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, 14 November 2011
In Vino the Murky Veritas
I was minding my own business, carrying out my customary survey of my extensive Northumbrian empire (feline territory, that is) when I happened across my feline friend Lareow - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief Mouser and Rat Befriender of Caedmeron's residence. And, oh, what a story he had to tell me! I've been so excited about it, I've been dying to share it with all my friends. And that - dear reader - includes you!
The story goes that one of the Tree politicos was attending a political party party - the kind where humans drink far more mead, ale or wines from the vineyards of Charlemagne than is biologically good for them. The trouble with fermented liquids is that they initiate a process in which natural good sense, reason and discretion are temporarily disconnected from the feckless consumer, who can wind up saying something - or taking some course of action - which he or she later bitterly regrets. It can be a very entertaining spectacle to observe such behaviour - especially if it comes from someone who's normally quite reserved and restrained in their conduct. Other times it can be either quite tedious, unpredictable, dangerous, or even nasty.
This particular politico was a Paetrick The Murky: a former military supremo; he was engaged in some libation-fuelled monologue with a total stranger, who asked him for his comments about various current political issues - and particularly about his Beloved Leader, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Supreme Archbishop of the Tree Faction and head of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. The Murk then proceeded to refer to his Beloved Leader as a buttock and a dunderhead who lacked sufficient critical faculties to discern his posterior from his elbow; he also referred to him as an unprincipled pillock who was bereft of any redeeming features or principles. He also boldly predicted that by the beginning of next year, Caedmeron would be relegated to the back benches of the Witangemot in ignominy.
It just to happened, dear reader, that the person to which Murky addressed his soliloquy was a great deal more in possession of sound judgement than he was, and he subsequently faithfully recalled the words of Murky's diatribe verbatim to the waiting lugs of the soothsayers. Beeby See and her pustule-pocked companion-in-bitterness Guardy-Ann could scarcely believe their luck. The chewing of magic mushrooms henceforth increased seven thousand fold, and the market for the hallucinogens went into overdrive.
Naturally, the Murk is dismissing it all as a complete tissue of lies, damned lies and biscuits. Caedmeron apparently had a good chuckle about it while he sharpened his axe.
But Murky Boy was only - in his uninhibited and drunken way - expressing what lies of the surface of the collective Northumbrian consciousness, wasn't he? After all, don't all politicos perfectly fit his mead-soaked description? He was telling the truth for once. And as we know only too well, politicos and veracity are mutually exclusive..
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