Taking A Break

After the gloom of these past few days, it's so gratifying to hear some good news like the forthcoming Royal Wedding, for example. We certainly need cheerful tidings here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. And to our relief, help is on its way; now that the Witangemot is closed for the duration of the summer, we're in that time of year referred to by the soothsayers as The Silly Season. In the absence of political news, the soothsayers – those bastions of measured objectivity, impartiality and sweet reason - turn their unwelcome attention to less worthy items of news and gossip for fresh material with which to entertain, stupefy or terrify the bovine masses.

Thanks to this annual non-event, we now know that Dagwood Caedmeron – the Reverend Leader of the Tree Faction and Chief Cock and Bluebottle washer of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance administration - is Taking a Holiday. (For the benefit of ordinary Northumbrian labourers and my fellow four-footed creatures, a 'Holiday' is a period of time spent away from the tedium and backbreaking drudgery of daily toil – usually spent in exotic places.) Bless.

No longer pressured with the arduous responsibility of breaking electoral promises, changing fifteen policy decisions before breakfast, telling porky-pies and pretending to have the very best interests of the Northumbrian public at heart, he's gathered his wife and family, and at considerable personal cost (drawn from his substantial public taxation-funded salary) and has boldly set sail for the warmer climes of Italy, where he will doubtless cavort in numerous tavernas with his ancient Roman counterpart, the priapic and corrupt Silvius Burlesquonius, who's renowned for his decadent parties and the pond life he chooses for company...

I wish Caedmeron well; he deserves a long break from the duplicitous business of Northumbrian politics. He deserves it far more than the lowly, long-suffering masses he leaves behind in poverty and deprivation. I hear that the wines of Italy are particularly fine; he may be tempted to drink far too much in the sweltering Tuscan heat. His head will serve him the due punishment – if his wife doesn't do so beforehand..

Another piece of news to delight the Northumbrian populace is the other Revered Leader, Edweird The Milliner. Flushed with his astonishing recent political successes (I forget what they were: I've been to bed since then), Eddy Boy has decided to take a break as well. But unlike his Tree rival, he won't be taking the family. He's going to a Redistributionist Health Farm, where his nose is going to be broken by expert hands at considerable (public) expense. The reason for this is that Eddy is a skilled snorer – much to the annoyance of his unfortunate spouse. I've heard it said that he can snore Redistributionist political theory in seventeen different languages – no mean achievement – but the poor woman has reached desperation point because of years of sleep deprivation. Enough is enough. So his nose will be lovingly excavated and reshaped by dexterous Redistributionist hands. I wonder if they gave him a chart of nasal shapes to choose from?

No Guesses for the Guest List

It's been quite a pleasant and peaceful weekend - other than having to console poor Feaxede. His application to stand as a  Redistributionist councillor in the Streonaeshalch local election has been turned down by the Faction; I can't say I'm terribly surprised. When he came over to tell me the bad news, I could see that he was close to tears. I told him that he was a very astute and worthy member of the animal kingdom, and he would only have become corrupted by those venal politicos if he'd been accepted as a candidate. It's a human-eat-human world out there.

The reason for his rejection was (ostensibly) that he hadn't been in the Redistributionist Faction for long enough - and he lacked the political experience. To all outward appearances, those reasons sound plausible enough, but I have a sneaky feeling that they're masking the true reason; it's my suspicion that despite their obsession with their inclusivist dogma, they're actually closet foxists - the sin that dare not speak its name. But I didn't share that reservation with Feaxede - it would be unkind of me. I'm his loyal friend - and I want to remain as such.

Feaxede came back to see me a few hours afterwards; his demeanour was quite different this time. He didn't give me a chance to greet him when he excitedly told me that he'd discovered a piece of vellum. This time it wasn't in the local dump - much to my surprise. When I asked him where he'd found it, he was rather bashful and reticent, but when I pressed him on the matter, it transpired that he'd decided to pay a social call to the house of the local Redistributionist Faction chief. To his surprise, nobody was at home, but the front door was open. He went in, found that there were no chicken carasses or other scraps of food, and he was about to leave the premises when he noticed a sheet of new vellum with fresh writing on it.

I questioned Feaxede's morality in doing such a deed, and he told me that he was so upset at his rejection that he wanted some kind of reassurance from the Resistributionist boss. Since he wasn't even at home, Feaxede decided to console himself with a 'borrowed' item. I asked him where he'd put it - and he led me to his lair, where the splendidly elaborate vellum was already stretched out. He asked me to read it to him, and I told him in no uncertain terms that he must return it to its rightful place if I were to do so. He solemnly assured me that he would.

The vellum turned out to be a guestlist for Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha's forthcoming wedding. It had the names of some of the invited guests. This information was like a goldmine, as I knew that the list of names is a closely-guarded secret. Among the invited guests was King Jose Borracho - the megalomaniac Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and his faithful half-witted henchman Hermit. It also listed O'Daffy (the chandelier-swinging, khat-chewing leader of the Cyrenians), the deposed Pharaoh of Egypt - Chesney Mubarak O'Barmy and the former Redistributionist Premier Guthmund the Brown. But Caedmeron and Edweird the Milliner were conspicuously absent from the list. My secret agent Láréow wasn't on the list either, sorry to say. The choice of guests leaves a great deal to be desired; I suppose that King Alhfrith and his dirty-mouthed Queen Hillida aren't too fussy about the company they keep. If I were some bandit chief or small-time gangster boss, I suppose my guest list would be similar.

This begs an interesting question. How on earth did some low-grade Redistributionist lackey get hold of such privileged information? The name of the Faction leader wasn't on the list either, so it was of no consequence to him. Having given the matter some thought, I concluded that the Redistributionist had also come by this information through dishonest means. Feaxede was surprised. What should he do with it?

I told Feaxede to take it to Beeby See or Guardy-Ann and offer it to them in exchange for anonymity and a substantial reward. I reckon Feaxede has a lot of chicken dinners coming his way. That's all the consolation he needs. He deserves it.

Wed Sales In The Sunset

There has been some controversy rolling around the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria concerning the multicultural agenda being foisted upon the realm. This is nothing new: multitudes have come to these shores from other exotic lands for centuries, bringing their strange customs, odd languages, bizarre cookery and exotic religions with them. Indeed, the Roman occupants of these islands who preceded the Anglo-Saxons weren't for the most part Latins: they were a mixum-gatherum of Syrians, Greeks, North Africans and Persians, conscripted into the occupying armies. No country is an island unto itself - not even these beautiful islands upon which we live. Only fools and fantasists imagine that only Franks live on the other side of the Channel in Gaul, only Vikings live in Denmark and Norway - and only Anglo-Saxons and their Jutish and Danish cousins live here. 'Twas never thus.

But the rub comes when the powers that be decide - without reference to those they purport to represent - to allow unlimited access to these shores from the Great Unwashed Horde From Abroad. And when the aspiring immigrants employ ingenious methods to justify their permanent residence in this green and pleasant realm, things start to get interesting.

Romance is a significant reason for the melding of cultures here. There are various Vikings who have settled here, fallen in love with a Saxon girl and have merged into the culture. As long as they don't lecture the Saxons about the alleged superiority of their Norse gods and Eddas, don't eat too many magic mushrooms and go berserk, they make no waves. Even people with more distinctive features from Cathay, Araby or Mauritania have established themselves here and mixed with the locals. But some people are so desperate to get the welcoming nod from the Northumbrian State that they're prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to secure permission to stay here. So there have been some surprising marriages between people of disparate national, cultural, religious and linguistic traditions where either the wife or husband-to-be has been a Northumbrian citizen - and rats have been smelt.

The soothsayers recently highlighted the arrest, subsequent Moot appearance and imprisonment of a naughty priest who made it his business to perform marriage ceremonies (at a price, of course) exclusively for those wishing to gain a foothold onto Northumbrian soil. No questions asked. Pay up the groats, wear fancy coats, just say the oath, one name for both, sign on the line, everything's fine, say nothing more, walk out the door.

Business has therefore been booming - and the fact that the happy couples have quickly dispersed into their previous unmarried habits immediately following the official transaction has finally reached the attention of some zealous, sharp-witted investigators. The conclusion has been drawn that a lucrative scam has been going on to make immigration easier and quicker.

In view of this, the Holy Church has drawn up guidelines for priests in order to avoid this sort of thing becoming fashionable - and to prevent further damage to the reputation of the Church - and the institution of marriage. The priests are to check the following things:

Do the bride and the groom actually recognise each other when they come into the church?
If the bride comes in fashionably late, does she stop to ask anyone to point out who the groom is?
Do the happy couple know each other's names? Can they even pronounce them?
Do either or both of the couple look furtively and nervously from side to side?
Do either of them know where each other comes from?
Do they actually speak the same language and understand each other?

Good grief...