Plan B

Here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, the temperature is really heating up, and the weather is also going through a warm spell (but that's another story).

 

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Exalted Master, Queen of the Fairies, Pontifex Maximus and Premier Dancing Bear of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has been under some considerable pressure from the distant shores of the Holy Roman Empire (which bears not even the slightest resemblance to anything of a sanctified nature, and certainly doesn't look like, smell, walk or quack like an empire).

 

In common with all the pseudo-nobility and apparatchiks of the aforesaid cancerous political growth, the Empress of the Holy Roman Empire Empty Treasure Chest – a certain Redistributionist Frankish woman called Laggard La Grise – has been pontificating over the state and the general direction of the Northumbrian Kingdom. Oh, woe, woe, thrice woe business, biscuit and thing. As a self-taught expert in the culture, life and times of our beloved Realm, she of all people is eminently qualified to keep her own addled, magic mushroom-fuelled and pathologically misguided counsel. But malheureusement, she didn't, and Caddy Boy and his faithful side-kick and fellow-illusionist Oswine (who has the onerous task of managing the Kingdom's negative economy and increasing debt) have been at the receiving end of her barbed criticism regarding their maladroit handling of the Northumbrian reins.

 

So far, Caddy Boy has kept a resolutely straight course, and hasn't deviated to the right or to the left from his predetermined tactics. (Well – that's not strictly true: he actually changed his mind seventeen thousand times regarding policy decisions. But never mind.) There was no contingency arrangement as a safety net alternative. No Plan B.

 

This obduracy on Caddy Boy's part has been a constant source of prickly heat, irritation and pestilence to the Redistributionists of the Kingdom, who under the skillful and ever-victorious tutelage of their convincing and youthful mentor Edweird the Milliner have constantly – from the comfort of their zero-responsibility, authority-free zones – carped, parped and harped on at Caddy and his pals about adopting their recommended course. You know it makes sense. Chew, chew. Pass some more fly agaric, please.

 

Little do these dunderheads realise that their bizarre solutions would incur even more poverty, debt, misery and thing. And their outcome would be no more certain than the one from the present strategy.

 

Despite the Redistributionists' hip, cool and terminally trendy recommendations, Anglebert Gimperdonck - the bejewelled ancient songster from the bowels of Leire's Kingdom will continue to represent our lovely Kingdom in the Holy Roman Empire Song Contest. And there's nothing that Eddy and his silly little playmates can do about it…