After a wonderful but malodorous week at the Redistributionists' Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic, this Cat is well and truly buzzing: I really haven't had so much fun since Guffmund The Brown sat on a dead hedgehog.
Edweird The Milliner - the Glorious Leader, General Secretary and Nosethrob of the Redistributionists' Proletarian and Agrarian Revolution - has given his triumphant oration to the gathered window-lickers, commissars, Trade Guild Barons and soothsayers. All hail, Caesar Ed! While he was nasally droning, a large number of the assembled throng looked decidedly hung over from the previous night's drunken carousing. Some slept loudly. My mother always told me when I was a kitten that you should never mix mead and magic mushrooms, and from the vacant expressions on the faces of the enraptured onlookers, I can understand why.
Eddy Boy tried to deliver something which approximated to humour in order to warm the audience up for his speech - but no one noticed. He then went on to boldly attack the vicious Trees, and to weave an unfamiliar view of Redistributionist history. In his unfolding fantasy, the uliginous warmongerer Tondvig The Blur - and Eddy's psychopathic predecessor Guffmund the Brown - were glorious and honourable men to whom the entire Civilized World owed its deepest gratitude. He described how they'd set the bar for new standards of honesty and integrity in Northumbrian politics. He praised the assembly for the increase in turnip production, and movingly implored the peasants to achieve even more for next year. (I have no idea why this should be of such significance to Eddy, since it's not a vegetable likely to grace his own refined dinner plate.)
He also announced that he was going to lead the Faction to the Promised Land, and he was going to take the Kingdom of Northumbria with him; there would be full employment in a Kingdom ruled by diversity coordinators, cat license administrators, pigeon psychologists, fish quota accountants and other vital front line services. He announced a full scale war on evil people who sold things at a profit for their own livelihood. (The market traders are going to be joyful. I hear the sharpening of knives already.)
After his speech, the audience - prodded by little people with long sticks - leaped to their feet and cheered lustily. The vomiting reflex - so familiar to me at such gatherings - took over my alimentary system. I didn't even summon the energy to vacate the premises. Feaxede the Fox - overcome by the sheer emotion of the week - slept through it all.
The singing of the Redistributionists' anthem 'The Red Loincloth' was led by a shrill vocalist whose skill in tonal delivery was as imaginary as everything that had taken place during the week.
One more Sycophantasy Picnic to go, and then I think I deserve a rest..
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