School's Out

Having decided to keep our unswerving faith in - and loyalty to - the Sacred Triumvirate of Politicos, Soothsayers and Costumed Thugs to ourselves, thus avoiding the Deadly and Damnable label of Anarchist, Feaxede and I returned to our homes, leaving the hordes of people and animals who nobly gave themselves up to the Costumed Thugs. It'll certainly give those uniformed bozos something keep them profitably occupied; I expect that the combined fragrance of several thousand tired and sweaty Northumbrian feet, tons of horse droppings, clouds of dog's breath and every other conceivable vile odour under the sun will be sufficient punishment for them - and whoever dreamed up such an inspirational idea. Whoever it was must be terribly afraid of Anarchists; perhaps they imagine them to be a breed of fly agaric-chewing berserkers - like some of the crazier Vikings. It evidently doesn't pay to have your own opinion here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria; the Unholy Trinity wants to do everyone's thinking for them.

And it looks as if they're doing a great job to achieve that. Figures have been released to the soothsayers and town criers for public consumption revealing that ninety seven and three quarters percent of all children who leave School have less educational ability than when they started. The evidence of this is that the majority of them hang around street corners, chewing magic mushrooms, drinking illicitly-obtained mead, expecting the Northumbrian Kingdom to provide them with a prestigious and well-paid, high-flying executive job ex nihilo.

Of course, anything is possible in this strange world; Wade Rune - the Madcaster Untied football star - is a shining example of the truth that a monkey who can barely string two intelligible monosyllables together can end up earning gazillions of groats by kicking a pig's bladder around. But even Wade Rune at some time in his life applied himself to the acquisition of the necessary skills; most children these days haven't had their mental processes honed sufficiently to recognise the need for hard graft; they expect everything on a plate.

But it would be very easy simply to blame the kiddies for their unreal and fantasy-led expectations; the sad truth is that their parents are too busy either getting pie-eyed in the local taverns, or working silly hours to pay for their foppish luxuries; like Christmas puppies that have outgrown their welcome, their progeny are left to their own devices to wander round the streets like packs of feral dogs. And the teachers - placed by the State in loco parentis to inculcate those values of decency and conscientious industry that the parents fail to impart - are too busy either cogitating on the latest drops of toxic wisdom from Guardy-Ann's outpourings or simply looking forward to the next holiday - or strike...

And they think Anarchists are dangerous? Give me a break..

Named And Shamed

Aside from all the arrests and the ongoing discussions colorectal statement-slinging of the politicos and the soothsayers concerning the Great Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach Eavesdropping Scandal, I've a great piece of news to share which will doubtless bring some welcome beams of joy to our present dark and foreboding landscape. 

The new baby daughter of Dagwald Baecern – the inarticulate but fabulously wealthy former mascot of the renowned Madcaster Untied football team has been named. Hooray for Bekkers! What a great day for such auspicious news! 

Ever since word got out that the latest addition to the substantial Baecern tribe had entered this vale of tears, the entire Northumbrian Kingdom has been anxiously waiting for an official pronouncement concerning the name of the new mite. Moreover, the iconic Baecern name is widely known beyond these shores, and in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and even within the distant, legendary shores of Ultima Thule, people have also been eagerly listening out. 

Dagwald Baecern exemplifies everything that makes our lovely Kingdom of Northumbria and its politics and its entertainment so great and desirable. It's a story of rags to riches; born in a bakery in the East Saxon Kingdom, Dagwald dazzled his contemporaries by his formidable control over a pig's bladder, and his ability to propel it through the air in a curved trajectory has earned him a fearsome reputation as a penalty kicker. Many a time he has rescued Madcaster Untied and the Kingdom squad from ignominious defeat by a well-aimed kick. Many shins have permanently suffered as a consequence. 

But Baecern is a modest, uneducated and simple man, who quietly married a shy prima donna entertainer called Viradecthis – a girl of equally humble origins and wildly expensive tastes. They live modestly in a palace, surrounded by servants and their formidable tribe of children. The soothsayers have found them to be an endless source of interest – despite Dagwald's inability to string two coherent sentences together. What has provided the soothsayers with a significant amount of material to disseminate through the Kingdom is their bizarre choice of names for their progeny. 

And the name of the latest addition to the Baecern clan is called Wade Eleven And Three Quarters. A pretty name, isn't it? I believe she was named after Dagwald's footballer colleague Wade Rune. 

Nevertheless, I expect the little mite will grow up to be ashamed of her name – along with those who inflicted it upon her. My prediction is that when she's grown up, she'll change it to something anonymous like Winifred – or Ethel. Such a pity…

The King's Speech

The other day, Feaxede the fox excitedly loped towards me with something in his mouth. Could I possibly tell him what it was? I took a look at the object; it was immediately apparent that it was a scroll of vellum, which is a thin skin of hide used for manuscripts, books and documents. I asked him where he'd found it, and he told me that it was in the dump, where he does most of his researches. He asked me if I could read it. Since I was taught to read by Caedmon as part of my Christian education, I took a look at the document. It was rather dirty and sodden, but the writing was clear enough for me to discern that it was a transcript of King Alhfrith's Christmas message; it had probably been discarded by Beeby See - or one of her minions - following the Christmas season. Usually the soothsayers read out to the local populace the latest communication from the Great and the Good – and even our noble King. Since I was very tired this Christmas, I hadn't bothered to go to listen to the latest proclamation, so the content was new to me.

I read through it while Feaxede eagerly listened. I can't remember the full content verbatim, but as I recall, the speech started off with the King addressing his loyal subjects and talking about the Bible. It would appear that this year is an anniversary of the translation of the Bible from the Latin Vulgate into the Anglo-Saxon tongue. The monks at the Abbey still read the Latin version, so this was news to my ears. The King went on to say how the Bible brought people together. It would appear that the King then got some Viking, Bulgar and Frankish children to read a passage to him from the Bible, so one of them started with the words:

On frymðe wæs Word, and þæt Word wæs mid Gode, and God wæs þæt Word. Þæt wæs on fruman mid Gode. Ealle þing wæron geworhte ðurh hyne; and nan þing næs geworht butan him. Þæt wæs lif þe on him geworht wæs; and þæt lif wæs manna leoht. And þæt leoht lyht on ðystrum; and þystro þæt ne genamon.

Feaxede was puzzled. Why didn't the King read the passage himself? And why wasn't it read by Anglo-Saxon children? I explained that the old boy can't read; he always gets others to read to him. He uses his thumb to sign important documents and charters whenever a signature is needed. And in these days of diversity, it's important to exclude Anglo-Saxons, since they are mere incidentals in the unfolding political Plan of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire).

When I read the next portion of the speech, I became as puzzled as Feaxede had been: the King then went on to talk about football, and how it – like the Bible - also brought people together. I can't understand how the Bible is supposed to bring people together in a day when the country is being systematically de-Christianised, and where signs of our Anglo-Saxon Christian heritage are being mocked or stealthily removed in favour of the Vikings and their Eddas. As I understand it, the Master in the Gospel said that He came to bring a sword rather than peace (by which He refers to division rather than unity).

And how on earth does football bring people together? Some people come together to watch Madcaster United and their star striker Wade Rune, but only to watch the game and to bellow unceremoniously when something happens on the pitch. When the game is over, they either go home or get drunk in the meadhouses, where I've heard the most acrimonious arguments between football supporters. Blood has been spilt. I also know that whenever Milwall supporters visit, the costumed thugs have to assiduously brain them with big sticks to keep them in check, and to prevent further outbreaks of violence.

So, what was the King waffling about? I'm blowed if I know. Mead and ale certainly bring people together; dances and entertainments do the same. Work – out of necessity - brings people together, whether they like it or not. Poverty and adversity also unite. But as I see it, the Anglo-Saxon Bible and football are unlikely companions in the task of uniting people.

Perhaps I'm missing something. Or maybe the King is losing his marbles. I suggested that Feaxede that he take the document back to the dump, where it could carry on doing what it had been communicating – rot.

A National Tragedy

I've just heard that it has been announced that Northumbria will not be hosting the forthcoming Holy Roman Empire Football Competition. This is a tragic day. The soothsayer Beeby See has announced a day of mourning, and the good people of Streonaeshalch are looking very dejected. The bells of the Abbey are tolling mournfully, and the goatskin flags and banners are flying in the snow at half mast.

So, where is this momentous competition going to take the place? Oddly enough, it will be in the Kievan Rus. King Borislav the Magnificent has enchanted the Football Committee and persuaded them to choose that great wilderness of a place. I wonder if it was through the carrot - or through the stick? What a strange coincidence in view of recent developments! Life's like that, isn't it?

Rune-y Tunes

It's not only the politicians who are the subject of conversation in the town. I've heard a lot of people - mainly men - talking about Wade Rune. I asked Caedmon who he was; he told me that he's a young man who plays a team sport with a pig's bladder called football. He's a very wealthy young fellow, because he plays for one of the best-supported teams in the Northumbrian kingdom - Madcaster United. Even the accursed Vikings have heard of him.

Why are the townspeople talking about Wade? Seemingly it's because he recently played a different kind of game with Madcaster United's Pictish manager MacFergus; he indicated that he didn't want to play for the team any more. This created an enormous hoo-ha with the soothsayers, who immediately concluded that he would go and play for Madcaster Town and so they proceeded to pronounce doom on United, placing it under the most abominable curses. But the crisis didn't last very long; Wade Rune has changed his tune and generously agreed to continue to play for Madcaster United, and everyone has breathed a huge sigh of relief. Well - not everybody. Rune was wealthy before this took place, and he's going to be even richer now. The Streonaeshalch men are very resentful of him, since they still have to work hard for very little; Rune only has to fart, and he's already generated thousands of groats.

I think it's great. Rune can afford to buy a kingdom if he wants to - and a cat sanctuary for poor moggies who have fallen on hard times. I've heard that he's very keen on old kitties..