Monday 7 January 2013


As this new year drags itself into some kind of motion, the posture-driven prattling and mindless machinations of the politicos and their faithful, knuckle-dragging soothsayers continue unabated by the peace, goodwill and biscuit that temporarily enveloped the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

The Redistributionists have recently emerged from their hidey-hole in their magic mushroom-fuelled fairyland to make solemn, straight-faced pronouncements about the content of honey in the breakfast gruel consumed by the majority of Northumbrian children and adults. Since these delightfully deranged politicos have suddenly observed that there are citizens within the Realm who are endowed with ample waistlines - which could (potentially, at least) cause a problem with their health, since they run the remote risk of fracturing the axles of carts, thereby occasioning injury to themselves as well as other passengers - they've decided that Something Should Be Banned. And such have been the heated debates in the Witangemot that even some of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration have readily agreed that this is indeed a Problem Which Must Be Addressed. Thus the edict has been mooted that honey is to be rationed and administered in homeopathic measures, in order the correct the burgeoning waistlines of the population. It's all so very sad.

Now, I may only be a Cat who doesn't think in the same way as humans, but this all strikes me as rather peculiar - especially when there are more pressing issues hammering on the gates of the Kingdom - for example, the amount of poverty, idleness, debt, diversity and fishpaste which is steadily dismantling the Northumbrian Realm and turning it into a manicured wilderness.

The other day, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Chief Chump Chop of the aforesaid Administration admitted to one of Beeby See's drones that Nickwald the Forage and his Northumbrian Independence Faction disciples were rather bizarre because they wanted to extract Northumbria from the foetid embrace of Emperor Jose Borracho, the Principal Primate of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire - no way) and his pet mouse Hermit the Rumphole. Since Nickwald and his pals would like to see Northumbria as a free realm, unshackled by the zillions of restrictions imposed by Joe and his cronies, I would have thought he was quite normal..

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