Small Beer

The human political landscape here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbrian is currently a scene of chaos and desolation, and this Cat is reduced to the feline equivalent of tears (which is more likely to involve frequent visits to the litter tray).

Despite what you esteemed readers might think, this doesn't owe to the significant gains of the Northumbrian Independence Faction in the recent Shire Witangemot Elections - although these Significant Developments have certainly unsettled the politicos sitting at the Tree wing of the One Definitive And Holy Governing Faction of the Northumbrian Realm.

Since the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayers have decided that the present State of Affairs has arisen from factions who vaguely pretend to represent them but in reality ignore them as usual, they've decided to vote for the most credible alternative - as personified in the straight-talking and charismatic Nickwald the Forager, whose anti-establishment stance has won legions of hearts and minds to the new cause.

To any rational mind, one would expect the politicos to be biting their nails and losing sleep at the prospect of a potential loss of position, prestige, pudding and power. However, the restlessness on their part originates from another issue - one which lies significantly closer to their hearts (or whatever may be found to occupy such spaces).

The politicos are Most Alarmed at the price of their drinks in the Witangemot tavern. It's a price which stretches their expense-drawn resources to the furthest limits. A flagon of foaming ale currently costs the poor politicos two and a half Holy Groats, and they're most distressed about this - despite the fact that the Witangemot tavern prices are already generously (and unwittingly) subsidised by the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpayer.

When these creatures are finally released from their political duties because of the burgeoning influence of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, they'll find that the price of ale is significantly greater for the common and garden Northumbrians that they will be forced to rub shoulders with. What will they cry into?