Getting Knotted

Since my rather sober posting yesterday, this Cat has found something to be more cheerful and chipper about! Despite the growing shadow and creeping stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and its power-crazed, venal and impudent political lackeys, another bright light beams in the encroaching darkness. We are going to be the happy witnesses of yet another Royal Wedding. Hooray for His Majesty King Alhfrith! Three cheers for the monarchy! We are so privileged. Where's the holiday?

Princess Ziggurat, who is the three hundred and thirty ninth in succession to the coveted Northumbrian throne, is due to marry her childhood sweetheart, Mebeverin of Tinwald - a player of a rough and tough form of football called 'ragger', where huge bull-shaped players collide with each other at high speed in pursuit of an oval bladder. This happy occasion - which will signal the melding of vulgar royal and refined peasant families - will be taking place this coming weekend in the wild and untamed realms of the uncouth and uncivilized Scots, who - so far - have failed to be inclined to adopt the niceties of Anglo-Saxon life and culture. It's their loss, boys and girls..

I asked Caedmon if he had any idea why these persons were going to be joined in Holy Matrimony in such a mountainous, windswept and desolate place. He knowledgeably told me that he hadn't the first clue, and suggested that I ask one of my friends. After all, they all seem to be more interested in these ephemeral matters than he.

So I sought out Lareow, Caedmeron's appointed Rat Czar and Mouser - and the principal source of intelligence for matters political. Surprisingly, he didn't know either, but he suggested I speak to Dellimell the hysterical soothsayer. So without further ado I sought out her dwellingplace - a large barn which is usually a hive of frenetic industry. The place was deserted, except for a course-tongued Anglo-Saxon maiden called Tressy, who was on duty to receive messages from Dellimell's secret legions of minions who invent the bizarre stories and tales of woe she tells. I politely asked Tressy where everyone was, and she curtly told me as she filed her dirty fingernails that they were all out, eavesdropping on the conversations of distressed gentlefolk around the four corners of the Realm. When I asked her if she knew why Ziggurat and Mebeverin were marrying in Scotland, she politely told me to go away. She used some very Anglo-Saxon Anglo-Saxon language. So I quickly deposited a slimy hairball on her neatly folded cloak and hastily departed.

Later on, I met Feaxede the Fox, who was on his way home with some freshly-excavated chicken carcasses. I told him about my fruitless quest, and he told me that I was a silly cat: I should have gone to see him first, as he already knew the answer to my question.. he could have saved me the time and the trouble.

It appears that the happy couple are tying the knot in the uncouth land of the Scots because it's the only place where the fiery beverage called whiskey is to be found - and Ziggurat and Mebeverin want a right royal Caledonian-style lash-up - and this stuff beats ale and mead hands down.. I await the post-festal bodycount with interest...

King Alhfrith's Grand Day Out

It's a Great Day today; it must be, because Beeby See has told me so - and she should know. She knows everything- or so she would like us all to think. This cat is inclined to believe that Beeby See knows nothing - but she proceeds under the illusion that if she keeps talking, she'll actually learn something. Pardon me while I just avoid the colorectal payload of a passing flying pig...

It's a great day today because for the first time in recorded history, King Alhfrith has touched the shores of the Emerald Isle - that bastion of independence and rabid anti-Anglo-Saxon sentiment. I do hope he's decided to leave his foul-mouthed Queen Hillida at home - she has such an aptitude to fart loudly, get drunk and indiscriminately tell dirty jokes, thus offending sensitive souls. I'm surprised she hasn't caused an international incident...

Actually, I wasn't completely accurate there: it wasn't for the first time an Anglo-Saxon monarch landed there to pay the Hibernian Scots - known as Irish - a visit: King Edwin went there about thirty thousand years ago - when the Irish were more kindly disposed towards the barbarous Germanic hordes.

Most Irish people will be quite happy to see the old boy grace them with his presence as he waddles his way, waving benignly through the streets of Dyflin, but inevitably there will be those detractors who insist on making a noise and a stink about it. In view of the fact that Anglo-Saxons have traditionally assumed that the Emerald Isle was reserved for them - and they've been quite content to bludgeon the poor inhabitants into unwilling submission, I can't say I blame their resentment. But Alhfrith goes there with a good will - especially since Caedmeron and his merry band of brigands and flim-flam men in the Witangemot have decided to help our Irish neighbours in their hour of financial need. At Northumbrian taxpayers' expense, naturally.

But I suspect that the real attraction is the horses. Alhfrith is a sucker for a good gee-gee - and a flutter with the bookies. And the Irish know a thing or two about them to be sure, so they do.