Friday 17 August 2012


Oh, dear me. It's taken this poor old Cat a long time to recover from the frenzied excitement of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) Games; I haven't slept so much for at least four years. Having heard form the animated townspeople of Streonaeshalch (and of course, the equally excitable Feaxede the Fox) that the Northumbrian Games Team has succeeded in winning sufficient gold awards to either offset the Great Kingdom Deficit for a year - or supply the Redistributionist Faction with sumptuous lunches for at least a week - (I reckon the latter is the more likely outcome), things had started to settle down, and I was quite content to exercise my paws and claws in the kind of pursuits we cats are best known for - rather than writing profound and serious blogs.

However, there's been an unholy fracas reported by the soothsayers of late which has grabbed the fevered imagination of the Northumbrian populace, and it's quite entertaining. It involves Guffmund the Brown - the cheery, joke-cracking, fast-talking psychopath who formerly led the Redistribution Faction, and who single-handedly saved the world from the savage ravages of solvency. Guffo - best known for his absence from the hallowed chambers of the Northumbrian Witangemot and the halls of power - has been immersed in controversy in recent times, and as a result has made some very powerful enemies. Having sold off (or 'leaked', as it's technically known) the gold reserves of the Kingdom to Barbary pirates for the princely sum of seventeen Holy Groats, not an insignificant number of Northumbrians (who don't happen to be economists) are upset, since they fear that the Beautiful Realm has been sucked into the vile vortex of bankruptcy, ignominy and biscuit. Calamity and treble woe thrice over.

Consequently, there's been a price on Guffo's head, as noblemen, serfs, chickens and pigs have demanded that he be apprehended and brought to account for his villainy before the Northumbrian Football Association, whose judicial processes are - to say the least - brutal. Poor Guffo has had no option but to seek refuge from the hounds of retribution, and has recently ensconced himself in the embassy of Equatoria, some obscure outpost of the (as yet undiscovered) land of Ultima Thule. Since the understanding hitherto has always been - in line with the Old Testament teaching on the Cities of Refuge for fugitives - that an Abbey or an embassy is off-limits to the baying packs of bloodhounds and Costumed Thugs, therefore affording some respite from the pursuers, it's strange that Dagwald Caedmeron - the Senior Mistress and Angel Cake of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Adminstration - has declared that he will send in the legions of Northumbrian yeomen - armed with spears, swords and a few kind and well-chosen words - to storm the embassy and to seize the hapless Guffmund. The Equatorian Emissary is quite upset, and has stated that to do such a heinous thing would result in hostilities between the two Kingdoms, as such an act would violate its sovereign rights and dignities.

This cat thinks that Caddy Boy has been eating the magical mushrooms again. When they finally wear off, he's going to wonder what led him to to something so bizarrely stupid and rash. I'm sure his long-suffering wife will have a few sharp words with him...


  1. I'm sure his long-suffering wife will have a few sharp words with him...

    If he doesn't accidentally leave her at the pub.

  2. You have sharp claws Mr Cat. I enjoy your style