Aerial Warfare

The Witangemot's demolition of the Northumbrian peoples' wishes for a vote regarding continued membership of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) has caused something of an uproar in this beautiful Realm, as ordinary Northumbrians have started to wake up to the realisation that they're not being represented by their local politicos at all, but are being governed by a cadre of patronising, unprincipled and spineless placemen at the behest of the Evil Emperor King Jose Borracho and his vapid, half-witted henchman Hermit the Rumphole. My master Caedmon is quite philosophical and phlegmatic about it all, since he has a biblically pessimistic view of the nature of human nature and political institutions..

My good friend Feaxede the fox, on the other hand, is hopping mad about the sad and sordid business, and he's been passing on the news through his own vulpine corner of the Northumbrian vineyard, but sadly, none of his fellow-creatures seem to be remotely concerned or even interested. (However, despite their failure to grasp the implications of these issues and their apparent indifference to matters human, they do have more than a passing passion for the trivial fripperies of 'The Ð Factor' and 'Strictly Foxtrot.')

Even so, life is full of surprises - and surprising ones at that. I learned today that the avian members of the created order are already primed to take action - and they mean serious business. I'm particularly referring to the Seagulls, who adorn the cliff faces and roofs of Streonaeshalch - as well as the municipal dump, where they carry out their own assiduous research. These birds are fearless, cheeky, intrusive and can grow to considerable sizes. I stalked and killed a small gull once; I won't ever repeat that folly, as it took several days for my injuries to heal: they have very sharp beaks. And the taste wasn't worth the battle anyway.. You live and learn.

The greatest asset of these greedy, noisy and aggressive birds is their aerial eloquence in making weighty statements from a considerable height. As I've mentioned elsewhere, they're also known to coordinate their efforts and make their pronouncements in choro. Which is just as well, since the politicos have been recently deeply concerned about their growth in numbers, and consequently have been plotting to reduce their numbers through proposed programmes of population control and Herodian slaughter.

A campaign of aerial warfare against the Witangemot is therefore now in operation. Squadrons of the blessed birdies are already descending upon their Moot Hall in clusters of several thousand, gaining ingress to the inner chamber and giving the politicos the benefit of their colorectal opinions. Repeatedly. With bells and whistles.

What the seagulls deposit on the heads, shoulders and benches of the honourable members is a great deal more desirable than the foul stuff they habitually serve up. I don't feel at all sorry for them; I'll be cheering from the wings. Bring it on, boys!

Things Cyrene and Unseen

The soothsayers - especially the partially impartial Beeby See - are in ecstasies about the victory of the rebels in the sandy, fly-infested Berber realm of Cyrene. Every day bears witness to more feverish slobber from the muzzles of fantasist soothsayers, who are desperately anxious to count every chicken - whether it's hatched or not - and most especially it doesn't even exist. The other day greeted us with the announcement that Trables - the principal city of that arid region - had fallen to the rebels, and that Murmur O'Daffy - the crazy, khat-chewing psychopath who had ruled the roost with an iron fist for three hundred and seventy thousand years - was defeated. Hooray for the forces of Civilisation, freedom and demockery-cy! Feaxede the fox and I were so delighted to hear the news: we danced for joy, and to celebrate the occasion, Feaxede shared some tender morsels of chicken carcass with me! Happy days.

This was a staggering achievement for a raggle-taggle army of urchins, wizened old men and goat-herders who hitherto hadn't known one end of a sword from another. But - as we're constantly reminded - this was accomplished through the determination and iron resolve of the oppressed masses. A stunning triumph of people-power against the overwhelming odds of O'Daffy's efficient and merciless fighting machine. Whatever. They don't even mention the special encouragement and moral support by the military advisors supplied by King Jose Borracho, the psychotically ambitious and deluded Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire)

Today brings quite a different picture. Instead of the scenes of overall conquest and delirious jubilation portrayed the other day, there are now stories of running battles and hand-to-hand combat in the Trables streets. O'Daffy had sworn a solemn oath that he would fight to the death to maintain his paternal care of his beloved people - and never ever leave his homeland Cyrene. However, on arriving at his palatial dwellings, he hasn't been found; he has mysteriously disappeared, leaving his loyal Praetorian Guard to do their patriotic duty and hold the fort.

Murmur O'Daffy's disappearance is one of those unexplained mysteries - I'm sure we'll never know where he went. Already the Northumbrians are talking about him in the same reverence as they do about the iconic songster Elvey of Preslode, reports of whose demise many hundreds of years ago were never accepted by his most ardent disciples.

I met a stranger in Streonaeshalch the other day; he was a bizarrely attired man of foreign extraction, with heavy eyelids, a peculiarly-shaped mouth and a thick accent; his name was - as I recall - Marmer of Gadfly. When I chatted with him about the recent events in Cyrene, he became strangely taciturn... I reckon he knows more about where the old scoundrel is than he's letting on...

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..

Dropped

The bells are ringing here in Streonaeshalch, and it's a day of jubilation. The banners are dripping in the heavy showers of rain, and the merry-making activities have been moved indoors to the Moot House to escape the wet. And what is the occasion for these damp festivities? It's to celebrate The Day That Villanous Arch-Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach dismissed the services of one of his most trusted Soothsayers. The announcement went out to the Northumbrian Kingdom yesterday - and the subsequent gasp could be heard for miles around - along with the steady chewing of magic mushrooms.

The activities of Nus Utherworld - the disgraced and ancient soothsayer -  have been met with complete shock and abhorrence - or at least from the other soothsayers, who've pontificated about the eavesdropping of the private conversations of distressed gentlefolk as if this were a new and hitherto unknown expression of human depravity. Nus Utherworld had always possessed a reputation for ribaldry, and was noted to have some priapic preoccupations with the sordid private lives of the squalid political and aristocratic sub-classes and Madcaster Untied team members. It's all very sad. The window-licking acolytes of pox-faced Guardy-Ann and her pantomime dame companion Beeby See have been in jubilant mood, as they've seen one of the mighty bastions of anti-Redistributionism fall. Bless.

The rumours are now circulating that Evil-Merodach will be setting on the services of a new soothsayer to replace the discredited one. Nice try, Rupie.

I was talking with Caedmon about this last night, and I found out that he shares my own feeling that those soothsayers who've been making the most of this series of misdemeanours and the consequent fall from grace are those with no shortage of skeletons in their own closets. They just haven't been caught yet. But in these dark and perverse days, the illusion-dwelling Redistributionists and their fly agaric-chewing camp followers are joining forces (and farces) against their detractors, and contrary views are becoming increasingly demonised as 'dangerous', 'extremist' and 'inappropriate.' The gathering of faggots for public burnings follows soon, children. Bring your chestnuts.

I mentioned the whole sorry saga to my mate Feaxede - the fox with an archeological interest. He looked intently at me, and suddenly dropped something rather unwholesome from his back end, and proceeded to walk away. It was by far a more eloquent statement than those I've heard from the soothsayers lately...

Revolutions Per Minute

The Tree/Liberationist Alliance is perhaps the most detested administration ever to take the helm of the governance of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. This isn't too surprising; the reason for this is that there's been a steady drip into the public consciousness of fly agaric-inspired Redistributionist ideas over the last fifteen thousand years. This is mainly achieved through the machinations of the soothsayers - particularly the partially impartial Beeby See and her pustule-punctuated friend Guardy-Ann, who tirelessly campaign for the undeserved rights of the legions of homeopaths, diversity administrators, kindergarten managers, fish quota accountants, cat psychologists and ne'er-do-wells who idly litter the streets of the Realm. By contrast, those whose industry and enterprise produces wealth and prosperity are regarded as the lepers outside the gate - unwanted, neglected and forgotten.

(I'll give you a pause to dry your eyes.)

The Tree Faction traditionally represents the gritty values of the aforesaid thrifty, hard-working underclass, for whom the idea of receiving the miserable pittances of Benefit Groats is nothing short of the Ultimate Disgrace. Such self-sufficiency is roundly despised and condemned by the magic mushroom-led Redistributionists, who hysterically label it as 'Outmoded, Greedy Individualism,' earnestly desiring to see a monochrome culture of dependency on the teat of Mother State for all those specimens of human flotsam who sit in the outer darkness beyond the walls of their Blessed Faction.

But thanks to Caedmeron and many of his colleagues within the ranks of the Tree Faction, these outmoded, greedy and individualistic values are gradually being eroded. One by one. The Tree Party turns out to be one of the factions that's most rabidly in favour of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), since there are untold riches available from expenses and back-handers for those who compliantly fall in line with the Powers That Be. It was a Tree Leader from three thousand years ago called Edweird The Teeth who led the Kingdom by the nose into the waiting deadly embrace of power-crazed Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-witted henchman, Hermit The Rumphole. Since that time, the values of the ordinary, hardworking Northumbrians have been stealthily and quietly discarded, while those guilty of such machinations have cleverly pretended to continue to espouse the very values they've abandoned - including Withdrawal from the Evil Federation. This, of course, is merely intended to give the impression to the unreflective Tree rank-and-file that it's Still The Same Faction. Whatever.

With this dissimulation in mind, this Cat can readily understand why a faction - hitherto blessed with a clear set of working principles - is now characterised by suck-it-and-see pragmatism and not a little of the same hallucinogenic substances that inspire the policies and the attitudes of The Enemy. It also helps to explain why Caedmeron - the silver-tongued, shifty and untrustworthy Shepherd of the Tree Flock - has changed his mind about key policy decisions several times within the space of a morning - just as the previous Redistributionist incumbent comedian Guffmund The Brown did when he formulated the policies that led the Kingdom to debt, bankruptcy and increased thralldom to the Accursed Empire.

I'm getting dizzy form all the policy changes that are taking place... I think I'll lie down for a bit...

A New Nation Is Born

What I'm going to tell you may not be completely factually correct, so please don't pass the contents of this posting to the media - unless you've checked it for accuracy beforehand, of course. The Cat is not liable for any factually inaccurate information. I can perfect the purrs, but I know I'm not perfect - and I'm not above getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. Cats were never designed by their Creator to be political animals; I have to face up to the fact that I'm some aberration - an exception to the rule.

As I understand it - and not many know this, but a new Nation is secretly in the throes of being born.

It started in the faraway-somewhere place I refer to as Ultima Thule, where a costumed thug referred to some females of the human species as Sluts.

Now, I'm pretty well-educated, and I've had a great deal of exposure to the realms of human existence. But when I asked my master Caedmon what a Slut was, for some reason or other, he wouldn't tell me. So consequently I've had to do some digging around to get to the bottom of the issue.

I commenced my search with my trusty friend Leo. He's a Big Cat in a cage, and he's pretty clued in about human things. I asked him if he had any idea, but he hadn't heard of the term. But it was nice to see him, for all that. After exchanging a few bits of news with him, I moved on to look for Feaxede, the fox-about-town. I found him (you'll never guess where!), engaged in his favourite hobby of archaeological research.

When I asked him what a Slut was, he told me he'd heard of the term; he'd heard it used by intoxicated wasters during his perambulations on a Saturday night - but he didn't actually know what it meant. A chicken carcass beckoned, so I left him to his frenzied activities.

Having exhausted all my usual avenues of enquiry, I checked out my pal Láréow - the feline secret agent Rat-Befriender who is my prime source of tasty gossip from Caedmeron's Official Residence. When I asked him the same question, he immediately told me what it meant, but owing to the sensitivity of the subject, he had to tell me that he couldn't swear on the accuracy of his information. I get the drift...

The country of Slutland is fast moving to become a separate Nation, as it divides from the Anglo-Saxon sphere of influence. It will have its own Parliament, and its own separate culture and Sluttish language. This development has been the outcome of the steadfast endeavours of the Sluttish National Faction under the able and inspirational leadership of its First Minister, Angus McTrout. Whatever.

The Sluts are very pleased with the idea, but in their evident enthusiasm and nationalistic fervour, they seem to be blissfully unaware that their utopian dream of independence will in reality lead them to the welcoming stranglehold of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and its power-crazed megalomaniac despot Emperor Jose Borracho and his half-baked henchman Hermit, who - despite claiming a soft spot for the Sluts - have no benign plans for them.

But who am I to tell them? I'm only some common-or-garden moggy...

Bogey On Down

Well - following the excitement and feeding frenzy around the Wedding of Prince Walthelm and Lady Gytha, things had started to settle down. The deferential and sycophantic slobbering of the soothsayers had started to diminish, and once again attention was turning to the Cyrenian war, where the delusional, khat-chewing psychopath O'Daffy has been getting a pasting from the combined forces of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), who are acting as military advisors and toothpicks to the raggle-taggle Cyrenian rebels.

And then the announcement came. Olaf Ladensson - the legendary Viking homicidal maniac and religious fanatic - has been killed. Really.

Olaf Ladensson was a legendary figure, whose purported aim was to win the entire civilised Anglo-Saxon world to the Norse customs, gods and the Eddas - the Nordic holy book of fairytales and heroes. A noble aim, if you like that sort of thing - but unfortunately for Olaf and his crew, the majority of Anglo-Saxons simply don't give a monkey's for their offbeat beliefs. Some of them - my own master Caedmon included - are devout Christians, who would never renounce the Gospel. Since Olaf Ladensson recognised this reality, he purportedly made it his mission to use gentle persuasion to tenderly woo the Anglo-Saxons to his beloved religion. So they tell us that he inspired his faithful and equally fanatical followers to go berserk in busy marketplaces, and kill as many Anglo-Saxons as possible. This they did - with deadly effect. They also burned buildings, causing devastation and severe loss of life.

Oddly enough, after the main atrocities attributed to this Viking had been committed, the hysteria whipped up by the politicians and the soothsayers about Olaf Ladensson gently and gradually dwindled. In the meantime, Great Security Measures were taken to intimidate ordinary travelling Anglo-Saxon folk. At every settlement they passed through, their belongings were assiduously searched for weapons - just in case they were actually Viking infiltrators on a crazy suicide mission. Everyone was now a suspect.

And suddenly, after years of silence, lo and behold! Olaf Ladensson has been found and summarily executed. And there are some elections coming up in various places. Hmmm...

If Olaf Ladensson hadn't existed, it would have been necessary for Those Who Know Best to invent him. He's been very useful figure - like Father Christmas, Elvey Preslode or - perhaps more appropriately - The Bogey Man. And now he's gone.

Time for a new one, I suspect...

Caesar Opportunity

We're half awake in a fake empire.
The National: Fake Empire (Bryce Dessner)


If I were to take on board all of the misery peddled by the soothsayers and suchlike, I'm quite sure I'd be a neurotic, gibbering kitty by now. Day after day pours forth a further torrent of gloom and despondency from the soothsayers, flavoured by all kinds of alarming developments in the world of human beings.

Cuts, Health Scares, Murders, Battles, Wars, Pestilences, Plagues, Poxes, Pizza, Tax Increases, Global Warming, Mildew and Rising Damp are all standard fare on the gloom-monger's breakfast table. And, of course, there's more of the same for lunch, tea and supper too. And how about a tasty nibble of Desolation between meals? It won't spoil your appetite. Much.

But a lively Christian faith balanced with a sense of humour and ridicule get you a long way, and they go far to help me regain a balanced perspective on the world. And when I hear about Hermit - the half-witted henchman of King Jose Borracho of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I can't help but smile. Bless his little padded jacket ;-)

It appears that the Emperor Caesar Borracho has - in his unbounded wisdom and magnanimity - wheeled Herman out for an hour or two, and even permitted him to move his mouth and to utter quasi-intelligible noises to a congregation of window-licking lackeys and soothsayers. Now, that's a very dangerous undertaking, since it's by no means predictable what the dolt is going to say. But life is full of risks, isn't it?  Just ask any out-of-work Health And Safety Administrator for details.

And Hermit hasn't disappointed. He stated that he - singlehandedly - well, with a teensy-weensy bit of help from the Franks, the Anglo-Saxons, the Jutes, the Danes, the Gauls, the Dacians, the Magyars and Uncle Tom Cobley and all - has successfully prevented O'Daffy - the chandelier-swinging psychopathic despot over Cyrene - from beating his rebellious opponents to a pulp. Not one innocent person has died as a result of the Imaginary Empire's military looting, pillaging and sacking  adventures. One more stunning triumph for the emerging Beast From The Sea - Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire). Hooray! Rejoice with me, people.

Consequently, there have been parades, flags and celebrations here in Streonaeshalch. There's been dancing and the unrestrained drinking of ale and mead in the streets; the bunting has been flapping merrily in the breeze. When I asked some half-cut Saxon youth what he was celebrating, he looked at me blankly and managed to say through slurred words that he had no idea. But everyone else was celebrating, so he was simply joining in. He then went off to disgorge the entire content of his stomach somewhere. For understandable reasons I didn't hang around.

I can't help but cheer up when I hear deluded claptrap like that. There's a saying that those whom the gods wish to destroy they make mad first; certainly Nebuchadnezzar learned that lesson from the Almighty - but he was fortunate enough to have his sanity restored. The empires of men have always been established on the same illusions and fictions used to perpetuate them. The problem is that there are always casualties resulting from their delusions of grandeur and adequacy. Sooner or later, something is going to sink its sharp, needle-like teeth into the padded posteriors of the kings, the princes, the satraps, the nobles and the hangers-on who wallow in their self-importance and feast off the ill-gotten fruits of the labours of the serfs. Its name is Reality.

Look Left, Look Riot

Monday again - and I'm pooped! It's been such a busy weekend, what with helping Caedmon to fill in the Census forms for a number of poor illiterate Streonaeshalch residents and everything. At least that's over. I managed to persuade Caedmon not to fill in the 'religion' slot on his own form. He reluctantly agrees that it makes sense. Fortunately, kittycats are exempt from filling the forms in, so I haven't had that dubious pleasure. However, I did manage to put 'Brain Surgeon' down as the occupation of one large and intellectually-challenged gentleman. I was relieved that Caedmon didn't notice - otherwise my intestines would now be gracing a stringed instrument somewhere…

Census aside, there's been such a lot going on lately. My poor little feline brain is reeling from the relentless cascade of events that have been taking place this last couple of days.

On Saturday I heard all about the Big Protest down in Yorvik, the Capital City of Northumbria. Myriads of diversity coordinators, schoolmasters, pigeon quota accountants, fish psychologists and assorted environmental administrators converged on the city, waving placards bearing unintelligible and badly-written slogans damning the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration for their brutal cuts to public expenditure. They were accompanied by assorted partisans, artisans, labourers and hangers-on from the various trade guilds (skilled and unskilled), schoolchildren, toddlers, university students (complete with with bibs and comforters) and - to everyone's surprise - representatives of the concerned gentlefolk from the leafy shires and hundreds. An uneasy alliance, I suspect.

They headed en masse for a large area of common land where people usually put horses, pigs and sheep to graze, and they were addressed in grand style by - among other tub-thumpers - Edweird the Milliner, the Dear Leader of the fly agaric-led Redistributionist Faction. What a day it was! There were celebrity luvvies, musicians and picnics, and the mead and ale flowed freely. The sound of jaws masticating the magic mushrooms broke the occasional tranquillity of the afternoon. Until Edweird spoke. And the faithful followers weren't disappointed. He loudly proclaimed that this was a fateful day, and that he was Boadicea the Briganti Warrior Queen, who was once regarded as a British heroine. As the rhetorical dams burst, he went on to  proclaim that he was a Berliner (which is a kind of Westphalian doughnut) - and the crowd roared its approval. (I wonder what flavour the jam was? My preference is strawberry.) Those mushrooms must have been wonderful, Eddy boy. How's your guts and your head today?

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Yorvik, other protests were happening. These protesters were a less sedate and civilised bunch. They were young thugs, dressed in black and waving clubs and anything they could lay their hands on. They set buildings alight, and scuffles inevitably ensued with the Municipal Costumed Thugs. These protesters were mainly zealots of the Redistributionist Workers Party - a chandelier-swinging, halfbaked offshoot from the official political faction, which has designs on a worldwide Red empire. I don't know why they name themselves as Redistributionist Workers - most of them have no idea what work actually is, as they're too busy plotting the downfall of the established order, chewing hallucinogenic fungi and drinking mead and ale at the expense of the public purse.

After the magic mushrooms wore off, the rioters were either arrested or allowed to go home with a thick ear to their anxious mothers, where a warm bowl of porridge awaited them. How nice. The poor citizens of Yorvik are picking up the pieces and tidying up the mess. Once again.

But what these imbecilic window-lickers have failed to accept is that they themselves are the reason for the financial crisis that have made the expenditure cuts necessary, since they've all been cheerfully draining the taxpayers' money on their frivolous, illusory enterprises for centuries. But I don't think they're listening. Their brains aren't wired to accept unpalatable things like facts. That's why the magic mushrooms are so popular, I suppose...

Fostering Lost To Posturing

...If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do? (Psalm 11:3)

As much as it grieves me to have to do so, I have to make a confession: I'm getting world-weary and fed up. I attribute my existential ennui to my excessive and morbid interest in the realms of human institutions and politics; there seems to be a flow of drivel coming from the Witangemot, its representatives and the soothsayers - and it's an unrelenting and toxic mixture of disinformation, dissimulation, hypocrisy and cant, with more than a fair share of random goalpost relocation. It's small wonder that humans are so apathetic about such things - unless, of course they become politicians themselves; when that happens, all sort of exciting vistas open up and the world suddenly takes on an unreal glow...

Let me give you a recent example of the cretinous world of human life in this lovely country of Northumbria. Some time ago a godly couple decided that they would like to extend their Christian charity and foster a foundling. (In our morally lax day and age, it's commonplace for loose-living young women to anonymously dump their newlyborn spawn onto the doorsteps of the Abbey or some church and expect some charitable soul to take the tiny mite in and give it a sound upbringing - if the poor bairn doesn't die first.) Since the time when the malevolent Northumbrian State was first involved, the whole process has been gradually and steadily politicised - in keeping with their idiotic social agendas. Because of this, the couple in question had been legally denied the right to foster the child they'd kindly taken to their home and hearts. Why? - Simply because they refused to compromise their Christian beliefs and principles and teach the child that it's perfectly natural and acceptable to lie, cheat, say that white is black, and wrong is right - and to pull wings off butterflies. (There are other issues that I won't go into - this is a family show...)

In other words, the Northumbrian State - ruled by our noble King Alhfrith and administered by the Witangemot government (headed up by Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief and Chief Cock and Bluebottlewasher of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance factions) hates the values from the teachings of the Bible and the Holy Catholic Church and prefers to see generations of children grow up to be as twisted as he and his friends are. They must hate the Almighty as well. That's perilous ground to be on. You don't mess with Divinity - unless you don't give a rat's ass for your eternal soul...

Oh - and by the way - the child at the heart of this controversy is only an infant...

Caedmon is deeply unhappy about this, and so are the monks. So is the Abbess Hilda - she's furious: I could hear the explosion from a mile away. I reckon that the Bishop of Jarrow is going to get his ear bent imminently...

As for me, I'd much rather it were Caedmeron at the receiving end of the Abbess' verbal lashings. I'd love to help: I have a feline friend called Leo who would love to impart the fear of the Almighty into these secularising fools...

Census Working Overtime

 

Every ten years, Anglo-Saxons are required to fill in a census form to let the Northumbrian authorities know that they’re still alive – and that they know their own names and addresses. This year is Census Year. Hooray!

This piece of imbecility was devised by previous kings so that they could keep track of their loyal and happy subjects, thus enabling them to boast to their fellow monarchs about how many people they were exploiting, oppressing and patronising.

It was decided to impose the census upon the population despite the hard lessons that King David had to learn after he’d carried out a headcount of his own Israelite people in disobedience to the specific command of the Almighty. Some king lessons are never learned…

This year, our noble King Alhfrith and his aristocratic cronies have taken the decision to extend the scope of the census questionnaire this time. Predictably, their highly-paid lackeys in the Witangemot are reassuring the public through the soothsayers that there is no reason for alarm: everything will be simple and the information supplied is guaranteed to be safe. Whatever. My pal Feaxede the fox is safe with the chickens...

For the impressive number of illiterates in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, this census poses both a threat and a farce, since there are severe financial penalties for those who don’t fill the form and submit it; the result is that those blessed with the gift of literacy are burdened with the responsibility of asking the feckless idiots the questions they’re unable to read, and then to write the entries to the form on their behalf. Needless to say, a great deal of money is to be made by enterprising scribes. I’ll be helping Caedmon out when he does his bit for the hapless. He does it out of Christian charity, so he charges nothing; despite this, he’s rewarded by substantial draughts of mead and ale from the grateful parishioners. Things can get rather interesting after a couple of home visits…

What questions are they going to ask Northumbrians this time? Well, apart from the usual name, address and number of kids guff, they’ll be asking things like:

What do you eat for breakfast? (Sheer idle curiosity. Serves no useful purpose.)

How much do you weigh? (To find out those who are fat so that they can mock and shame them)

What colour is your skin? (Silly question, since most poverty-stricken Northumbrians don’t know how to wash, so they all look a dirty brown)

How many cats do you own? Are they licensed? (To raise more money through fines)

Do you spread butter or dripping on your bread? (To find out whom to bully and lecture about eating habits)

How many horses or donkeys do you possess? (To assess the means of transportation)

Do you ride them – or use them for work purposes? (To decide which tax to levy on the animals)

Have you eaten any rabbits in the last ten years? If so, how many? (To work out the number of bunnies consumed in the Northumbrian diet)

They’re also going to ask what each person’s religion is. In the future this will enable the King - when he’s in an oppressive mood – to round up all the Edda-reading Vikings and pen them up somewhere and beat the living daylights out of them. As you can imagine, the Vikings are writing “Atheist” on their forms.

Those who write “Christian” on their census forms are likely to be marked for persecution by the aggressively irreligious, fly agaric-chewing secularist psychotics who are working hard to eradicate the Christian Faith from the public consciousness.

So, why are there so many questions on the census? There are two simple answers.

First of all, the Northumbrian State is overbearingly intrusive, and thus wants to gather as much information as possible from its people by force so that it has more means by which to intimidate, patronise and bully the people.

Secondly, to create more non-jobs for the out-of work pigeon psychologists, fish quota accountants, cat license administrators and diversity co-ordinators that have been cast into the outer darkness of unemployment by the Tree/Liberationist Alliance government. What the State takes with one hand, it gives with another. In this way, the data can be assiduously collated by the mindless slaves. Some of them will certainly go mad as a result.

I can hardly contain my excitement...

Motleyculturalism

I hardly get the chance to catch a tasty morsel of mouse before yet another piece of political imbecility reaches my ears. Caedmeron - the Supreme Allied Commander-In-Chief of the Tree-Liberationist Alliance government went to see his partners in crime politics in Westphalia – one of the continental regions of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire).

While he was there, he made a speech to the assembled window-lickers dignitaries in which he announced that multiculturalism in Northumbria has failed. As soon as these words reached my ears, I knew that they sounded familiar: only a matter of weeks beforehand, the Westphalian Senior Apparatchik had said the same thing with regard to the conditions in her own country – to the applause and adulation of the assembled knuckle-dragging hordes. Funny, that – I thought she’d been part of the problem..

What has been happening? Well, it’s apparent that for some considerable time, doors have been held wide open to the conquering hordes from Barbary, Tartary, Kievan Rus, Bulgary, Ultima Thule, darkest Anatolia and the Levant. They’ve arrived in boatloads and cartloads, bringing with them their strange hats, esoteric religions and bizarre customs. They’ve settled with others of their own communities and set up shops to sell the sloppily-butchered cuts of unknown animals with unpronounceable names. They’ve wandered in their national garb through the streets of our lovely Northumbrian towns, expressing themselves by means of guttural grunts and glottal stops. They’ve demanded the right to pursue their own foreign ways and customs (at Northumbrian public expense) without the need to assimilate themselves into mainstream Northumbrian social life. And - without so much as a challenge – the Witangemot has granted their every request. No kidding.

One consequence of this is that these influxes of foreign invaders have caused a great deal of anxiety among the aboriginal Anglo-Saxons. Even the Vikings are getting nervous about this development.

Another effect of this cultural barrage is that Anglo-Saxons are starting to ask themselves why this has been allowed to happen. Some are even wondering what it means to be Anglo-Saxon – which is quite odd really, since they were two separate cultures once upon a time..

Furthermore, this been happening elsewhere, too – hence Caedmeron’s slavish imitation of the Westphalian senior apparatchik’s address to her lackeys. To me it sounds like empty posturing designed to reassure those gullible enough to be taken in by it. For sure, nothing will ever be done. That’s politics – wind and words.

So – what’s it really all about? I asked Caedmon about it, but he had no perspective on the matter. So I spoke with Feaxede the fox; he’s a shrewd character, and he’s pretty switched on with regard to the devious ways of the theatrical business of politics. His take on it is that the Witangemots of the respective nations in the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) are being forced by the kings, moneylenders and nobles (who pay the politicians’ wages) to allow these foreign hordes to come into the various places in a bid to dilute and undermine Westphalian, Frankish and Anglo-Saxon culture; it makes it so much easier to control them when they’re suspicious of each other – and at each other’s throats.

I think Feaxede is smart to reach this conclusion; he’s obviously given the matter some thought. I hope that the Northumbrian people are as clever as he is – but I’m not holding my breath…

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 Parallel World

What's reality? - That is the question that some fly agaric-chewing sorcerers in the sacred portal of Beeby See were asking yesterday. They were talking the usual guff about parallel universes; they were telling us that our view of reality is by no means definitive; the dark arts of sorcery and the cranial somersaults of the wizards are producing strange numbers from which even more bizarre theories are now hatching. This is the kind of cleverness that strays into the fantasy land of the demented. To be honest, I wasn't taking too much notice of their ramblings; I've heard their sort of La-La Land claptrap before. Many times. In my book, reality is a cosy curl-up in front of a warm fire. It's singing feline shanties with my mates at full volume outside Beeby's mansion at dead of night. It's a mouse within striking distance of my paw - and a dish of cooked mackerel, bought fresh from the quayside of Streonaeshalch. Reality is certainly not the abstract and obscure ravings of the seers and sorcerers that Beeby See and her lickspittle friends favour so much.

Why does Beeby want to share this idiocy with us? Apart from the fact that Beeby is buddy-pal with the Witangemot, (who pay her vast numbers of groats, extracted by force from the unwilling vassals and fiefs of Northumbria), I suspect there's a more fundamental reason. It's become evident to all thinking humans beings - and to this cat - that the Northumbrian State is distancing itself from the influence of the Christian faith, which hitherto has shaped the way of life and the values of human - ahem - civilisation. I referred some time ago to a de-Christianised Christmas; this outburst of folly is to my feline reckoning just another manifestation of the same foolishness. It's also the same kind of  frothy-chops folly that Edweird the Milliner was spouting yesterday. It's an escape from the truth. The pedestrian facts, which are so boring and so wretchedly inconvenient.

In the parallel world of these overpaid fantasists, everything is moulded into contorted shapes, directed by their feverish imaginations. A bit like shamanism, I suppose. Chew the mushrooms and the special herbs, throw the bones, sing the same song for several hours and everything will look better. For a while..
Idiots.

Demockery-cy

I'm coming to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with me. While I go about my usual feline pursuits, I find that my mind goes into overdrive. Unfortunately, the turbo boost my mental process experiences doesn't serve to enhance my effectiveness in hunting and killing prey one bit - in fact it becomes a wretched distraction. Countless mice and birds have escaped my claws and teeth because of my preoccupations; the latest object of my uncontrolled ruminations has been democracy.

It's a word I often hear drip from the chops of the various Witangemot puppets who spout from the sacred portals of the soothsayers. The other day I asked Caedmon what he thought democracy was. His reply was that it was the rule of the people; it was devised by the ancient Greeks (has no one put the old gits out of their misery yet?). Now, I understand that the Northumbrian people carry with them a blissful illusion that they have a say in the way they are governed. They fondly think that their voice is heard - and that it carries some weight with the Witangemot government. They vote for their most favoured factions, who lavish them with eloquent promises about a better future, a classless and just society, greater freedom, more rewards for their labours and so on. And according to the plausibility of these promises - and the individuals who make them - they cast their lot to select their desired Witangemot representative.

As a moggy - who is able to explore various areas that aren't available to the common and garden human being - I have insights not available to the world at large. I gatecrash parties and meetings, purr contentedly around the legs of the assembled guests or delegates and eavesdrop their conversations. I amass the things I see and overhear, and cogitate incessantly until a conclusion drops into place with a deafening thud.

But this time no such thing has happened. I'm finding democracy to be a very strange idea, and this is why: people nurse the idea that Witangemot and other democratic institutions reflect the wishes and aspirations of the majority. The other day, I heard that in the Suffolk area of the land of the Angles, the people were invited by their local Witangemot to vote for the image they thought best identified what the county stood for. The loyal people of that area of the Anglian kingdom duly submitted their chosen icon, and after the deadline date, the votes were counted. The result was that the good people of Suffolk voted for a band of unkempt, unwashed and rebellious young musicians called the 'Cot Of Dirtiness'. Not my preferred choice, I'll have to admit - but that's what they voted for. Whatever floats your longship. The Witangemot leaders didn't like the choice however, so they agreed to adopt the image of a horse for their county emblem instead. So - what was that all about?

And that's not all. King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) presented the various nations with a new treaty, the acceptance of which depended on a popular vote. The people of Ireland voted against it. Fair enough, Joe boy. You can't win 'em all. So, what happened next? King Jose Borracho - Ruler in Chief and Supreme Allied Commander of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) waited until a particularly uncertain time in the Irish economy, and foisted the same vote upon them. Again. No kidding. And this time, the poor suckers voted in favour of the treaty. And now - as I write - the Irish are up to their ears in debts, poxes and innumerable calamities.

Democracy. What's it really about? Perhaps you can now understand why I don't get the picture - and why the mice are getting away...