Tuesday 22 April 2014

Moses Deposed

After a joyous Easter celebration here in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria with the Spring blossoms in full bloom and mood of cheerfulness in the air, the soothsayers have returned to their labours of love with sombre and sobering tidings for the people of the Realm.

It would appear that Dagwald the MosesAelric the Forger's Son's anointed and appointed successor to the throne of Madcaster Untied - has been deposed from his seat, and the reins of his reign are to be handed to another as yet unnamed pair of hands.

The entire Kingdom has consequently been in a state of stunned silence. Moses was the one in whom was invested all the hopes and aspirations of the people; his appointment (which has sadly turned out to be a disappointment) was designed to lead the people out of the bondage and ignominy of football obscurity and into the glory land of Championslig - a delectable land flowing with milk, mead and biscuit. 

However, after a less than perfect beginning to his reign, the people have instead been led into a parched and endless terrain of rocks and sand, and it's been feared that this could herald a protracted period of wandering in the wilderness. As with his more widely-known Biblical and prophetic namesake, Moses has been forbidden to enter the Land of Promise; it's as yet to be told as to whether or not he was allowed a tantalising glimpse of the land from a distance.

However, as an antidote to the current mood of pessimism and gloom, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Holy Patriarch of the Tree/Liberationist Faction Administration - has called on the Kingdom of Northumbria to return to its Christian values. WIll the Redistributionists and the Vikings heed his clarion call? Will Madcaster Untied subsequently return to the days of glory?

The entire Kingdom is biting its fingernails, waiting for the answer. Your Cat doesn't really give a rat's rump...

Wednesday 9 April 2014

The Little Lost Pig

I chanced upon an unusual sight this morning as I patrolled my territory: I encountered a diminutive pig, shuffling vaguely around and looking rather disconsolate. I could see that it was a sow; she'd not only the characteristic pig smell which marks them out as creatures whose company a self-respecting cat wouldn't naturally seek - but the aroma was overlaid by an additionally offensive odour which I immediately identified as the scent extracted from the bowels of the Common Porpoise - a fragrance that is highly treasured by certain humans for reasons best known to themselves. Some cats quite like this, but I personally find it repulsive to the point of nausea.

I asked the pig's name, and she told me that her proper name was Milly; she'd recently been found by her owner to have raided the farm's family larder and gorged herself to bursting point on human delicacies to which she hadn't been rightfully entitled. However, from her bearing I could immediately discern that she had no sense of guilt or remorse whatsoever over such a transgression; her only sin was to be discovered. Having been obliged by her master to grunt a cursory apology to the householders, she'd thought that such a grudging gesture would naturally suffice, and life would surely continue in the same vein. The farmer - a devoutly unprincipled man - had assured Milly that she was forgiven, and that was the end of the matter. However, the rest of the householders - as well as the neighbours (who feared for their own larders as well) - bayed for her summary dismissal from the farm.

Since the stench of Eau De Common Porpoise was so deeply ingrained into her tissues, she'd be no good for meat - it would be hopelessly inedible. And such deficiency in moral character was hardly desirable fro breeding purposes, so she was banished from her familiar sty - hence the wandering.

I muttered a quick farewell and made a hasty exit. The smell was just too overpowering...

Monday 7 April 2014

Plain and Simple

As I was musing over the parlous state of human political affairs in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, I was visited by an extraneous thought which in consequence has propelled me into a zealous campaign mode. Beware of a Cat on a mission!

During one of my mouse-chewing reveries, it occurred to me that all of the three principal political factions in the Kingdom have the greatest majority of characteristics in common. 

For a start, they're all equally committed to plundering the long-suffering Northumbrian yeoman, tradesman, craftsman and artisan for every Holy Groat that they can extract - at the pain of death, dungeon or dog biscuit. They're also single-mindedly devoted to the appropriation of such funds for their own aggrandisement, as well as to bolster their own scanty fortunes. Moreover, it's abundantly evident that they share a healthy contempt for the poor unfortunates whom they pretend to represent in the chamber of the Witangemot talking parlour where their pontificating and posturing can be witnessed. Furthermore, they all - to the last one - favour the uninhibited growth of the Northumbrian State so that it ultimately dictates the last minutiae of the average common-or-garden Northumbrian's brief span of years in this vale of tears.

With all of this considered - and bearing in mind that each of the main factions has its own distinctive name, tradition and colour (the Trees are symbolised in blue, although their symbol is a green arboreal device; the Redistributionists use red to symbolise the danger they represent, and the Liberationists are a sickly yellow to depict their gritty and courageous moral fibre) - it occurred to me that they're all essentially identical. Perhaps the Trees may claim to (allegedly) save the hard-earned tax revenues while the Redistributionists purportedly spend it like water, but, all of these cosmetic differences aside, they could all be repackaged as one solitary State faction. It all makes it so much easier for the wealthy Northumbrian establishment to manipulate and manage.

So your Cat is campaigning for Plain Packaging for the main factions. This will then discourage the children of the Realm from becoming enmeshed with sordid and soul-destroying political habits. Their tender minds must not be depraved any longer with ideas of making the Kingdom a better place in the name of whichever colour they decide to fly.

This Cat is proposing a uniform brown colour for all of them - the shade should match the colonic outpourings of a dog's diarrhoea. That'll put the little blighters off...

Friday 4 April 2014

Passing Clouds

The soothsayers have all been in a state of great excitement for several days now. This highly irregular occurrence owes to the fact that the weather has created a gentle southerly breeze, which, as well as introducing milder temperatures to the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, has also blessed the land with a shroud of miasma, bringing to the landscape a foggy film of North African dust, which has delighted all the housewives of the Realm whose principal hobby is cleaning. The gardeners are also very pleased, as they are now able to admire their assorted spring blooms in a uniform hue of beige.

This unusual cloud has enveloped the entire land, introducing fresh aromas of rotting vegetation, decomposing fish, dog waste, canine breath and fermented beansprouts.

The speculations of the soothsayers all seem to attribute blame for this to polluted air from the direction of the Holy Roman Empire (which can't legitimately claim to be holy, Roman or an empire). This explanation would seem to carry some reasonable weight; however, this Cat can't help but wonder if the origin of it is somewhat closer to home - especially since it also seems to be proceeding from the general direction of the politicos. My master Caedmon has helpfully suggested that these smells are a manifestation of the odours of inverse sanctity. I think he's right...

Tuesday 1 April 2014

Hoo'd Believe It?

Since my last posting I've gained the acquaintance of a new associate in the animal kingdom - or, to be more precise, in the avian realm.

I met Doctor Hoo a few nights ago while I was conducting my nocturnal patrol of my territory. His loud cry (from which I suppose his name derives) revealed that it was an owl: a rival hunter of small rodent creatures, similar to those of my own dietary preference and an educated and worldly-wise bird to boot.

Although cats and owls don't normally associate (except perhaps on rare occasions in small pea-green boats), I struck up a conversation with him, and after a short time I discovered that we actually have a great deal in common, not only being like-minded in the hunting stakes, but also taking a keen interest in the activities of the wiser human world.

Indeed, my new friend also told me that he'd recently heard from the soothsayers (whom he'd eavesdropped from various eves) that a Major Disaster and Catastrophe was going to befall the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. Famines, wars, floods pestilences, plagues, locusts, dog breath, deep darkness, frozen wastelands, frogs, boils, bongoes and biscuit were the prognosis with which they were soothing their eager-eared audiences. Woe, thrice woe and rhubarb. I immediately reached the conclusion that this new piece of apocalyptic had all the old familiar hallmarks of the Grand Druid Moonbat - the Grand High Wizard of the Holy Mother Earth Cult and his legions of well-paid alchemist acolytes.

It would appear that Doctor Hoo was inclined to accept such prognostications at face value, so I assured him that I'd heard all of this before. I've heard prophecies concerning the Ten Plagues of Egypt and rivers of blood so many times before: if I had a fish for every one I've heard, I'd never need a dinner again. Ever.

I told Hoo not to worry; the antidote to such tales was close at hand. All that the human population have to do is to eat fifteen different types of vegetable every day, and all would be well. It's worked before...