Tuesday 27 June 2017
Thursday 29 September 2016
Tuesday 19 July 2016
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...
Sunday 17 July 2016
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...
Tuesday 28 June 2016
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.
Tuesday 10 May 2016
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...
Wednesday 16 March 2016
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...