension between the members of the magic mushroom-chewing faction - coupled with an intense period of civil war, bloodshed and biscuit - the Redistributionist Faction was easily defeated in the vote by its Tree adversaries.

So Tripehound will emerge in about seventy thousand years in its new incarnation. Perhaps Tripepup would be an appropriate name. Of course, the whole exercise will be paid for by the purses of the long suffering Northumbrian taxpayers. Again...

Same New Same New

As I do the rounds of my kingdom and collect a few mice along the way, I can't help observing how much the lovely Kingdom Of Northumbria has changed in this last five minutes.

Caedmeron has retreated to the ash heap of history, Oswine has been cast into outer obscurity following a glittering career in pretending that he was working for the interests of Northumbrians, and Tressy the Mayfly has assumed the mantle of the prophet Elijah. Strange days.

And I nearly forgot to mention that the Redistributionist Faction are waging a protracted warfare amongst themselves as well as their usual pitched battles against the evils of logic and common sense. Crowbane the Druid Wizard has maintained his hallucinogenic hold upon the faction, despite the slightly inconvenient fact that nearly all his enthusiastic supporters have deserted him and have been plotting intrigues against him. Oh - and the Kingdom of Northumbria has chosen to leave the loving stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as the devil's backside, as Roman as a Bedouin and is only an Empire in the deranged imagination of its admirers). The decision to leave the Empire was overwhelmingly carried by about fifteen votes, causing catastrophic grief amongst the majority of the minority of those who voted to remain in the Evil Galactic Federation. There have been tantrums, tears and ferocious curses pronounced on those who dated to trample on their blissful illusions. Such a shame. If your Cat could cry tears,  I would. Honest. But I've had a quiet chuckle to myself, as it's been so blissfully entertaining.

Had anything changed? Nahh. A bit of furniture shuffling, that's all. But if they impose a tax on the consumption of mice, believe me - there'll be hell to pay...

The Desolation of the Kingdom

These are truly momentous days - at least, that is to say, for human beings in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. It is truly said that a cat can look at a king; this Cat is looking at this kingdom with horror, disbelief and biscuit. It is a realm that has been caught in the grip of turbulence, petulance and flatulence.

As I do my daily rounds through my own territory and inspect its furthest boundaries, I can't help but observe the scene laid out before me. I see a realm caught up in the throes of self-destruction following that Fatal Event which overturned everything that had hitherto been comfortable and familiar to the members of the human population.

And now I see (and smell) the heaps of corpses by the roadside and small clusters of the walking wounded, propping each other up like bookends and staggering their weary and painful way to Heaven knows where. There are legions of carrion crows taking gleeful advantage of the stinking feast set before them. There isolated individuals wandering about, shaking their heads in disbelief.

And then there are the recriminations. And the anger - oh, my word! Dagwald Caedmeron - the Princpal Dancer of the Tree Faction and the head of King Alhrith's government - has tendered his resignation so that he can purportedly spend more time on his own pig farm instead of managing the swine of his own faction. Therefore the Tree Faction is in a state of disarray, while the Redistributionist Faction - also deepy affected by the Event - is busy fighting its own internal civil wars. Two thousand members of Crowbane's Round Table have already left his side to devise (in whispering groups) plots for his downfall and the selection and subsequent coronation of a new arisocrat to rule over them. This could take some time, and many other lives are certain to be lost. The Liberationists no longer exist - except in the fading imaginations of a few people. This is a Kingdom that has become deeply damaged, decimated, dogeared and divided.

Wade Rune and his mighty men should never have conceded those two goals to the Island Vikings...

Crowbane, the Jutes and assorted Catastrophes

Please forgive my silence over that last few weeks: I've been busy with cat business, and simply haven't had either the time nor the inclination to immerse myself in the affairs of human politics. The lure of mouse and the tussle with tooth and claw against rivals have been too strong for me to resist.

Nevertheless, I've observed that things have been terribly busy in the Northumbrian scene; Crowbane has achieved some astonishing victories over the deadly foes of common sense, decency and reason, and has managed to unite his faction in a deadly internecine civil war, and has transformed the Redistributionist Faction into an anti-Jute club, while conveying to the Northumbrian masses that he loves the Jutes as much as the next man. (Those tribes from Jutland who've settled in the Southern realms have been a universal scapegoat, falsely accused of every crime and misdemeanour under the sun, and many Redistributionists would like them to be pleasantly annihilated.)

Even so, the main cause for your Cat's amusement has been the torrent of threats proceeding from soothsayers and politicos - should the Northumbrian realm decide to secede from the Holy Roman Empire, which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire. Such are the vested interests of  certain politicos, we can be sure that all of the plagues of Egypt as well as an epidemic of ingrowing toenails as well as the Mumbles will befall the Kingdom if the people decide to extract themselves from the Empire's tender stranglehold. Moreover, the birds will cease to buzz and the bees will stop singing.

What is more likely, however, is that certain soothsayers and politicos will lose an income, and find themselves on an expenses-free lifestyle. That would never do...

At the Red Sea Shore

Since my recent and protracted adventures in the undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, I've had time to recover from the experience and to find out what's been happening in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

A lot has happened, and the universal excitement has increased to boiling point. I sought out my friend Feaxede the Fox, who was curled up under a hedge, fast asleep. After some gentle persuasion and a nip on his ear, he woke up, and once he'd established from me what day, year and month it was, he gave me a rundown of the recent events in the Kingdom.

It appears that Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Dancer and Chocolate Teapot of the Tree Faction - has promised the Kingdom a Great Count to determine whether or not the Northumbrian people want to remain as a vassal state in the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as pig droppings, as Roman as Valhalla, and whose resemblance to an empire is - to say the least - tenuous). This has arisen following a series of disasters that have befallen the feckless Empire, the most recent and ongoing being the influx of entire nations, fleeing war and pestilence in the Orient and hammering at the doors, loudly demanding food and shelter in their fancied destinations. This has understandably caused no little concern in this part of the Evil Intergalactic Federation, and the prospect of hordes of Bactrians, Persians, Arabs, Berbers, Ethiopians, Vegans and Vegetarians flooding into the marketplaces, coughing in strange languages, dressing in bedsheets and introducing new barbaric customs and homeopathy has filled the average Northumbrian with fear, dread and foreboding, and the perception is that the Northumbrian Anglo-Saxon culture is under siege. So then, any opportunity to escape the clutches of the Empire would at least free the Realm from the strictures of Holy Roman Empire laws, which are currently being generated at a rate of fifteen thousand per second. The Northumbrians consequently feel that the very act of drawing breath will imminently become illegal and under the punishment of death.

Naturally, Caedmeron and his fellow politicos are largely in favour of remaining in the Empire, since it guarantees them comfortable incomes and inestimable glory. However, not all politicos are as enthusiastic about remaining in chains; many have vocally pledged themselves to an independent Northumbria, and even some Redistributionists have made similar noises.

The Moses to lead the people through the Red Sea is Beoris the Blond, the charismatic and bumbling rival to the affections of the Tree Faction, and Caedmeron's nemesis.

However, he will only lead them through the waters so that he can do a U-turn and lead them all back again. Moses didn't do that...