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, 29 March 2012
The Pie Panic Sales
As a dispassionate observer of the human world, this Cat has quickly reached the conclusion that the best advice that a politico can receive is: engage the brain (or whatever substitutes for it) before moving the mouth. This piece of observational wisdom is what I would have given (free, gratis and for nothing) to His Eminence Dagwald Caedmeron, the High and Holy King Ratbiscuit of the Tree/Liberationist Administration of the Northumbrian Witangemot and his disciples. But in common with all politicos, Caddy Boy and his playmates would have ignored any such counsel, since their ability to absorb wisdom from others is inversely proportional to the measure of their hubris. This is an immutable law.
Following the recently announced tax levy on the sale of hot pies, Caddy's uliginous side-kick Maudlin the Frank announced that the supply of these foods to the ubiquitous merchants was under jeopardy from threats of imminent strike action from the Guild of Pie Distribution Officers and Allied Trades, who, with an eager eye on a ready opportunity, are demanding an increase in their wages. This happens to coincide with the forthcoming Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) Games, where the sale of such delicacies is likely to increase exponentially as unsuspecting foreign visitors to the Games sample Anglo-Saxon cuisine and come to appreciate why it's so universally abhorred.
Franky went on to advise the public through the slobbering assembly of soothsayers that it would be a Good Idea for the public to stock up with pies while they're still available in the markets. The soporific and docile Northumbrian public have wisely heeded his advice, and the queues for warm weasel slices have created untold mayhem in all the settlements of the Realm, and anxious customers have been sent away empty handed as the sellers have run out of stock.
Since the venerable Guild of Pie Distribution Officers and Allied Trades hasn't actually called a strike yet, the grounds for the panic are as yet illusory. There's been a most unholy row in the Witangemot following this, and the Administration have been accused by the omni-competent and principled Redistributionists of mis-managing the situation.
I think it was all a frivolous exercise in mass manipulation. Franky has been having a quiet chuckle to himself. I've got a lovely donation for his Faction funds in my departure lounge. I can't wait to deliver it...
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