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.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Pulling O'Daffy's Legacy
Since the capture of Spiv O'Daffy - the pampered, psychopathic son of the late and unlamented Murmur O'Daffy - the previous Great Beloved Despot of Cyrene - things have been getting quite interesting in the lovely country of Northumbria and in the wider world.
As the advancing hordes of Holy Roman Empire-backed mercenaries, brigands and armed thugs steadily wrested control from Murmur's grasp in their bid for the Cyrenian throne and unlimited olive oil and dates, his ninety first son Spiv - the one hundred and thirty seventh in line to the coveted Cyrenian throne - was making good his escape in the sandy wastes of the Trables nightclubs, in the vain hope of obtaining entry into the fabulous land of Timbuktu, where he hoped to merge with the local populace as a travelling incense herder or fly warden. Sadly for Spiv, this was not to be, and he was duly apprehended by the Cyrenian constabulary, and is now awaiting trial for stealing women's undergarments from washing lines, and pulling the wings off butterflies. He is being treated with customary Cyrenian hospitality, and he has two remaining fingers to prove it.
This has all been a terrible embarrassment for the Northumbrian Redistributionists, and particularly for their intellectual kindergarten - the Yorvik School Of Esoterics; when Murmur was running the Cyrenian show, he was idolised as a Great Hero of the Redistributionist Cause, as he skilfully and masterfully exercised their time-honoured principles, redistributing the wealth of that benighted sandy land into his own back pocket. Because of this adulation, his son was courted and fêted by the Yorvik School Of Esoterics as an intellectual paradigm with whom they could do business. And he also generously granted them several billions of ducats - which amounts in Anglo-Saxon currency to several billions of holy groats. At the time, the School was well pleased with its outstanding intellectual achievement, and in return for the favour granted him a doctorate in Redistributionist fly-swatting.
But things aren't always what they seem. With the passage of time it appears that Murmur and his family were merely murderous thugs who enjoyed the infliction of pain and suffering upon their fellows, and Murmur became a Nasty Piece Of Work overnight - hence the hastily-hatched war to depose him. The Redistributionists were terribly sad and upset about this - not because O'Daffy and Son had deceived them and let them down, but simply because they lost face in view of the general ignominy and disgrace attached to the accursed O'Daffy name. Guffo The Brown and his silver-tongued predecessor Tondvig the Blur had lost a valued friend and associate in their cause. And the Yorvik School Of Esoterics have had to publicly say 'Oopsy Daisy' and swallow humble pie by the boatload.
We live and learn: Redistributionists don't...
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