tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55809094643955240892024-02-21T16:55:42.507+00:00Caedmon's Cat (Cædmones Catt)Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.comBlogger442125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-5304363606440060612017-06-27T20:03:00.001+01:002017-06-27T21:17:24.438+01:00Defeat of Strength<div dir="auto"><div dir="auto">In all the months of being incommunicado, I've been completely absorbed by the Great Conundrum generated through the phenomenal advent of the latest Dear Leader of the Redistributionist Faction, the ancient, idiosyncratic and bearded druid Germius the Crowbane.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">Despite the obscurity from which he's emerged blinking, belching and hiccuping into prominence, Crowbane - as my last post in the dim and distant past indicated - is a conqueror.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">In spite of his many historical allegiances to villainous and ignominious forms of pond life who've been sworn enemies of godliness and Catholic virtue, Crowbane - like scum on a stagnant pool - has risen victorious to the top of the Redistributionist midden pile, accompanied by his equally bizarre companions, the fanatical shaman Murk Donal and the skilled numerologist, Demeter the Abbess, whose prowess with numbers defies the sum of human and feline intelligence. These acolytes have undoubtedly been either an éminence grise or noire behind the Crowbane crown.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">In my researches about the aforesaid druid, I hopped in through a window in his sizeable mansion to see whether it might furnish me with any clues that could possibly betray the secret of his astonishing and unlikely success. Apart from having had some amusement in shredding some of Crowbane's incontinence accoutrements, and leaving a hairball in his sandal as a welcome distraction from the weariness of my labours, I came away none the wiser.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">Why should an ancient and salivatory purveyor of an even more ancient and discredited creed suddenly erupt to the surface after years of hard-earned obscurity and biscuit? I still don't know.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">This last week saw the annual gathering at Glastonbury of the Mystical Order of the Grunt, where legions of well-heeled young humans (and seniors who are old and potentially wise enough to know better) gather in squalor to enjoy wild music, bongoes, beansprouts, beer and fermented bilge water. Usually these events are little more than an inglorious pretext for industrial scale magic mushroom consumption and unwashed lasciviousness, but this year, guess who showed up to enrapture the lye-dodging hordes? - None other than the old dribbler himself, Germius the Crowbane, flushed with his defeat in the recent Great Count. However, his perspective on the relatively simple concepts of victory and defeat is at variance with standard understanding of these terms; in his conceptual road map, defeat is victory, but victory is not defeat. No, I don't understand either.</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto">Assuming the stance of a Caesar who has entered a conquered city amid the scent of rose petals under chariot wheels, Crowbane charmed the gathered assembly with an oration that called on the thrilled audience to prepare for a new Golden Age of free goodies paid for by the long suffering Northumbrian taxpayer, and to rise up like lions. The chewing of magic mushrooms was deafening, and I can authoritatively declare that the only thing that was observed to rise up from that gathering was the collective odour of dog breath, human armpits, feet and various unmentionable regions...</div><div dir="auto"><br></div><div dir="auto"><br></div></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-69005079925265283662016-09-29T15:34:00.001+01:002016-09-29T15:40:12.886+01:00Crowbane the Conqueror<div dir="ltr">
Things are getting so exciting here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria - so much so, that I'd completely forgotten about my blog. Sorry about that, people :(</div>
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Since I wrote last time, Crowbane - the Archdruid of the Redistributionist Faction - has been under attack from his fellow Redistributionists. It would appear that his ideas for the Faction, coupled with his bizarre creed, have caused some of his own colleagues to wonder if he is somewhat unhinged. (It hasn't ever occurred to them that they might possibly be in a similar frame of mind, but then, what would I know? I'm only a moggy mouser.) </div>
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This overwhelming concern on the part of many Redistributionists has for the most part been fuelled by a growing suspicion that the Northumbrian electorate - who ultimately decide whether the likes of Crowbane are ever appointed to the holy office of Steward of the Realm - will ever gain their confidence. Your Cat can certainly vouch for this: in my varied travels throughout my own not insignificant kingdom I've asked ordinary people their opinions about the Great Panjandram, and every one of them has said that they believe that he's as mad as a box of frogs, or as the Hebrews say in their own patois, "a bisele mashugana".</div>
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This being the case, it was decided by the disillusioned members of the Faction (who'd selected him in the first place) that he should be deselected in favour of Someone Better. But it was not to be. By now, Crowbane was fastened to the leadership of the Faction as securely as a limpet, and he simply refused to budge. Such was the strength of the magic mushrooms. Therefore the obdurate dissenters had no choice but to call for a Leadership Contest, and a hitherto unknown figure called Owain The Balance was chosen to be Crowbane's antagonist. Owain - a soft-spoken Cambrian whose charisma could only be described in negative terms - started to campaign among his fellow Redistributionists for their support. He promised to reattach the Kingdom to the Evil Empire, thus ignoring the wishes of the majority of Northumbrians, who wanted a hasty and decisive exit from the stranglehold of that malignant confederation. </div>
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After a lot of blood, sweat, tears, flatulence and biliousness coupled with unbridled delirium by the soothsayers, who salivated like puppies in a butcher's shop, the Day of Decision came at the Redistributionists' Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic. The assembled gathering of yoghurt knitters, bongo beaters, mung bean aficionados, slebs, luvvies and deluded chewers of the sacred fungus listened in rapture to their respective champions and cast their sacred lot in favour of Crowbane. Owain the Balance was cast into outer darkness, along with other rebel angels. Job done.</div>
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Crowbane has consolidated his cast iron grip over his faction and removed the remotest possibility of a Redistributionist government for years to come. That's why your Cat is so excited. What's for tea?</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-38534654806940417372016-07-19T13:02:00.001+01:002016-07-19T13:02:38.427+01:00The Tripehound Triumph<p dir="ltr">Things have been happening very quickly since Tressy the Mayfly assumed the shoes of her illustrious predecessor, Dagwald Someone-or-Other, whose name eludes me at the moment.</p> <p dir="ltr">Since her ascension into the dizzying heights of Northumbrian politics at the head of the Tree Faction, she's presided over an impressive victory in a Witangemot vote concerning the future of an important secret weapon in the arsenal of the Northumbrian Kingdom: it's called Tripehound, and is doubtless named after certain species of dog (ugh) that bares its teeth, bites randomly, feeds on the stomachs and other offal of cattle and is characterised by breath that is equally as distasteful as its most refined tendencies.</p> <p dir="ltr">Tripehound is the codename for a catapult that is mounted on longboats; it is specially designed to propel fireballs at high speed into the territories of the potential enemies of the realm in times of warfare. It has a bewildering mechanism of ropes, cogs, gears and pulleys whose end purpose is to deliver the infernal gift to its desired destination. It has never been used for its intended purpose, as the very thought of its use strikes dread, fear and loathing in those who might otherwise be inclined to invade these islands. (Except certain Vikings who would willingly dispatch themselves to the imaginary portals of Valhalla while taking Franks and Anglo Saxons with them.)</p> <p dir="ltr">The weapon has existed for over five hundred years, and owing to its advanced age its bones, ligaments and joints are beginning to creak, crack and fracture. This has necessitated a requirement by the senior military leaders to replace it with a new set of catapults, built to more innovative designs and capable of more accuracy. This has been a source of Great Concern among certain Redistributionists, who believe in violently beating swords into ploughshares and allowing the Kingdom to perish at the hand of its foes without weapons in hand, but at least with its pacifist principles intact. However, there are other Redistributionists who welcome the idea of a weapons upgrade, since it will deliver much needed employment and prosperity to their electors. With such a tension between the members of the magic mushroom-chewing faction - coupled with an intense period of civil war, bloodshed and biscuit - the Redistributionist Faction was easily defeated in the vote by its Tree adversaries.</p> <p dir="ltr">So Tripehound will emerge in about seventy thousand years in its new incarnation. Perhaps Tripepup would be an appropriate name. Of course, the whole exercise will be paid for by the purses of the long suffering Northumbrian taxpayers. Again...</p> <p dir="ltr"> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-22300826666566623382016-07-17T14:46:00.001+01:002016-07-17T14:46:12.912+01:00Same New Same New<p dir="ltr">As I do the rounds of my kingdom and collect a few mice along the way, I can't help observing how much the lovely Kingdom Of Northumbria has changed in this last five minutes.</p> <p dir="ltr"> Caedmeron has retreated to the ash heap of history, Oswine has been cast into outer obscurity following a glittering career in pretending that he was working for the interests of Northumbrians, and Tressy the Mayfly has assumed the mantle of the prophet Elijah. Strange days.</p> <p dir="ltr">And I nearly forgot to mention that the Redistributionist Faction are waging a protracted warfare amongst themselves as well as their usual pitched battles against the evils of logic and common sense. Crowbane the Druid Wizard has maintained his hallucinogenic hold upon the faction, despite the slightly inconvenient fact that nearly all his enthusiastic supporters have deserted him and have been plotting intrigues against him. Oh - and the Kingdom of Northumbria has chosen to leave the loving stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as the devil's backside, as Roman as a Bedouin and is only an Empire in the deranged imagination of its admirers). The decision to leave the Empire was overwhelmingly carried by about fifteen votes, causing catastrophic grief amongst the majority of the minority of those who voted to remain in the Evil Galactic Federation. There have been tantrums, tears and ferocious curses pronounced on those who dated to trample on their blissful illusions. Such a shame. If your Cat could cry tears, I would. Honest. But I've had a quiet chuckle to myself, as it's been so blissfully entertaining.</p> <p dir="ltr">Had anything changed? Nahh. A bit of furniture shuffling, that's all. But if they impose a tax on the consumption of mice, believe me - there'll be hell to pay...<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-41906664626315715262016-06-28T10:44:00.001+01:002016-06-28T10:44:17.225+01:00The Desolation of the Kingdom<div dir="ltr"><div><div><div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">These are truly <i>momentous</i> days - at least, that is to say, for human beings in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. It is truly said that a cat can look at a king; this Cat is looking at this kingdom with horror, disbelief and biscuit. It is a realm that has been caught in the grip of turbulence, petulance and flatulence.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">As I do my daily rounds through my own territory and inspect its furthest boundaries, I can't help but observe the scene laid out before me. I see a realm caught up in the throes of self-destruction following that Fatal Event which overturned everything that had hitherto been comfortable and familiar to the members of the human population.<br><br>And now I see (and smell) the heaps of corpses by the roadside and small clusters of the walking wounded, propping each other up like bookends and staggering their weary and painful way to Heaven knows where. There are legions of carrion crows taking gleeful advantage of the stinking feast set before them. There isolated individuals wandering about, shaking their heads in disbelief.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">And then there are the recriminations. And the anger - oh, my word! Dagwald Caedmeron - the Princpal Dancer of the Tree Faction and the head of King Alhrith's government - has tendered his resignation so that he can purportedly spend more time on his own pig farm instead of managing the swine of his own faction. Therefore the Tree Faction is in a state of disarray, while the Redistributionist Faction - also deepy affected by the Event - is busy fighting its own internal civil wars. Two thousand members of Crowbane's Round Table have already left his side to devise (in whispering groups) plots for his downfall and the selection and subsequent coronation of a new arisocrat to rule over them. This could take some time, and many other lives are certain to be lost. The Liberationists no longer exist - except in the fading imaginations of a few people. This is a Kingdom that has become deeply damaged, decimated, dogeared and divided.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">Wade Rune and his mighty men should never have conceded those two goals to the Island Vikings...<br><br></span></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-44918857289764518442016-05-10T15:36:00.001+01:002016-05-11T15:49:55.793+01:00Crowbane, the Jutes and assorted Catastrophes<p dir="ltr">Please forgive my silence over that last few weeks: I've been busy with cat business, and simply haven't had either the time nor the inclination to immerse myself in the affairs of human politics. The lure of mouse and the tussle with tooth and claw against rivals have been too strong for me to resist. </p> <p dir="ltr">Nevertheless, I've observed that things have been terribly busy in the Northumbrian scene; Crowbane has achieved some astonishing victories over the deadly foes of common sense, decency and reason, and has managed to unite his faction in a deadly internecine civil war, and has transformed the Redistributionist Faction into an anti-Jute club, while conveying to the Northumbrian masses that he loves the Jutes as much as the next man. (Those tribes from Jutland who've settled in the Southern realms have been a universal scapegoat, falsely accused of every crime and misdemeanour under the sun, and many Redistributionists would like them to be pleasantly annihilated.)</p> <p dir="ltr">Even so, the main cause for your Cat's amusement has been the torrent of threats proceeding from soothsayers and politicos - should the Northumbrian realm decide to secede from the Holy Roman Empire, which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire. Such are the vested interests of certain politicos, we can be sure that all of the plagues of Egypt as well as an epidemic of ingrowing toenails as well as the Mumbles will befall the Kingdom if the people decide to extract themselves from the Empire's tender stranglehold. Moreover, the birds will cease to buzz and the bees will stop singing.</p> <p dir="ltr">What is more likely, however, is that certain soothsayers and politicos will lose an income, and find themselves on an expenses-free lifestyle. That would never do...</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-67354430860269864442016-03-16T11:41:00.001+00:002016-03-16T11:41:15.258+00:00At the Red Sea Shore<p dir="ltr">Since my recent and protracted adventures in the undiscovered land of Ultima Thule, I've had time to recover from the experience and to find out what's been happening in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.</p> <p dir="ltr">A lot has happened, and the universal excitement has increased to boiling point. I sought out my friend Feaxede the Fox, who was curled up under a hedge, fast asleep. After some gentle persuasion and a nip on his ear, he woke up, and once he'd established from me what day, year and month it was, he gave me a rundown of the recent events in the Kingdom.</p> <p dir="ltr">It appears that Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Dancer and Chocolate Teapot of the Tree Faction - has promised the Kingdom a Great Count to determine whether or not the Northumbrian people want to remain as a vassal state in the Holy Roman Empire (which is as holy as pig droppings, as Roman as Valhalla, and whose resemblance to an empire is - to say the least - tenuous). This has arisen following a series of disasters that have befallen the feckless Empire, the most recent and ongoing being the influx of entire nations, fleeing war and pestilence in the Orient and hammering at the doors, loudly demanding food and shelter in their fancied destinations. This has understandably caused no little concern in this part of the Evil Intergalactic Federation, and the prospect of hordes of Bactrians, Persians, Arabs, Berbers, Ethiopians, Vegans and Vegetarians flooding into the marketplaces, coughing in strange languages, dressing in bedsheets and introducing new barbaric customs and homeopathy has filled the average Northumbrian with fear, dread and foreboding, and the perception is that the Northumbrian Anglo-Saxon culture is under siege. So then, any opportunity to escape the clutches of the Empire would at least free the Realm from the strictures of Holy Roman Empire laws, which are currently being generated at a rate of fifteen thousand per second. The Northumbrians consequently feel that the very act of drawing breath will imminently become illegal and under the punishment of death.</p> <p dir="ltr">Naturally, Caedmeron and his fellow politicos are largely in favour of remaining in the Empire, since it guarantees them comfortable incomes and inestimable glory. However, not all politicos are as enthusiastic about remaining in chains; many have vocally pledged themselves to an independent Northumbria, and even some Redistributionists have made similar noises.</p> <p dir="ltr">The Moses to lead the people through the Red Sea is Beoris the Blond, the charismatic and bumbling rival to the affections of the Tree Faction, and Caedmeron's nemesis.</p> <p dir="ltr">However, he will only lead them through the waters so that he can do a U-turn and lead them all back again. Moses didn't do that...<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-92147003848115494142016-03-03T10:46:00.001+00:002016-03-03T10:46:20.326+00:00Ultima Thule-ishness<p dir="ltr">You won't believe what I'm about to tell you, but if you really want to know why I haven't posted anything for weeks, you have no alternative but to accept my wild explanation. And it IS an explanation - not some lame "dog ate my homework" excuse. Here goes.</p> <p dir="ltr">In January I was conducting my usual early morning tour of my territory in the environs of Streonaeshalh, looking for mice and defending my borders from feline invaders. During my quayside patrol, I noticed a foreign ship moored. To cut a long story short, I was catnapped by Barbary pirates to keep the on-board rodent population down. After several weeks of sailing on tumultuous seas, we embarked at the as yet undiscovered country of Ultima Thule, where I had the liberty to wander about. I soon found that the people there were getting inordinately excited about the forthcoming selection of a new Chieftain to replace Bugrake O'Barmy, who was being retired to the ribbon-cutting duties to which he will doubtless be better suited. The new focus of excitement was a strange character called Ronald the Toot - a florid and fat individual, who, I gather, is as rich as Croesus. (He made his fortune by being an altogether nice person and by being beneficent to all his competitors.) Ronald the Tailwind is certainly generating excitement among the Ultima Thule people, who, I perceive, are renowned for their discernment in the choice of leaders, and who assiduously study the political implications of every word that drips from their hyperactive gobs.</p> <p dir="ltr">Ronald the Backdraught is an interesting character. He wears a golden hamster on his head to cultivate the vague impression that he still possesses a head of hair; his speeches to the enraptured mob are full of stirring rhetoric, allegory and exaggerations, peppered with mendacity. He offers a vision of a restored and great Ultima Thule, but I wondered if it might not be a good idea for the place to be discovered and recognised by the rest of the world first? But I am just a mere cat: what would I know?</p> <p dir="ltr">In his speeches, Ronald the Trouser Sigh has also shown magnanimous contempt for his running mates, along with an impressive ignorance of whichever subject he addresses. I discovered that there are several months more of Ronald the Botty Burp's ravings before the public declare their ultimate choice for either him or a crooked harridan by the name of Silvery Flipturn. It's all so terribly exciting... What was I telling you about?</p> <p dir="ltr">When this is all over, I can predict that Ultima Thule has a great future behind it, and it will remain undiscovered.</p> <p dir="ltr">After several weeks, the pirates loaded supplies into the ship, and I didn't need any persuasion to get back on board and return to familiar shores.</p> <p dir="ltr">Over this last few weeks I've really missed Caedmon and my home. And Crowbane, Caedmeron et alia seem positively normal by comparison with the toxic drivel I've been hearing...<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-10917654275683950772016-01-04T21:11:00.001+00:002016-01-04T21:14:06.986+00:00Wizardry at Work<div dir="ltr">
Your Cat wandered down to try and find out about this sinister cult that has developed from the dry and discarded chrysalis of the Redistributionist Faction, since there appears to be a plethora of rumours going around about its constantly changing shape and nature.</div>
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The soothsayers are far too busy telling the Northumbrians conflicting accounts about the new phenomenon that's wiggling, puking and filling its nappies with gifts of brown benevolence; some welcome the new creature as a gift from the gods, while others decry it as some hideous <i>chimera</i> - a cross between a dragon and a sponge pudding. Whatever this newly reinvented Redistributionist Faction really is, it's certainly a bizarre departure from its predecessor, which - as we all remember with fondness - was previously led by the harmless and gawkish Edweird the Milliner. Its new shining star Crowbane however is shifty, dark and mysterious, which, to be sure, are the requisite qualities for a grey-bearded Druidic high priest. </div>
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All I've managed to glean so far is that he's forming a Faction based upon his own shifty, dark and mysterious moods, habits and attitudes, and those from the <i>ancien</i><i> régime</i> are slowly being strangled, and their bodies dragged away at the dead of night on the back of carts, and disposed of in some strange exotic and esoteric ritual. I also know that a change is expected in his shadowy coterie, and that further corpses are soon to be added to the list of the mysteriously disappeared. The soothsayers - who ought to be in the know - confidently told us that announcement was due earlier today. In view of this, I went with a spring in my step (and a set of sharpened claws) to discover what the outcome of the changes. To my great surprise, I saw on arrival at the Redistributionist temple that there was already a throng of soothsayers already assembled, waiting with bated breath and jaws in a cavernous flycatching mode. I happened to meet my good friend Feaxede the Fox, who was as interested as I was to find out what was going to develop.</div>
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Inevitably, the announcement came from an anonymously robed lackey: the Great <u>A</u>nnouncement will be made at the stroke of midnight. I'll be listening out for the squeaking of axles in the dark hours...<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-1311645289887401062016-01-01T16:03:00.001+00:002016-01-01T16:03:56.990+00:00Northumbrian New Year Greetings<p dir="ltr">Hello, all! I'm sorry that I didn't post anything over Christmas, but Caedmon took me with him to visit his friends Bede and Cuthbert up in Jarrow, so I was out of my usual surroundings for a while. Nevertheless, while he, Cuthbert and Bede were busy waxing theological and lyrical, I was able to attend a special Mouse Conference which had been arranged by the local cats, who for the most part extended to me the customary feline courtesies. I only had to shred the ears of a couple of loutish individualists, who'd foolishly attempted to evict me from the premises for being a stranger. They say that time's a great healer, so they'll survive. Life is for learning, although some young bucks have yet to reach that sober conclusion...</p> <p dir="ltr">The conference was a useful forum for exchanging ideas and recipes to enable us to hone our rodent hunting and improve our culinary skills. I was able to meet some interesting moggies and excellent hunters, so it was a stimulating way to pass the time away from home. The mouse vol-au-vents were out of this world...</p> <p dir="ltr">However, my temporary exile isolated me from my vulpine friend Feaxede, so I missed out on the perpetually fevered slobbering of the soothsayers. Since my return I've seen my pal, and he's told me all that's happened over this last couple of weeks. It took all of fifteen milliseconds. I now feel so enormously relieved to be in the know...</p> <p dir="ltr">What will this New Year hold for the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria? Will Crowbane succeed in converting the Redistributionist Faction into a cult disguised as a kindergarten debating class, solely reserved for his cloned acolytes? Will they have an extended playtime? Will Dagwald Caedmeron - the Grand Poobah of the Tree Faction and government - return from the flooded wastelands with an olive branch in his beak? Will any of his promises to relieve the plight of the waterlogged and the homeless pass into the realms of reality? Why do I ask such pointless questions? - you don't know any more than I do. All that remains is for me to wish you a Happy New Year.<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-49730520926705290972015-12-17T19:16:00.001+00:002015-12-17T19:16:57.304+00:00The Story So Far - Part 59<p dir="ltr">The lovely kingdom of Northumbria is in a state of calamity, chaos and biscuit. The Redistributionists have selected as their new champion Crowbane, the enigmatic bearded druid high priest, who with his entourage of hangers on, coathangers, pigs and chickens has established a reign of terror over their bewitched and benighted faction. </p> <p dir="ltr">Meanwhile, Dagwald Caedmeron - the Primary Princess of the Tree Faction and Supreme Chieftain of the Kingdom is busy playing guessing games with the satraps of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor does it quack like an empire). He's pretending that he's deadly serious about withdrawing the Kingdom from the clutches of the malevolent Intergalactic Federation, and is hastily visiting various foreign chieftains in an attempt to persuade them to see things his way. No - seriously. No kidding. But most Northumbrians know that he's only trying to fool them into believing that he's serious. Seriously. The steaks are high, and the fish is off.</p> <p dir="ltr">Will Crowbane win the hearts and minds of Northumbrian populace - and the ultimate prize of the seat of the Kingdom Commode? Will they see through the magic mushroom fuelled rhetoric and discover what his real agenda is - if there is one? How many beans make five? </p> <p dir="ltr">Will Caedmeron find his long lost principles? Where the dickens did he last put them? Did he even have them in the first place?<br> Stay tuned, people. The Cat has all the answers..</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-33588894332669137602015-11-07T16:45:00.001+00:002015-11-07T16:45:13.370+00:00The Curse of the Bat Manager<p dir="ltr">The normally sleepy Northumbrian kingdom has been rudely woken from its slumber by a smelly Great Scandal (size 13 in your Cat's estimation) that has rocked it to the core and back to sleep again.<br> It all started with a colourful character - an immense woman of Levantine extraction called Candida the Bat Manager, who'd been released into the Northumbrian community on indefinite leave. Wearing sumptuous flowing robes of many layers and more hues than those which had graced Joseph's coat - and a colour-coordinated turban to match - Candida turned many noses, but few eyes or hearts. To compensate for this however, she devised a Great Plan to Do Good and make some money. So in the interests of the poor children of the realm, she set up a mendicant society to Make Their Lives Better, and begged money from the public.</p> <p dir="ltr">Because of her unconventional appearance, she soon came to the attention of the hip, cool and trendy elements of the Northumbrian elite, and with the Beeby See stooge Alum of Botney as her advocate, they formed an alliance for the sake of the poor little children, and persistently pestered the Government for taxpayers' pennies. Not wishing to appear mean and curmudgeonly, the Government agreed to throw a significant number of Holy Groats in its direction. Frequently.</p> <p dir="ltr">This of course was a good thing, and Candida wasted no time in adding to the ranks of helpers other aspiring hip, cool and trendy adherents who could also swell the payroll and further the Great Work. After all, it was now funded by a bottomless well of governmental benevolence, and was perpetually bound to generate free money.<br> Sadly, things started to unravel, and stories began to emerge of poor children being invited by the mendicant society's leaders to magic mushroom-fuelled parties and ting. The poor children were still, er, poor.</p> <p dir="ltr">What first caught the eye of some sharp-eyed government lackey was that the sum of a hundred million Holy Groats, which had passed from the Northumbrian Government to Candida the Bat Manager, Alum Botney and the staff of the aforesaid society and had mysteriously disappeared. Without a trace. Consequently, the Powers Above were alerted and so Bat Manager and Botney were summoned to the Star Chamber Court to answer to a team of enthusiastic politicos, who were keen to appear to be doing something, and taking an interest in the missing cash. The Bat Manager was unrepentantly bullish, boorish and barmy. Her outfit was even more outrageous, with golden threads and diamonds. No one yet knows what happened to the missing cash.</p> <p dir="ltr">This story is by no means over yet, and is likely to be an ongoing embarrassment to the hopeless Government, and to the hapless Beeby See, who is distancing herself from the feckless and reckless Botney. Stay tuned, people! Your Cat is on the case!</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-2797192693380154662015-10-05T11:02:00.001+01:002015-10-05T11:02:03.519+01:00The Crowbane Supremacy<div dir="ltr"> <p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)">Since I last posted, the foetid winds of Redistributionism have been continuing to proceed from the anus of the Northumbrian Kingdom. Last week saw the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic, and the faithful assembled to hear their new taskmasters, and to imbibe their words of wisdom. The highlight of the week was the appearance of their new and unlikely new chieftain, Crowbane the Druid, who, like some demented Moses offered them a hallucinogenic vision of their new promised destination – a land flowing with free magic mushrooms and biscuit, where the goddess Equality could be served unhindered, with the worshippers in this bizarre Jerusalem waited on by an underclass of slaves captured from the Tree Faction.</span></p><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)"> </span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)">These visions are by no means the first of this kind to be offered to the Redistributionist faithful; each previous Leader has also offered similar promises and held his audience in raptured, open-gobbed silence. Tondvig the Blur held out similar prospects, and at the start of his tenure showed some modest promise of achieving his dream – until he started to tell the Kingdom porky pies about the Levantine despot Sadman, who, according to the Blur's reliable report, had catapults capable of sending fireballs to Northumbria. This little fabrication fooled the entire Kingdom into a pointless war and sounded the death-knell for Tondvig's reign, which he deftly handed over to Guffmund the Brown, a cheery psychopath who endeared himself to the Northumbrians by his bellowing voice and easy-going manner. After Guffo's tenure of the Sacred Office, the reigns went to Edweird the Milliner, who similarly offered sweet dreams of paradise, but who was socially awkward and inept to the point where he couldn't eat a hedgehog pie without looking strange. His nasal speeches included detailed weather reports, and those seated in the front row were suitably provided with towels.</span></p><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)"> </span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)">And now the mantle falls on a flatulent ancient druid priest with no previous experience of political office, who hitherto has quietly conducted his cultic business in the shadows. His aged appearance and shabby robes and beard have elevated him to the status of a <i>sadhu</i> in the eyes of his followers, and his shambling presence has excited not only the soothsayers but also members of the Northumbrian public, who have paid their Holy Groats to join the Faction in dozens and place garlands of flowers around his picture. And the entire Faction has fallen into the illusion that their Great Leader can bring them to their sought-after place of power in the Prime Seat of the Witangemot. It's all so very sad.</span></p><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)"> </span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(11,83,148)">Indeed, they're so energised by their newly-fed illusions that many of them have descended on the venue for the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing And Picnic, and, purportedly in protest at the cuts in public sinecures, arboreal sculptures, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and benefits, are giving the younger delegates the benefit of their salivatory and urinary opinions. This will certainly endear the Redistributionists to the hearts of the Northumbrian electorate. Crowbane is really going places. In a downward direction, that is...</span></p><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><br></p> </div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-18577664125043752442015-09-15T14:12:00.001+01:002015-09-15T14:12:50.169+01:00The Rise of the Crowbane Cult<div dir="ltr"><div><div><div><div>I<span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">t's all over. The Kingdom of Northumbria may now take a well-deserved rest from the endless witterings of the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her psychotic side-kick Guardy-Ann, who, along with Delimell the Wailer and the Windy Pedant have occupied months of their time hitherto in speculating about the prospective Dearest Leader of the Redistributionist Faction. Deary me.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">Since my last posting the momentous die has been cast, and by some inexplicable esoteric fluke, the bearded druid priest Crowbane has won the supreme seat of earthly power, or, at least, within the Redistributionist world of the lovely Kingdom. Since his appointment amid the customary ceremonial solemnities, the Crowbane has wasted no time in establishing his hold over the reins, and consequently there's been a rapid exorcism of the previous demons, followed by the replacement of spirits seven times more malevolent than the ones deposed. A cult has thus been well and truly established, with Crowbane as the arch-druid, and a coterie of likeminded pagan priests and priestesses as his admiring entourage. My master Caedmon refers to them as the synagogue of Satan, and not without good reason; pagan groves have been re-established, and stone circles have been pressed into service by dog-breath bongo players, yogurt weavers and professional soap and employment dodgers. It's all so very sad.<br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)"><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">Dagwald Caedmeron - the Banana Superior of the Tree Faction - has similarly wasted no time in responding to these awe-inspiring events, and the machinery of Tree Faction propaganda has been swiftly wheeled into action. They've been decrying the Crowbane as a threat to the safety and security of the Northumbrian Realm - particularly in view of his past courtship of and betrothal to the various Edda-quoting Viking blood cults, as well as his predeliction for whispering sweet nothings into the shell-like lugs of those whose idea of friendship is to ritually dismember Anglo-Saxons on an industrial scale.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(204,0,0)">The average Northumbrian is at a loss to understand why this sinister power has so suddenly erupted like a boil on the buttock politic; fishermen, farmers, labourers and tradesmen shake their heads in stunned disbelief at these unfolding events. But boils - although painful for a season - have a habit of erupting like volcanoes, scattering their unpleasant contents and falling into dormancy. Your Cat expects this to happen sooner or later. I just don't want to be around when it all goes pop...<br></span><br></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-90561537098390489622015-09-01T21:38:00.001+01:002015-09-01T21:38:17.667+01:00The Crowbane Legend<p dir="ltr"><br>
Since my last posting, a significant momentum has accumulated in favour of the future king of the Redistributionist Faction known as Crowbane, the aged and bearded druid priest who - according to popular folklore - hails from a small settlement in Frankish Gaul called Sibannac, which is renowned for its idiosyncratic residents, who in their unique custom stand around in stoned circles.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite the fact that he hasn't yet been enthroned, the soothsayers are excitedly predicting his incumbency with a blasé certainty saturated with smugness. It's almost as if they're deliberately aiding the prophecy's fulfillment.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Amid the scare stories being peddled by the Tree Faction and its faithful drones, an alternative narrative is starting to emerge; tales of his courageous exploits with the chieftains of various Viking enemies of the Northumbrian Kingdom, and stories of his adoption of obscure and deeply unpopular causes like the dismantling of the Northumbrian Kingdom and the banishment of King Alhfrith to the nether regions. </p>
<p dir="ltr">He's also expressed his undying support for the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, and particularly for the cultivation of new strains of plants and of course, magic mushrooms. Such enterprises are of great importance to bizarre and eccentric druids, as their auguries from the mangled deliberations of their muses depend solely upon these organic substances. Very important!</p>
<p dir="ltr">One of his more controversial aspirations is to turn the realm into a glorified vegetarian pigfarm, and to remove iron and various other metals from the land in favour of pieces of wood, twine and stone. Such ambitions have already earned him a great deal of admiration from the yogurt weaving communities and climate doom merchants, who, for the sake of the gentle polar bears and the allegedly receding Arctic ice, would also like to see the use of fire forbidden during the winter months.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite these often conflicting reports, the soothsayers are already smacking their voluminous chops and anticipating what Crowbane will do when he gains the coveted seat of power. Naturally, they're assuming that his leadership of the Redistributionists will be but a mere step away from the wielding of absolute authority over whatever is to remain of the Kingdom. As if it's already a done deal.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As far as Crowbane is concerned, this destiny is certain. Cometh the hour, cometh the druid. Your Cat is quite convinced that it <i>is</i> certain. In Crowbane's addled head, that is...<br><br></p>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-25298921703961420172015-08-10T15:51:00.001+01:002015-08-10T15:51:18.952+01:00Taking The Rei(g)n<div dir="ltr"><div><div><div><div><br><span style="color:rgb(224,102,102)">Your Cat has been transfixed for weeks by the unceremonious and often brutal competition for the leadership of the Redistributionist Faction, which followed the demise of Edweird the Milliner after the Great Count Disaster earlier this year.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(224,102,102)">The Redistributionist Faction - renowned for mutual love, respect and adoration among its members - has been busy following its ignominious defeat with the spectacle which can best be described as a bear pit, with the potential starry-eyed candidates for the coveted Leader's Throne cast into the ring in order to parade their respective charms and to decry, denounce and denigrate their opponents as base and unworthy trash. This has inevitably brought about a great deal of fevered excitement for some members of the bemused public, as well as the soothsayers - especially Beeby See and her sweaty, spotty and uliginous ally Guardy-Ann.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(224,102,102)">Since the passing of Eddy, most Northumbrians who bother to take any interest in such things would have expected the Faction to take a radically different direction from the reign of its previous incumbent, and one would reasonably expect the scent of moderation to fill the nostrils of the faithful and refresh their weary psyches. But fear not.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(224,102,102)">The most likely possessor of the crown is an aged and bearded druid priest called Crowbane, whose toxic presence has graced the Redistributionist ranks in the Witangemot for millennia, and who hitherto has been regarded as an offbeat heretic with a penchant for wormwood and gall as well as the inevitable magic mushrooms. Crowbane has presented himself - and been adopted, much to his surprise - by the eager hordes of Redistributionists as their new deliverer, and his popularity increases day by day. His following - previously restricted to certain boss-eyed members of the Redistributionist Workers' Faction - has burgeoned as a consequence, and an entire cult has developed around him. Beeby See are salivating at his every utterance.<br><br>The Tree Faction have also been very excited about this, since his kingship has the potential to consign the Redistributionist Faction to obscurity for years to come, while hailing him as a man of principle - despite his unbridled enthusiasm for various violent and vicious Viking viceregents who in the cold light of day are nothing more than common thugs and criminals.<br><br></span></div><div><span style="color:rgb(224,102,102)">Your Cat can't summon any more enthusiasm; it's exhausted itself after fifteen picoseconds...<br></span><br></div></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-32935178166681757612015-07-16T19:57:00.001+01:002015-07-16T19:57:46.232+01:00Caedmeron's Great Escape<p dir="ltr"><b>Dagwald Caedmeron</b> really doesn't know what a charmed life he leads.<br>
Since my last posting, there's been a <b>dramatic change of direction</b> in the Tree Administration, and consequently the proposals to <b>reintroduce</b> fox hunting have been put to one side - to the palpable relief of my bushy-tailed friend <b>Feaxede</b>.<br>
Without any attempt to take the credit for such a development, your Cat would modestly like to point out that he has been the catalyst for this monumental volte face.</p>
<p dir="ltr">While contemplating the <b>Creatures' Council proposal</b> I outlined to you the other day, it suddenly occurred to me that Caddy's attempt to turn animals into fair game wouldn't obtain a sympathetic hearing from the <b>Caledonian Independence Faction</b>, whose sole existence in the Northumbrian <b>Witangemot</b> is - as the significant minority - to present a belligerent and largely incoherent problem to the Northumbrian Sassenachs, whom they courteously loathe, despise and detest. Since everything that the Sassenachs do is repugnant to their brutish and uncivilised eyes, I thought I might go and pay Caedmeron <b>a casual visit</b>. If he were to heed my counsel, he could save himself a great deal of embarrassment, since it doesn't look too clever to be losing votes as a newly elected majority faction. Besides which, the hassle of calling a Council of the Kingdom's animal population would be a <b>logistical nightmare</b>, and I'm at the age where frankly, I really don't need the aggravation.</p>
<p dir="ltr">After a gentle word in his shell-like ear, I departed and left common sense to finish the job in Caddy's addled noddle. The result is the <b>Great Climbdown</b>, which was deliriously slobbered over by the soothsayers.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Caedmeron has saved his own <b>skin</b> - not only from the machinations of the haggis hunters, but from the teeth and claws of legions of badgers, weasels, foxes and stoats...</p>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-47005145749529979022015-07-14T17:11:00.001+01:002015-07-14T17:11:32.155+01:00Feaxede's Foxhunting Phobia<div dir="ltr"> <p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">I'm sorry I've not been blogging for a while, but I've been terribly <b>worried</b> about my <b>vulpine</b> friend <b>Feaxede</b> – particularly since the results of the last <b>Great Count</b>, which saw the return to power of an invigorated <b>Tree government</b> under their <b>Great Panjandrum Princess Dagwald Caedmeron</b>, along with a nascent and brutish <b>Caledonian Independence</b> group – much to the chagrin of a reduced <b>Redistributionist</b> representation and a now practically extinct <b>Liberationist Faction</b>.</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">To be perfectly frank, Feaxede – my fellow creature and co-watcher of the human political sphere in the beautiful Kingdom of Northumbria – <b>never really recovered</b> from the humiliating defeat of the <b>Redistributionists</b>. Even though he'd courted their magic mushroom-driven ideology and agendas to the point of becoming a member, he soon became disenchanted with them and their idiosyncratic ways and beliefs and bade them farewell. Be that as it may, the old hankerings and mental habits have persisted, and my old friend still exhibits some of their pink and fluffy sentimentality. I can't say that I'm altogether too surprised about this – especially in the light of the <b>Redistributionists</b>' ban on the sport of <b>fox hunting</b> some years ago under the grinning dominance of their now fallen arch-demon <b>Tondvig the Blur</b>.</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">Feaxede's present state of <b>acute anxiety</b>, angst and biscuit has been the <b>proposal</b> by the <b>Tree Faction</b> – now <b>uninhibited</b> by the shackles that preciously bound them to the corpse of the <b>Liberationists</b> – who've declared their intention to reinstate the barbaric practice. The principal rationale stated for this is that these fine creatures are <b>pests</b>, and hunting them on horseback with packs of hungry dogs is an <b>efficient</b> and <b>caring</b> way of keeping their numbers down. With the majority of Northumbrians, this will render the government deeply unpopular, as their natural affection for the ruddy, bush-tailed creatures is undiminished. (The majority of Northumbrians don't keep chickens.)</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">Even so, I can see the reason for Feaxede's worry and sympathise with him; if the <b>Trees</b> reintroduce <b>fox hunting</b>, how long will it be before they also legitimise <b>cat hunting</b> for pleasure and profit? Or <b>weasel hunting</b>? Or <b>dormouse hunting</b>?</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">One idea I've had to counter Feaxede's great concerns is to call a <b>General Council</b> of all creatures in the Kingdom and put to them a practical and workable <b>suggestion</b>.</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"><b>Politicos</b> are the human equivalent of <b>vermin</b>. They serve <b>no useful purpose</b>, and along with their theatrical gesturing, chronic mendacity, lavish expense accounts and their pathologically habitual lawmaking, they're an <b>enormous drain</b> on the resources of the long suffering Northumbrian population.</span></span></p><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)">I think you know what's coming. And I know I'm backing a winner...</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom:0cm"><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><span style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)"><br></span></span></p> </div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-33094192837287952132015-06-20T15:36:00.001+01:002015-06-22T10:10:26.442+01:00On The March<div dir="ltr">
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<span style="color: #cc0000;">In the <b>aftermath</b> of <b>Dagwald Caedmeron's</b> astonishing and unpredicted <b>defeat</b> of the <b>Redistributionist Faction</b> in the <b>Northumbrian Great Count</b>, those of the <b>Redistributionist</b> mentality have been busy, either licking their significant wounds, fighting and arguing amongst themselves about the <b>future</b> (downward) <b>direction</b> of the Faction. This area of conflict has been primarily centred around the election of their <b>next Great Leader </b>and who the future chieftain should be. All of this to-do has been most <b>entertaining</b> for your <b>Cat</b> - especially since the most popular potential leaders selected are those whose intake of hallucinogenic mushrooms is the highest.<br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;">Although the <b>fly agaric chewers </b>have been particularly self-absorbed with their manifold problems, the charge can't be levelled at them that they've been idle. Despite the current pre-occupation of their <b>priests</b> with their burning questions, their <b>laity</b> has been <b>busy</b>, creating their own kind of unholy <b>stink</b> throughout the beautiful <b>Northumbrian Kingdom</b>.<br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;">Today has been a <b>Great March</b> against the <b>demonic Tree god Austerity</b>, whose <b>devotions</b> have consumed the <b>Tree</b> - and erstwhile <b>Liberationist</b> - <b>Administration</b> for the last few hundred years. Following the years of profligacy, wild borrowing and biscuit of the Redistibutionists under the witty, smiling and charming <b>Guffmund the Brown</b>, the <b>Tree Faction</b> was - and not for the first time - left with a <b>mountain</b> of <b>unpaid bills</b> and <b>unforgiven sins</b>. Upon their election, the <b>Tree Faction</b> solemnly pledged themselves to make <b>reparation</b> for the <b>inherited waste</b> and to <b>placate</b> the god <b>Austerity</b> by <b>sacrificing</b> valuable resources and treasures as <b>offerings</b>. Sadly, <b>Austerity</b> is an <b>avaricious</b> deity, and the donations to its altar was evidently regarded as mere <b>breadcrumbs</b>. The <b>oracle</b> of the god therefore declared that <b>more</b> <b>offerings</b> were required, and in view of this, <b>more</b> <b>stringent sacrifices</b> were planned and executed. However, the sacrifices proposed have never actually been of sufficient seriousness or severity to cost the politicos anything from their own personal treasuries; this honour has been <b>confined</b> as usual to the long-suffering <b>Northumbrian</b> <b>taxpayer</b>.<br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;">Surprisingly enough, the marchers against this god and its cult aren't <b>Northumbrian</b> <b>taxpayers</b>; they're a broad affiliation of magic mushroom devotees, diversity coordinators, yogurt weavers, bongo players, pigeon psychologists, professional idlers, layabouts, loblollies, lunatics, soap evaders, members of the <b>Redistributionist Workers' Faction</b> (whose business is <b>not</b> to be gainfully employed). The odour of <b>dog breath, unwashed armpits, posterior sighs, lentils and bean sprout</b>s headily permeates the air around the marchers, and is gently wafted by the breeze in the direction of the <b>innocent bystanders</b>. It's all so <b>very sad</b>.<br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;">Naturally, <b>Caedmeron</b> isn't terribly worried about this - although the <b>aroma</b> is causing a significant health risk to the wider populace. At least it's keeping them out of trouble, and giving them some other pointless way of occupying their time...<br /></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-82493327819068267152015-06-02T20:35:00.001+01:002015-06-02T20:35:16.222+01:00Bladder Wrack<p dir="ltr">The entire civilised Dark Ages world is reeling; these are dark and foreboding times, dear readers. The soothsayers have been chirping and bleating about the same matter for ages now, and in reaction to their latest outburst, the entire Northumbrian population is wandering in a state of ashen faced bewilderment, barely comprehending the gravity of the news that has so suddenly imposed itself upon their consciousness.</p> <p dir="ltr">Schlep the Bladder has resigned. Weep, ye heavens, and be amazed. Blow your nose.</p> <p dir="ltr">After a reign of thirteen thousand years upon the Holy Roman Empire Football Association - a realm characterised by steadfast righteousness, integrity, honesty, humility, civility and biscuit - Schlep has been deposed by a cabal of power-hungry ruffians, mountebanks and professional bribe collectors after falsely charging him with being an incorruptible good egg.</p> <p dir="ltr">The entire world is waiting with baited hooks and breath, wondering what is going to happen next.</p> <p dir="ltr">Your Cat is wondering how this news is going to affect the feline population. I've worried about it for all of fifteen nanoseconds...<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-31170643016333721502015-05-13T12:55:00.001+01:002015-05-13T12:55:41.237+01:00Relics<div dir="ltr"><p style="margin:0px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47">The <b>Northumbrian Kingdom</b> is slowly crawling out from the <b>devastation, desolation, destruction</b> and biscuit unleashed upon the populace following the <b>Decisive Victory</b> of the <b>Tree Faction</b> in the recent <b>Great Count</b>. The sound of <b>whining</b> can still be heard from the divided ranks of the <b>Redistributionist Faction, Beeby See, Guardy-Ann</b> and their myriads of hangers-on, who, in uncharacteristic bitterness and rancour, <b>accuse</b> the <b>Northumbrian population</b> of <b>crimes against humanity</b> for failing to share their <b>magic mushroom visions</b> of <b>free money, lavishly salaried unemployment, diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists, bongo drumming, dog breath, ethically-sourced lentils and beansprouts</b>. It's all so very <b>sad</b>, and despite my feline nature, I'm finding it very difficult to stifle a <b>tear</b> or two - my claws are quite sharp at the moment.</font></p> <p style="margin:0px;min-height:14px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47"><br></font></p> <p style="margin:0px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47">Despite the <b>gloomy</b> picture I've tried very hard to portray for your doubtless fertile imagination, dear reader, I should also inform you that all is <b>not</b> lost. Despite <b>Dagwald Caedmeron's</b> swift summoning of his <b>newly appointed henchmen</b> (most of whom have undergone a precipitous career change, substituting <b>broomsticks, black cats and cauldrons</b> for ministerial responsibilities), some remarkable events have already taken place.</font></p> <p style="margin:0px;min-height:14px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47"><br></font></p> <p style="margin:0px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47">Much to the <b>amazement</b> of <b>astounded</b> onlookers, the <b>Arthurian prophecy</b> has already come to pass; <b>Nigwald the Forager</b> has emerged from his two-minute <b>sleep of the centuries</b>, and as their <b>resurrected Leader</b>, has promised to restore the <b>Kingdom</b> to its rightful <b>heritage</b> - unshackled from the bonds of the <b>Holy Roman Empire</b> (which is neither holy, <b>Roman</b> nor an empire). His <b>legions</b> of <b>acolytes</b> - who are diffused throughout the <b>Realm</b>, though only having one champion on the <b>Witangemot</b> talking shop - are enthralled that their <b>Supreme Mentor</b> has emerged <b>Phoenix-like</b> from the ashes. <b>Merlin</b>, however, is nowhere to be found…</font></p> <p style="margin:0px;min-height:14px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47"><br></font></p> <p style="margin:0px"><font face="comic sans ms, sans-serif" color="#741b47"><b>Edweird the Milliner</b> has <b>fled</b> the <b>Kingdom</b>, and has gone into a self-imposed <b>exile</b> on the <b>Isle of Patmos</b>, where he hopes to receive similar <b>apocalyptic visions</b> to those of <b>St. John</b>. He'll be <b>lucky</b> if such an experience comes his way, since his industrial scale consumption of <b>hallucinogenic mushrooms </b>has squeezed any notions of godliness from his psyche. For all that, he leaves behind a <b>curious legacy</b>. Your <b>Cat</b> has already witnessed legions of devout <b>Redistributionist pilgrims</b> purchasing fragments of his shattered <b>monolith</b>. It seems to give them some measure of comfort, and it's great business for those entrepreneurs who saw the opportunity for a quick <b>Holy Groat</b>. At least it makes a change from the usual rabbit's foot charms…</font></p><div><br></div></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-3293673495345759942015-05-11T13:21:00.001+01:002015-05-11T14:35:55.534+01:00Aftermath<div dir="ltr">
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<span style="color: blue;">These are <b>grim</b> and <b>grimy</b> days, my dear readers. The <b>Kingdom of Northumbria</b> is recovering from the results of the <b>Great Count</b>, and along with the sound of incessant <b>whining</b> from the <b>Redistributionists</b>, there can also be heard the sounds of <b>wailing</b> in the hallowed halls of <b>Beeby See</b> - as well as her bitter and twisted soothsaying sister, <b>Guardy-Ann</b>. The shovelling of the shattered fragments of <b>Edweird the Milliner's</b> <b>slab</b> of unattainable promises into waiting <b>carts</b> also breaks the stony silence of the Northumbrian air.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">Since <b>Edward the Milliner</b> fell on his <b>sword</b> following the demise of his dearly departed friend <b>Edward the Spheres</b> - the mendacious and charmless confectioner of magic mushroom delights - the Redistributionist camp has retreated into paroxysms of <b>grief</b> and <b>bitter regret</b>. A great deal of energy has been spent on their part in the process of soul-searching, wondering why the feckless, unwashed masses who comprise the electorate have chosen <b>Dagwald Caedmeron</b> and the<b> Tree Faction</b> instead of their own hallucinogenic, hand-wringing fantasies. All manner of <b>fantastic</b> <b>explanations</b> have been proffered by their <b>shamans</b> as to why their confident <b>augury</b> promising <b>resounding victory</b> was false. (It has never occurred to these dear and troubled souls that the majority of Northumbrians have sufficient <b>nous</b> to realise that <b>Caedmeron's leadership</b> was an infinitely better prospect than another five years of bankruptcy, high taxation and biscuit - despite Beeby See's <b>relentless</b> and <b>tiresome prognostications</b> of <b>evil cuts, death, doom and desolation</b>. Bless.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">The <b>Liberationist Faction</b> have also suffered heavy losses, and the sight of a remaining politico from their contingent is now worthy of a crowd of excited, pointing onlookers. <b>Nickwald the Clegge</b> has also decided to impale himself upon his sword, thus making a lasting testimony to his dedication to his faction and their extinct principles. It's all so very <b>sad</b>. The <b>Alliance Administration</b> is no more, and <b>requiem masses</b> are to be held throughout the churches of the <b>Realm</b>. Ding dong.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Nigwald the Forager</b> - the charismatic ale-swilling, fast-talking leader of the <b>Northumbrian Independence Faction</b> - has also joined the ranks of the dear departed, and has hinted that - like <b>King Arthur</b> of <b>British</b> legend - he may return from <b>Avalon</b> to <b>restore</b> the <b>Kingdom</b> and rescue it from its <b>Holy Roman Empire </b>enemies. Until then he will sleep of the just failed.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">However, <b>Caddy Boy</b> is hardly in a position to stamp his indelible footprint on the face of the Northumbrian body politic; the heavy losses on the part of the <b>Redistributionists</b> have been also inflicted north of the border by the <b>Caledonian Realm Alone Praetorian</b> faction, headed up by their sinister high priestess, <b>Nickwealth McSprat</b>. These people are by no stretch of the imagination either reasonable or civilised… <b>Caddy</b> and his crew have their work cut out.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">As for your <b>Cat</b> - frankly, I couldn't give a rat's raspberry. I'm hungry, and I want some fish.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-54297782552193700202015-05-04T12:43:00.001+01:002015-05-04T12:43:55.380+01:00Edweird the Milliner's Magnum Opus<div dir="ltr"><div><div><div><div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)">As the day of the <b>Northumbrian Great Count</b> approaches, the <b>springtime air</b> - puncuated by the mellifluous sounds of <b>birdsong</b> - is being permeated with the sounds of <b>frenetic activity</b>. This - I might hasten to add - is not only the increased amount of rhetoric, rhubarb and biscuit proceeding from the frenzied chops of the major faction politicos, who are all desperately vying with each other for a coveted slice of the Northumbrian cake: there's <b>another noise</b> ringing through the air. It's the sound of <b>hammer and chisel</b>.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><b>Edweird the Milliner - the High Priestess of the Redistributionist Faction</b> - is carving his <i>magnum opus</i> on a stone tablet, which he desperately hopes will adorn his view of the<b> rear garden</b>, should he be fortunate enough to assume the mantle of <b>Prime Politico</b> in the next <b>Northumbrian Administration</b>.<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)">Upon this stone he's carving out the plethora of magic mushroom-fuelled promises, guarantees and an assortment of fantastic objectives that he's set himself in the hope of winning over the hearts and minds of the <b>long-suffering Northumbrian electorate</b>. Good luck with that, Eddy. (Bless.)<br><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)">In the light of the previous record of the <b>Redistributionist Faction</b> in bringing the <b>Kingdom</b> to the point of bankruptcy under the benign and cheerful tutelage of <b>Guffmund the Brown</b> (whose objective was to rescue the entire world from the jaws of prosperity and solvency: a mission that he successfully accomplished in cahoots with his moneylender friends), it's <b>highly unlikely</b> that the electorate will be sufficiently impressed to cast a decisive vote in the favour of his gawky successor. The <b>more likely outcome</b> will be an indecisive one, where the balance of conviction on the part of the voters will be shared among all of the competing factions, which includes the <b>Caledonian National Faction</b>, led by <b>Nickwealth McSprat</b>, the successor to their <b>Chieftain Emeritus Angus McTrout</b> (why do they have <i>fish</i> names? your <b>Cat</b> wonders), and <b>Nickwald the Forager</b>, the fast-talking, slow walking, beer-quaffing impresario of the <b>Northumbrian Independence Faction</b>. The <b>Liberationists</b> - headed by <b>Nickwald the Clegge</b> (why do they have names that have connotations of <i>theft?</i> Your Cat wonders) - are destined for blessed annihilation as a punishment for reneging on their promise not to introduce <b>Kindergarten charges</b> for the legions of trainee pigeon psychologists, diversity coordinators and beehive accountants . A lot of bartering will take place with <b>Dagwald the Caedmeron</b> to decide who shares the executive decisions.<br><br></span></div><div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)">At the very least, Edweird the Milliner's <b>monolithic enterprise</b> will stand as a reminder for future generations that he actually existed. More likely it'll be his epitaph. <i>Sic transit gloria mundi</i>.<br></span></div><div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)"><br></span></div><span style="color:rgb(53,28,117)">Your <b>Cat</b> is as <b>excited</b> as the soothsayers about the forthcoming result. I'll let you into a little <b>secret</b>. Although I'm a mere <b>Cat</b>, I'm still able to <b>cast my vote</b> along with the humans. And in these days of moulting my winter coat in readiness for the summer months, I've already cast my vote at the feet of <b>Dagwald Caedmeron</b>. And I feel so much better for having done so, too.<br><br></span></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-85916906761021330432015-04-16T21:20:00.001+01:002015-04-16T21:20:05.759+01:00Hildabrand's Heavy Hit<p dir="ltr">Your Cat hasn't forgotten you - despite the lack of posts lately. As befits this special season in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, I've been absorbed by the current battle being waged by the politicos for the hearts and minds of the human population of this beautiful part of the world in the run up to the forthcoming Great Count.</p> <p dir="ltr">Feaxede the Fox - my dearest friend - has really been quite concerned for my welfare, and I've endeavoured to put his mind - as well as yours - at ease.</p> <p dir="ltr">During this season, the aspiring factions have been vying with each other to spin tales of alarm and despondency, ruin, desolation and biscuit about their rivals in the race to the coveted seat of authority in the Witangemot assembly of the wise. In their zeal to portray their opponents as the personification of evil has required no small amount of imagination, coupled with a patronising view that the average Northumbrian is stupid and unreflective enough to be mesmerised by their propaganda and to accept it without question. Without doubt, there are those who are lazy enough to allow their preferred politicos to do their thinking for them, but these constitute a relatively small proportion of the population. The remainder simply don't give a rat's rear end.</p> <p dir="ltr">Today, the Redistributionist Faction wheeled out one of their most formidable weapons in their warfare from the astounding assortment of luvvies who adore them and share their taste in hallucinogenic fungi. The weapon in question is Hildabrand, a corpulent female who answers to the vague description of a court jester - although her humour is a matter of considerable debate among most humans, who really can't decide among themselves whether or not it actually exists. Naturally, the Redistributionists think very highly of her, and pretend to understand her humour.</p> <p dir="ltr">Hildabrand rose to the occasion by criticising the evil Tree Faction, and blaming them for the alleged crisis in the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, along with the well-worn, tired and tiresome suggestions that these malevolent entities have been trying by stealth to dismantle it with a view to selling it to cartels of their robber baron cronies.</p> <p dir="ltr">On the basis of this latest manifestation of this astonishing magic mushroom-fuelled performance, your Cat will make a prediction. Edweird the Milliner - the Redistributionist Grand Mufti and intrepid Nose Explorer - will be in a different job following the Great Count...<br> </p> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5580909464395524089.post-8983753859455328312015-03-19T13:42:00.001+00:002015-03-19T13:42:29.458+00:00Green and Cabbage-Looking<div dir="ltr"><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">Your <b>Cat</b> - in his customary fascination with the current race for the coveted <b>Seat Of Power</b> in the forthcoming <b>government</b> - has been fascinated by the latest developments in the political climate of the lovely <b>Kingdom of Northumbria</b>.</font><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">Apart from the usual and traditional runners and riders - the <b>Tree Faction</b>, the <b>Liberationists</b> and the <b>Redistributionists</b> - there are <b>newer political trends</b> coming to the fore.</font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13"><br></font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">One of them is the<b> Northumbrian Independence Faction</b>, headed by the ale-swigging, charismatic and slick-talking man of the people, <b>Nigwald the Forager</b>, whose political group is gaining a great deal of attention by virtue of its professed concern at the burgeoning increase in the numbers of <b>Bactrians, Phrygians, Moors, Huns, Cyrenians, Cappadocians</b> and other <b>exotic</b> nationalities, whose dietary, religious and linguistic habits and traditions are at variance from the plain food, religion, manners and speech of the indigenous <b>Northumbrians</b>. His following is noticeably at its highest in those areas of the Kingdom located nearest to the <b>ports</b>, where shiploads of these foreign hordes disembark daily to find a comfortable living away from their ancestral lands. Owing to the <b>popularity</b> of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, the Tree, Liberationist and Redistributionist Factions and their hangers-on and camp-followers have mounted a vigorous campaign of opposition, since the Forager's followers are painting <b>apocalyptic pictures</b> of overcrowding and strife, and growing national groups in an increasing population compete among themselves for the services of the <b>Northumbrian Herbalist Service</b> and the benefits coffers. Since this doesn't mesh with their <b>pink-and-fluffy</b> view of brotherly harmony and biscuit, they feel under some measure of threat, and for this reason they do their utmost to paint them as a Faction of <b>xenophobes</b>.</font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13"><br></font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">However, the most surprising development is the advent of the <b>Green Faction</b>, led by a female citizen of the as yet undiscovered land of <b>Antipodea</b> called <b>Nutty Bandit.</b></font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">The Green faction - named after the legendary <b>Green Man</b>, a representation of the infernal <b>Prince of Darkness</b> - is a collection of <b>disenchanted</b> <b>Redistributionists</b> and other masticators of the hallucinogenic fungus whose principal ambition is to forbid the lighting of bonfires and the cutting down of trees in the interests of their Green goddess, <b>Mother Earth</b>.</font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">These beansprout-chewing bongo players are prepared to make any <b>sacrifices</b> - of other people rather than themselves - in the interests of their fantasy-fuelled religion.</font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">The Green Faction is gaining a large number of disaffected followers of the feckless <b>Edward the Milliner</b>, who - according to their twisted theology - is not doing enough to save the polar bears in the allegedly melting Arctic regions.</font></div><div><font style="background-color:rgb(255,255,255)" color="#274e13">With such growing interest in this new and fanatical religion, it must be a great comport to their acolytes that their beloved leader doesn't even have a command of such pedestrian issues as <b>facts and figures</b> when questioned. The <b>mushrooms</b> are evidently doing their work...</font></div><div><br></div></div> <div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) Caedmon's Cat</div>Caedmon's Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05804296312549298845noreply@blogger.com1