For the sake of the uninitiated reader, here is a brief summary of the story so far. If you're confused now, don't worry: you'll soon be befuddled.
The lovely Kingdom of Northumbria is under the creeping paralysis of a sinister, contagious disease called Commonest Porpoise, whose putrid and miasmic vapours emanate from the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), headed up by the Senior Rat Majesty Emperor Joe Borracho, assisted by Hermit the Rumphole, his half-witted henchman and pet mouse. This malady has infested the Kingdom - as well as many others - for years, leaving in its blight-ridden wake a legacy of diversity coordinators, equality superintendents, cat license administrators, pigeon psychologists and other Holy Groat-consuming classes. The politicos of the Kingdom - under the watchful ear of King Alhfrith - have all succumbed to this toxic pest, and have rewarded themselves lavishly with all manner of goodies and trifles while the rest of the population perishes under the crushing yoke of taxation and the hated, loathed and detested Public Expenditure Cuts. It's all so very sad - enough to reduce a puddy cat to tears. Consequently, the Kingdom is riddled by plagues, poxes, vomit and biscuit, and in its state of bankruptcy is unable to hold its head above water.
All the hopes of some of the Northumbrian people are invested in Dagwald Caedmeron - the fabulously wealthy Formaggio Grandi of the Tree Faction and Supreme Chicken of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. Can Caddy learn to whistle the Northumbrian Anthem rather than the Holy Roman Empire 'Ode To The Taxpayer'? Can he pull the Kingdom out of the malevolent claws of the Emperor? Will he even bother?
Other hopes rest upon the sloping shoulders of Edweird the Milliner - the popular and opulent Man of the People, who heads up the magic mushroom-chewing cult known as the Redistributionist Faction. Will Eddy Boy declare his hand and lead the populace to the magic money trees of the Promised Land? Can he learn to speak through his mouth rather than down his nose? Will he take the King's biscuit and appear on 'Strictly Come Bake-Off'?
The most plausible hope rests upon the devil-may-care Nickwald the Forager, the frank and plain-speaking despot of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, whose sworn mandate (in Anglo-Saxon anglo-saxon turns of phrase) is to extract the Realm from the clutches of the Evil Empire? WIll he lance the boil? Will it hurt? Will it be messy? Will the diversity coordinators, equality superintendents, cat license administrators, pigeon psychologists and other Holy Groat-consuming classes shrivel up - or will the disease continue unabated?
There are more questions than answers; the only way to watch this narrative unfold is to stay tuned. All will come clear. Well, nearly...
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