Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.
Monday, 19 September 2011
The Liberationists' Funny Farm Factor
Dear me - there's quite a to-do going on in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria at present. In fact it's something that's been rumbling for some time, but it's come to a head today. It would appear that this is the week of the Liberationists' Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic, but since the aforesaid Faction haven't been able to hire a Moot house for the occasion (they're all taken up with dealing with an enormous backlog of rioting cases), the Liberationists have set up a camp on a certain Rosedale Farm in the picturesque North Yorvik Moorlands.
Unfortunately, the locals in the vicinity have had quite enough of the less than exemplary behaviour of their new neighbours, who've been ingratiating themselves with the local communities by stealing bread, chickens and eggs, breaking into houses to steal valuable goods and - to add insult to injury - holding loud drunken revelries in the small hours, when good and clean-living Liberationists ought to be safely tucked up in their beds. O tempus, o mores. Because of this, the neighbours have banded together with members of the local Costumed Thug force, and have taken measures to evict the dissolute Liberationists from their temporary farm residences. The entire scene has since degenerated to the point where fly agaric-chewing Redistributionists have arrived in droves on donkeys and horses to give some moral support to their simple Liberationist country cousins, with whom they share a fond allegiance, as well as a passion for fantasy politics and exotic hallucinogenic fungi.
The name of a great local Liberationist saint has been invoked in an appeal for calm, but the hapless Holy Vincent of Bigwires has already got his hands full, attempting to rewrite a fantasy version of Northumbrian history - such a contrast to the Venerable Bede, whose main desire is the propogation of Blessed Truth.
The monks and the Abbess Hilda at the Streonaeshalch Abbey are most concerned about it all, and special masses have been held round the hours of the day. There's also a regular stream of messengers arriving at the Abbey with the latest news of the sorry business..
As for me, I'm not really bothered about it all. As far as I'm concerned, the Liberationists can go hang; the Đ Factor has returned to town; that's far better entertainment. And it's Sandal Camp next week - hooray!
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