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.
Friday, 3 February 2012
Horehound On Toast
Once again, this Cat is becoming dizzy with the relentless onslaught of developments here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. I thought that the de-warding of Earl Frederic Goodwibble and the stink about Edweird the Millner's bonus were enough to last me for the week, but they say that things happen in threes..
His Holiness, the Most High Archbishop Húne - the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Politburo Climate Commissar and exotic dancer and traveller (at taxpayers' expense, of course) - affectionately referred to as 'Horehound' (for that is what his name signifies), has been summoned to appear before the Grand Moot, charged with the crime of passing onto his erstwhile wife the buck for a chariot offence he committed seventeen thousand years and six months ago.
As I recall, he'd just returned from foreign shores, having gone to the land of the Franks (or was it the Westphalians? - I forget) to watch a football game, featuring Madcaster Untied and their star performer Wade Rune. This was under his Official Remit as Climate Czar and Chief Apprentice to Pope Georges Moonbat - the magic mushroom-crazed high priestess of the bizarre Sacred Climate Change Cult. His wife of that time obligingly arrived at the quayside with a chariot and four horses, ready to convey her hubby to the luxurious comfort of home. But on that fateful night, Horehound took the reins, and rode with all the speed and fury of a Jehu at full pelt. This did not escape the notice of the Costumed Thugs, who skilfully pulled the chariot over and said 'Hello' three times in succession.
From that legendary evening - obscured by the mists of time and the garbling effect of mead-fuelled storytelling - the story emerges that Horehound (probably) volunteered his lady wife as the culpable charioteer, and his spouse (possibly) agreed to appear before the local Beak to answer the charges of dangerous and reckless charioteering at the speed of seventeen thousand handwidths per second - thus rescuing her husband from the ignominy of losing his shiny political career as a crooked politico.
Of course, the story could be completely mangled and mashed, and the patient excavation of the facts by legions of scribes and learned investigators may have presented the Prosecutor with a bag of colorectal treasure. But they say that - like diarrhoea - the truth always comes out.
At any rate, Caedmeron and Horehound's mentor Clegge have assured him of their full and unqualified support. In other words, irrespective of the outcome of his forthcoming trial, he's toast...
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This is my first visit here, so I'd better say 'hello, kitty' and thank you for a diverting tale. I have a feeling that the former wife was elsewhere at the time, a point that she let slip later, thus setting recent events into train. What a shame...ReplyDelete
Thanks for the visit and comment. The tragedy that has befallen The Horehound is enough to make a Kitty cry. What's for lunch?ReplyDelete