Left Behind

The soothsayers have been entertaining the Northumbrian population with a touching story which came to light a couple of days ago. The tale, which has been swirling and slopping its way around the Northumbrian public consciousness, concerns Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Angel Cake of the Tree Faction and Supremo Shepherd of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. Because of the soothsayers' obsequious interest and servile adoration of the Great Prophet (particularly Beeby See, the Windy Pedant and their disease-ridden, flea-riddled and ill-tempered bosom friend Guardy-Ann), this story was given top priority. The Holy Roman Empire (which is far from holy, is as Roman as a Bedouin and doesn't even remotely resemble an empire) Football Competition had to take the back seat. So very sad.

The story (apocryphal, I'm sure, since any information proceeding from the mouths and other orifices of the aforesaid soothsayers is guaranteed to be fictitious, although presented with a straight face as Gospel truth) goes thus: Dagwald Caedmeron (I'm not writing his title again - it gets boring. All right - just this once.) - the Guiding Light and Pre-Eminent Fishcake of the Northumbrian Tree Faction, etcetera - went to an alehouse on Sunday, ostensibly to discharge his duties and say his prayers to the god Bacchus, whose patronage is earnestly sought by politicos and soothsayers alike. He took his wife and his entire tribe with him so that they could witness his pious devotions and all partake of a hearty lunch.

The story got out that once Caddy Boy had finished his devotions and our paterfamilias had gathered his kinfolk and departed from the temple of Ceres for his home, it came to light that he'd left his mind behind in the alehouse. It took him - and his wife - several hours to realise what had happened, and after mentally retracing their steps with much anxiety - and doubtless not a few tetchy words between him and his spouse - he remembered where he'd left it.

When one of his myriads of flunkies sent in the search party reached the alehouse, he was relieved to find Caddy's mind propping up the bar, regaling the bemused landlord and his staff with stories about ponies, kittens and little fairies.

Naturally, the Redistributionists were swift to make political capital out of this. If Caddy Boy can't even be relied on to know the whereabouts of his own mind, how on earth could he be trusted to run the apparatus of the Northumbrian State and the complexities of the Great Gaping Sovereign Debt Crisis? This reaction was as predictable as it was sterile. A lot of Northumbrians have already reached the conclusion that Edweird the Milliner, Jedweird the Spheres and their coterie of mountebanks and numbskulls are incapable of losing their own minds. After all, how can you lose what you haven't got?