Off His Tree

There's been a recent announcement by the Redistributionist Faction - headed by the Beloved Leader and Dear Father Edweird the Milliner. Hooray for the Reds! Long live the victorious Class Struggle Against Universal Prosperity, Accountability and Freedom! I'm so pleased.


Apparently, the Great Strategy that is going to be unleashed by the  Redistributionists in their never-ending war on the evil superstitions and vulgar values of the Tree Faction is that they're going to attempt to demonstrate how Dagwald Caedmeron is becoming more of an extremist - a sort of Tree monster, who beguiles innocent and gullible people with smooth, hypnotic talk and kidnaps and eats their children as a mid-morning snack when their feckless parents aren't looking. Other Tree leaders from the past have been similarly subjected to such calumnious propaganda; Hilda the Tiler - the famous Tree lady leader from many centuries back was reviled in similar fashion.


As a strategy, it's destined to be wildly successful, given the unswerving support of the most influential Redistributionist soothsayers - Beeby See and her weird, pustule-faced and poison-tongued pal Guardy-Ann. Assuming that the members of the Northumbrian public are as routinely bovine and unquestioning as ever, they'll lap up anything that these wicked messengers say, and unthinkingly assume that it's Gospel truth. And when the Redistributionist Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic (called their Jamboree because the jam comes tomorrow) takes place in a few weeks' time, the faithful will be in ecstasies. Deep joy. Yet another astonishing political triumph for Edweird the Milliner! Let's chalk it up with the other imaginary victories, children.


And so the show goes on. The Redistributionists are intensely jealous of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance, since they're now in the supreme Seat of Power - the same seat they themselves occupied for nine hundred thousand years. During that time, they established universal bankruptcy and criminalised the majority, while getting fabulously rich in the process through an intricate system of bribes and back-handers. And now they're simply desperate to spend vast amounts of money that the Northumbrian Kingdom doesn't even have, so that they can produce a formidable fighting farce of diversity co-ordinators, pigeon psychologists and cat license administrators. Every kingdom needs them, don't you know? That's what built Rome.


Considering Caedmeron has made identical noises as - and emulated the deeds of - his charming, chronically mendacious and bloodthirsty Redistributionist predecessor Tondvig the Blur, has opted for a mandatory quota of token women, Vikings and homeopaths to stand for the Witangemot, has waged a war in the hapless land of Cyrene, has enthusiastically ignored the people and contrary to public opinion has immersed the Kingdom deeper into the malevolent embrace of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire), I really fail to see the difference. And if there's no essential difference between the Trees and the Redistributionists, why do they spend such an inordinate amount of time and money (that doesn't exist) demonising the opposition who resemble them anyway? Aren't they simply demonising their own likeness? Isn't that.... rather odd?

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..

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?

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.

Berserkers and Bug-a-Boos

I was hunting mice within the blessed portals of Beeby See earlier today, when I heard yet more hilarity and cheerfulness from our beloved soothsayers: there are fresh warnings of a rash of attacks by Viking extremists in the Kingdom of Northumbria. This may be designed to coincide with the 90^th anniversary of the accession of King Alhfrith to the Northumbrian throne. Or perhaps it's the forthcoming Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman, nor an empire) Games, which are scheduled to run in Yorvik next year. Or perhaps it's simply been decided by their astrologers as a favourable time for such activity: I don't know. Whatever.

This piece of disinformation propaganda fantasy information has been published by the secretive MCD (Ministry of Cloaks and Daggers) through the services of Beeby See, Guardy-Ann, Maelstrom and others. The clinking of groats into greased palms is audible from here. Somebody is going to be dining well tonight. For me it will be fish as usual – but I'm not complaining.

But – we're constantly advised – there's absolutely nothing to worry about. Everyone is being taken care of by our wonderful Witangemot, which is the best government that money can buy. No evil will ever befall us. They are our protectors. Whatever.

Whenever I hear warnings like these, I get a déjà entendu feeling. We've had these warnings so many times before, and nothing has actually happened. Occasionally solitary Vikings have been on the rampage. They've chewed magic mushrooms, thus working themselves up into a state of high excitement; they've then run through crowds of Anglo-Saxons in public places, wielding axes and screaming like banshees. Sometimes innocent people have been killed or maimed in the process – but the offenders are usually overpowered by the costumed thugs before this has happened. When such atrocities occur, no warning precedes them - like my bowel movements when I've eaten some bad meat – they're completely unscheduled.

Most Anglo-Saxons are suspicious and wary enough about the Vikings already – without such outbursts of unwarranted violence. Their Norse religion revolves around their gods and their heroic legends from the Eddas - their sacred writings. Their fanatical devotion to their traditions is something that the Anglo-Saxon character finds difficult to comprehend.

When the soothsayers issue advance warnings about such incidents, I wonder how their mysterious sources know this. Do they have a hold on the Vikings and their demented priests? Do they have a book where such incidents are scheduled like appointments? Or is it just that they want to keep the ordinary people of Northumbria in check by keeping them in a state of anxiety? After all – it's easier to manipulate those who are already worried. You can get away with all sorts of injustices if people are too worried to notice what you're up to.

I may just be a cat, but I can smell a rat from a distance of several miles because I have a refined sense of smell. And there's a fat rat here…

Cat-echism

In view of all the foetid air that proceeds from the orifices of the Witangemot, Beeby See and the other soothsayers, it seemed fitting for me to compile a new creed or cat-echism for those who are undiscerning and gullible enough to hang on their every utterance:

I believe in fairy stories.*

I believe in the integrity, wisdom and beneficence of the Witangemot.**

I believe in the sacred right of politicians to reward themselves lavishly for their labours whenever they like. At everyone else's expense. Everyone else who is ungrateful can go hungry and get lost.

I believe in the inviolable sacredness of Taxation. It is a privilege to pay it and a Good Thing for the benefit of all.

I believe in the Divine Right of King Alhfrith and his dynasty.^

I believe that the Municipal Costumed Thugs are solely committed to pursuing the evildoers to bring them to justice. They are good people. Really. No joking.

I believe that all Vikings must be accommodated into society and their beliefs preferred accepted. At all costs. Whatever.

I believe that Christmas should be jettisoned in favour of the Viking Yultid festival - we mustn't offend them with references to the Incarnation of Christ. That would be a criminal offence.

Vikings who are zealously committed to their Edda writings and beliefs are a potent danger to Anglo-Saxon civilization, but they must be encouraged to remain in the Kingdom of Northumbria.

I believe that Elderly Ladies who allow their dogs to drop intestinally-evacuated adornments on the streets, Litter Louts and Graffiti Artists are criminals who should be dealt with most severely.

I believe the Cuts to public services are the greatest crime to humanity since the last one. Whatever that was. Pigeon psychologists are a vital asset to the economy and should be re-employed immediately.

I believe in the sense of justice and fairness of the Moots. They are not there to make money. Ever.

I believe in Santa Claus. I saw him after I chewed a Magic Mushroom last year. I swear. Honest.

I believe in man-generated Global Warming.

I believe in the honesty and impartiality of the soothsayers - most especially the respected Beeby See.

I believe that the pontifications opinions of experts and scientific sages are to be trusted above commonsense and accepted as definitive. For all time. Whatever.

Amen.

* I am reliably informed that Beeby See relies heavily on the services of fairies, so their accounts must be valid.
** The expenses scandals were merely accounting errors made by politicians under considerable pressure.
^ I don't know if he has a left - I haven't looked.

Climate Conference Apprentice

I hear that one silver-haired member of the Witangemot Supreme Governing Council - a certain Húne - known as 'Horehound' - has been to some exotic location in Ultima Thule for an expensive drunken orgy conference dedicated to the eradication of Global Warming. For the benefit of the readers who might be blissfully unaware of this matter - this is a scare-story put about by soothsayers like Beeby See and the Witangemot which has been designed to frighten the public with apocalyptic stories of sea levels rising and enveloping poor frightened little polar bears. This - so they tell us - is because human beings have been lighting too many home fires and bonfires; blacksmiths and potters are particularly guilty of this, owing to their need for fires in their kilns and forges. The net result of this is that the amount of soot and other noxious gases released into the atmosphere is causing the temperature of the earth to increase. Whatever.

As I look out on this frosty landscape here in Streonaeshalch, I can't see for the life of me what they mean. I'm sure that there must be some reasonable justification for this story, but since the puddles here are frozen solid, the cattle troughs are full of ice and nobody ventures out into the freezing cold unless really necessary, I'm at a loss to see why they are so confidently asserting this. Since it comes from Beeby See and the Witangemot, it must be based on fantasy. The desired outcome for the political and soothsaying illusionists who put on stage plays for the unreflective members of the population is - wait for it - Money! They will raise lots of money by imposing additional taxes, leaving a population in poverty - and in fear of their lives should they be tempted to light a fire on a winter's day. I know how it works. Whatever.

I've been watching the entertainment known as 'The Apprentice' lately. Last night was the Final, when Father Simon the Cowl Aellan the Sugardaddy chooses between the two remaining contestants for the coveted prize of a place in his workshop. I would dearly love to get Húne and his other fairy-tale spinners into Egbert's pottery, coat them in glaze and shove them into his kiln - and shout, 'You're Fired!' Caedmon thinks that's very unChristian of me - but I keep telling him that's what happened to Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-Nego in the Book Of Daniel. I suppose Leo's cage is an alternative. Daniel knew about that, didn't he?

Trading Places

Beeby See and the other soothsayers have been relentlessly turning the handle; the usual litany of doom-and-gloom about Witangemot-directed cuts - and the apocalyptic desolation they're naturally bound to cause - is the standard diet the Northumbrian people are being fed - along with yet more alarmist stories about the forthcoming freeze. Yet more global warming is on its way by courtesy of the Arctic.
For my part, I simply couldn't care less; there are times when I must confess, I find human business tedious and simply.. well, boring. As a domestic moggy, I shouldn't even be occupying myself with the concerns of humans - and the streams of nonsense and bull business that accompanies the matters of politics and soothsaying. I can see the cant, the posturing, the treachery and the insincerity for what it is, and I know (unlike most of the human beings here) that it's all an elaborate stage show, meticulously organised to occupy and preoccupy the majority - and furnish them with the illusion that the Witangemot are their dearest friends, paying excessive taxes is their privilege, and that as subjects of the Northumbrian Kingdom, they have some democratic control over their governance and their own lives. Whatever. I could cheerfully spend all my time wandering around the fields and the cliffs that overlook the North Sea, hunting mice and birds - and hanging out with Leo and my smaller feline buddies. I don't really need this human biz.
Nevertheless, there's usually just enough of this nonsense to provide a glimmer of amusement. The other day, Edweard The Milliner - the Dear Leader of the Redistributionist (Red) faction and leader of King Alhfrith's Loyal Opposition - publicly invited any disaffected members of the Liberationist faction to join the Reds. Caedmeron - the Most High Autocrat of the Trees (and Pre-Eminent Minister of the Witangemot Supreme General Council) invited disaffected Reds to join the new 'progressive' Tree faction. Clegge - the Cheer Leader of the Liberationists and Deputy Pre-Eminent Minister of the Witangemot Supreme General Council - invited disaffected Trees to join the Liberationist cause (whatever that actually is). As a result, there was a remarkable scene in the Witangemot, whereby disaffected Liberationists left their seats to join their Red brethren on the opposite site of the Witangemot, disaffected Reds deserted the ranks and moved over to the Tree faction, and disaffected Trees moved over to the Red rabble on the opposite side. The soothsayers warbled on about it for hours; it was great business for them. When I heard that this was happening, I suggested to Caedmon that they should carry out this process to the accompaniment of music - and remove a seat when the music stops. If that were done on a regular basis, the Northumbrian financial deficit could be halved, since there would be fewer politicians to draw salaries and their lavish expenses. He wasn't impressed - but I have no idea why. It sounds perfectly sensible to me - and it would make Witangemot more relevant  entertaining for the masses.
I'm going over to see Simon the Cowl and suggest it to him. I'm sure he'll love the idea, since he'll get the royalties from the music.

Wintry Discontent

The cold spell continues apace with temperatures plummeting. It's all good industry for Beeby See and the other soothsayers, who are telling us that this is the worst winter we've had - at least since the last one.

One thing that causes a great deal of complaint is the roads. They're usually gritted with salt, so that the horses and carts can pass through without difficulty - thus allowing the business of trade to continue. In the previous winter however, the various local towns and villages were caught out by an extended cold snap and ran out of their salt supplies before the winter was over. The furore from the public was understandable, and local aldermen were upbraided for their sloppy management. This year the local municipalities have been prepared; vast quantities of salt have been brought through the year by pack mules from Cheshire, and stockpiled for the snow. Though this is the case, most of the roads are still not gritted, and carts are getting stuck on glass-like ice patches - much to the annoyance of the travellers. The aldermen are doing what local officials always do - denying that there is a problem. We have plenty of salt. All roads are being regularly gritted. Services are able to continue without let nor hindrance. Whatever.

I'm only a cat, and we don't normally take an interest in the affairs of human beings, but for some reason I was born with an extra degree of inquisitiveness, and I can spot bull turds when I see and smell them. Things are not running smoothly any more. I've noticed it in the limited span of feline years I've already had - and the ordinary working people also know it. The old men who drink mead and play dominoes are forever lamenting the passing of better days. And I know that this isn't merely a longing for the 'good old days.' Things are getting worse - I can feel it in my water. But the illusionists are doing their utmost to reassure us that things are getting better all the time.

Why is it getting worse? I have a sneaking suspicion that the nobles and the big money men are behind it. They pay for the Witangemot puppet show, where displays of theatrical behaviour are put on to entertain the doltish masses - and to perpetuate the illusion that there is something happening and that they have the peoples' interests at heart. The soothsayers are being paid handsomely to entertain the people with lies, distractions and scare stories.

When I wander out to take the air, I see the children, excitedly sliding on the ice. That's what's happening here: Northumbria is on the slide. Downwards. And I know why - but nobody (except Caedmon) believes me; after all, I'm only a cat. What do we know?

Snow Business like Show Business

Since I last posted, a thick blanket of snow has descended upon Streonaeshalch, and the countenance of the entire landscape has changed. Even St Hilda's Abbey looks beautiful on the top of the cliff, and the monks are wearing habits of heavier grade wool to keep themselves warm. The soothsayers are talking as if they've never seen snow before, and the prognosticators are telling us that this cold spell will stay with us for another week at least - but it might stay for the rest of the year. Apparently it's because of global warming - humans have been burning too may bonfires, and the resulting generation of smoke is altering the temperature of the climate. Whatever. Naturally, we're being regaled by the customary tales of woe: schools closed down, people trapped in their homes under several feet of snowdrifts, the stiff corpses of frozen stoats and badgers, businesses that have been bankrupted because of lost trade - all the usual stuff. It keeps the soothsayers busy - and entertains those who are dumb enough to hang onto their every word.

Another great disaster is the disclosure of many hitherto secret conversations between representatives of the kingdoms of the Northumbrians, the Mercians, the people of Wessex, the East Angles and the Jutes. If we're to believe what the soothsayers are so authoritatively telling us, the transcripts of all kinds of conversations between their politicians have been revealed to all and sundry. The resulting embarrassment of those dignitaries whose private conversations and correspondence have been disclosed is presented to us as tasty morsels of delightful gossip. For example, one senior Danish administrator in the Mercian Danegeld referred to the eldest daughter of the King of Wessex as a 'slapper' - much to everyone's amusement. The soothsayers have told us with a straight face that this could well occasion an international incident, and blacksmiths are being advised to beat ploughshares into swords in preparation for the coming Armageddon. I asked Caedmon what a 'slapper' was - but he wouldn't tell me. He's such a sobersides at times - I'll try to remember to ask him again when he's had another cheeky mead. I promise not to drop dead from the passive drinking fumes.

Are these disclosure stories true? The jury's out, but I'm pretty sure that it's just fodder to entertain and preoccupy the masses; after all - who pays the soothsayers and keeps them in a job? As for the real entertainment business - the Waggoner and the Weasel have been summarily dismissed from The Ð Factor'. That's good enough for me.

The Great Passive Danger

The soothsayers - and those who pay them to talk their addled drivel - have been at it again. They've recently announced that hundreds of thousands of people are dying as a result of passive drinking.

For the sake of those who don't quite understand this, I'll explain. The imbibing of alcoholic refreshments is a pastime that has been part of human life since the dawn of time; even the ancient Egyptians brewed ale as they built the Pyramids and flogged their slaves. Even squirrels, sheep and rabbits like to nibble at the occasional fermented apple and get a bit jolly; it makes life more enjoyable - well, at least until the morning after. I laughed myself silly when I saw a hung-over goat with his horns stuck in a tree trunk after a drunken session the other day. Cats like myself don't bother with such things; we just like to get stoned on catmint. Mmmmm - I'll hold that thought...

The problem is that once people have had a sip or two of ale or mead, their breath starts to exude alcoholic fumes. I can always tell when Caedmon has partaken of a cheeky mead or two; when he gets home he lavishes me with more than the customary attention, and tends to be a little more uninhibited and noisy in his conversation, and the fumes fill the room. I haven't told the Abbess Hilda about this. She would be most displeased.

So, what's so sinister about alcohol fumes, you might ask? If the soothsayers and their sources are correct, these vapours have a deleterious effect on those who share the same atmosphere as the drinkers. Since alcohol is a toxin which is lethal and severely addictive, people are taking ill and dying. They're dropping like flies. On the streets. Every day. The gravediggers are having to work overtime, and the priests are being run ragged because of the relentless number of last rites they have to administer - and the subsequent funeral masses they have to take.

I wandered through Streonaeshalch earlier, and I must say I haven't stumbled across a human corpse yet. I'd have expected to have seen heaps of them by now - if the soothsayers' accounts are to be taken at face value.

I went to see Leo to ask his opinion about it. Leo is a new friend I met while I was wandering around the home of one of the wealthy nobles a few weeks ago. He's a cat - but he's enormous, and he has a shaggy mane. He's kept in an enormous cage, and his owner feeds him sides of raw meat. Lucky thing. He's a nice fellow, but his breath smells positively awful. And I don't get too close - even though we're in the same branch of the animal kingdom; he can get rather enthusiastic with his huge paws and teeth.

When I told him what I heard, he said it was news to him. But if I could help him get out of his cage, he'd happily go to town and take a look; if there were any dead bodies, he would gladly help clear them up. I really believe that he would as well.

I thought better of Leo's suggestion, however. I feel sorry for him because unlike me, he isn't free to roam as he pleases, but somehow, I don't think it would be a good idea to let him loose - except perhaps in the house of Beeby See and the other soothsayers who talk such guff. I'll have a think about that...

The One-Eyed Viking Viper

I have to admit it - I'm flummoxed, despite the fact that my feline eyes have been opened to that bizarre human charade called 'politics'.

It hasn't taken me too long to work out that the 3-faction system in the Witangemot was created by the wealthy nobles to make the gullible Anglo-Saxon majority think that they're actually participating in the day-to-day running of the Northumbrian kingdom. That's straightforward enough - even a missing lynx could work that out.

I've also figured out that the hidden rulers are perfectly happy to use all kinds of tricks to keep the majority of people in a state of uncertainty; the financial cutbacks and the terror threat from the Viking hordes are sufficient to keep the people preoccupied with illusionary crises rather than thinking about how they can make things better for themselves. They also resort to using entertainments like 'The Ð Factor' to keep the people distracted; it's the old Roman 'bread and circuses' trick that Caedmon told me about. All this makes perfect sense to me.

So why am I so puzzled? Well, it all started with a troublesome Viking priest who settled here in Northumbria some years ago. He sailed the sea from Norway and married one of the local Anglo-Saxon girls. As he settled in to life on this side of the North Sea, he started to cause trouble among members of the Viking community over here. Vikings are very zealous for their old Norse gods and legends, and at present, very few of them have adopted the Christian faith of the Anglo-Saxons. While there are minor rumblings of resentment by the local Anglo-Saxon people about them, most local people are quite happy to let them follow their ancestral religion - as long as they don't try to enforce it on the host community. But there are small factions among the Vikings who believe that it is their responsibility before Odin to bring the entire world under the yoke of the Valhalla religion, and this particular man has been very much at the heart of this. He has been thrown out of his religious community and subsequently has set up his own, and is surrounded with a coterie of wild-eyed fly agaric-munching followers. They breathe fire and slaughter against all the Christian Anglo-Saxons, and their rhetoric is as high as the midden dump in midsummer.

He's a strange man; for a start, his name is Erik Bloodhook, which is weird enough as it is. He has a long black beard and only has one hand and one eye; his missing hand is replaced by a sharp hook - hence his name. Legend has it - according to the soothsayers - that he lost his sight and his hand in a bloody battle with the Bulgars, but I've heard that his hand was actually removed by executioners as a punishment for theft of ladies' undergarments from washing lines. Those Vikings are known to dispense rough justice.

Erik has been renowned as an orator among his friends, and he frequently whips them up into a state of religious fervour by his fiery rhetoric. I'm sure that the sacred mushroom and mead have their part to play in this, but they would strenuously deny this. The consequence of his ravings is that young Vikings are inspired by him to take violent action against the Anglo-Saxons, who they refer to as 'infidels'. Boats were burned at quaysides, and various houses were torched in the name of Odin, Loki at alia.

The local authorities decided that he was too much of a nuisance, and so they seized him and threw him into a prison cell. They decided to strip him of his adopted Northumbrian nationality and send him back to Norway in a longboat. The problem was that the Norwegian Vikings didn't want him either, so he has to remain over here - where he can continue his religious ravings unhindered.

What puzzles me is why the Northumbrian authorities have let him get away with his rabble-rousing and bloodthirsty rhetoric for so long. They could have solved the problem a long time ago – but they didn’t. I’m forced to the conclusion that they need him – and his kind – to provide them with some excuse to  get away with things they couldn’t otherwise do. I’ll watch with interest…

The Cat's Unanswered Question

I've given a lot of thought to the business of the Witangemot here in Northumbria. For a start, I'm very suspicious about it, because my feline intuition tells me that all isn't quite what it appears. Although there are 3 main factions who supposedly represent the people, I have a sneaking suspicion that they're all controlled by the same hidden rulers. When I overheard those 2 wealthy nobles in the wood talking about '..divide and rule', that confirmed my suspicions.

I realise that I don't have the intellect of a human, but we cats are shrewd, and we like to weigh things up. So - I ask myself: what exactly is government for?

As far as I can see, it exists to serve the interests of those who really run the show - which is the wealthy nobility. They handsomely pay for all kinds of perks that the Witangemot rulers seem to enjoy.

It also appears to exist to spread alarm and panic whenever appropriate, by means of the many soothsayers who seem to enjoy similar favours and prosperity to the rulers. This has the effect of keeping the ordinary Anglo-Saxons in a continual state of anxiety about their livelihood, money - and those terrible Viking infidels, who pose a clear threat to our way of life if they invade our shores in great numbers.

It also loves to control the people and order them about by means of petty rules it imposes on the people in the Kingdom. Since they're already anxious, they readily comply with and accept whatever the Witangemot and the soothsayers tell them.

It loves to extract money from the people through excessive taxation - which it then uses to spend on lavish entertainments and employment for its friends and hangers-on and pointless projects and committees.

What benefit is the Witangemot to the people? Caedmon says that it exists to restrain evil, maintain order and ensure that evildoers are appropriately punished. But I don't like to tell him that from my own perspective, they seem to make it their business to do the exact opposite. They seem to reward the scoundrels, and make life burdensome and unpredictable for the law-abiding.

Perhaps I'm missing something. But then... am I?

The Great Terror

Although I'm only a cat, I've come to realise that those who really rule this Northumbrian kingdom behind the facade of the Witangemot and the 3 factions are more than happy to use scaremongering tactics to keep the Anglo-Saxon people worried and distracted.

As I've mentioned before, the Vikings are often held up as a threat to our Anglo-Saxon and Christian way of life. They have entirely different values from us, and they worship a foreign god; their religion dominates their entire way of life. They are reputedly ruthless in battle, despite the fact that they wage their warfare in the name of a supposedly compassionate deity called Odin - who seems to rely on them to do his dirty work for him. We have a few communities of Vikings already here in Northumbria, and they're generally very industrious, polite and quiet. I met one of their cats once - he was a friendly fellow once he withdrew his claws from my face.

The other day, some wreckage was found on the beach a few miles up the coast from here; the remains of Viking weapons and ship's timbers were found by a young man as he walked on the beach. Immediately there was uproar, as the word was passed around by the soothsayers - who are renowned for their loyalty to their mysterious paymasters. With one voice they immediately told the Northumbrian people that this was a portent of a great invasion, and that great courage and vigilance was needed by all. Consequently the ordinary folk are in a perpetual state of agitation, and the consumption of mead has risen sharply. (By the way, the soothsayers have also lately told the people that mead and ale are severely dangerous and destructive, so it's safe to predict that the price is going to increase within a few weeks.)

Caedmon told me that he's seen it all before; he and the monks at the Abbey aren't too concerned. He says that even if the Vikings do eventually come in force and take our land, the Lord God is in control - and they'll only do what He permits them according to His sovereign will. He also thinks that if they do come, it will be God's way of disciplining the Christian church and the Anglo-Saxon people.

He's probably right (he usually is), but for my part I haven't forgotten those 3 words of those nobles I heard in the forest: "..divide and rule.." Maybe the Vikings will eventually invade us; there are lots of stories from all over the place of raids and incursions into our territory. If they do arrive, I hope they deal with those duplicitous people who really run the show around here and give them a good hiding. I think they deserve it.