Hoo'd Believe It?

Since my last posting I've gained the acquaintance of a new associate in the animal kingdom - or, to be more precise, in the avian realm.

I met Doctor Hoo a few nights ago while I was conducting my nocturnal patrol of my territory. His loud cry (from which I suppose his name derives) revealed that it was an owl: a rival hunter of small rodent creatures, similar to those of my own dietary preference and an educated and worldly-wise bird to boot.

Although cats and owls don't normally associate (except perhaps on rare occasions in small pea-green boats), I struck up a conversation with him, and after a short time I discovered that we actually have a great deal in common, not only being like-minded in the hunting stakes, but also taking a keen interest in the activities of the wiser human world.

Indeed, my new friend also told me that he'd recently heard from the soothsayers (whom he'd eavesdropped from various eves) that a Major Disaster and Catastrophe was going to befall the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria. Famines, wars, floods pestilences, plagues, locusts, dog breath, deep darkness, frozen wastelands, frogs, boils, bongoes and biscuit were the prognosis with which they were soothing their eager-eared audiences. Woe, thrice woe and rhubarb. I immediately reached the conclusion that this new piece of apocalyptic had all the old familiar hallmarks of the Grand Druid Moonbat - the Grand High Wizard of the Holy Mother Earth Cult and his legions of well-paid alchemist acolytes.

It would appear that Doctor Hoo was inclined to accept such prognostications at face value, so I assured him that I'd heard all of this before. I've heard prophecies concerning the Ten Plagues of Egypt and rivers of blood so many times before: if I had a fish for every one I've heard, I'd never need a dinner again. Ever.

I told Hoo not to worry; the antidote to such tales was close at hand. All that the human population have to do is to eat fifteen different types of vegetable every day, and all would be well. It's worked before...

Edweird the Weird?

On this typical Northumbrian Spring day, the Soothsayers are as ever busily reporting on the Momentous Things of life which have a bearing on the existence of the everyday common-and-garden Northumbrians.

Today we've been greeted by the message that a survey has been conducted amongst the denizens of this beautiful Realm concerning their opinion of the Great Czar-In-Waiting, the smart-talking, slow-walking, slobbering Redistributionist Faction supremo, Edweird the Milliner. In eagerly expectant anticipation and biscuit, the Northumbrian populace has been anxiously awaiting this vital piece of information, and their collective patience has been more than adequately rewarded. (Contrary to the misleading clues furnished by his family name, Eddie Boy's chosen station in life is not in fact a maker of high quality hats, helmets and headgear; his chosen profession - like that of his Tree and Liberationist peers - is aristocrat. Having seized the Redistributionist Crown from his more personable and communicative, banana-waving brother Dagwald, Eddie has been anxious to stamp his unmemorable mark on the Faction, and to assertively lead his merry band to the Promised Land of Fairydust and Fairy Shares of Poverty For All.) Good luck with that.

The Soothsayers however are reporting that the average Northumbrian man and woman in the street thinks that Eddy is rather weird, which may have some bearing on his electability when the Great Northumbrian Witangemot Selection takes place next year.

Your average Cat thinks differently, however. Having observed Eddy from afar, and listened with bated breath to the utterances from his overactive salivary glands and chops (both the news and the weather), I can state that Edweird the Milliner is not in any way bizarre, strange, idiosyncratic or even slightly odd. It's perfectly normal for a Redistributionist to dance around fairy rings of fly agaric mushrooms at night. After all, they all do it, don't they...?

De-bloat Groat Float

Your Cat would like to apologise for a lack of communication over this last few weeks; this is chiefly attributable to a catatonic (and why not dogatonic?) state of disillusionment on my part with the turgid details of human history, narrative and biscuit. Some details have been too horrible, tedious, repetitive or downright boring to comment on...

However, this feline has now been suitably re-illusioned, and with a new spring in my step, a new Spring in the air (not to mention a dodecatonic song in my heart), I'm now ready to take on the world and enthuse about new developments in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

And what better to rejoice about than the recent announcement from Oswine, the Grand Vizier and Keeper of the King's Treasury? The Momentous Announcement is that the Anglo-Saxon Groat - the staple of the Northumbrian economic system for untold millennia  - is going to be redesigned! Hooray for Oswine - and a welcome shaft of wit to cheer the heavily-laden masses! Such cheer and anticipation in boundless abandon and a bun dance.

When I shared the news - disseminated by the soothsayers in a fit of existential angst, boredom and crabcakes - with my vulpine friend Feaxede, he was positively overjoyed. As an instinctively progressive Redistributionist (despite abandoning his mother ship the Redistributionist Faction some time ago), Feaxede was excited that some measure of Change was at last coming to the Kingdom. However, apart from the fact that I have a fundamentally different ideological outlook to my foxy friend, I really can't say that I share his enthusiasm for this new development. Especially when I later discovered that the new coin of the Realm will be modelled on the diminutive Anglo-Saxon farthing, and will be adorned on one side with the jowls of Holy Empress Jose Borracho, the Mint Imperial of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an Empire). I also understand that special glass lenses will be needed in order to identify it...

Caddie’s Caledonian Cri De Coeur

News has reached this Cat from the sacred auguries of the soothsayers that Dagwald Caedmeron – the Archangel Cake-In-Chief of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration – has been on a visit to the wild and inhospitable uplands of the Caledonians.

Surprisingly, the reason of his visit hasn't merely been for recreation, rhubarb and uisge beatha; nor, it must be said, has it been to survey the rugged crags and cliffs, banks and braes in the howling rain and driving wind. This visit has been of Momentous Importance – well, at least to himself and his sycophantic window-licking acolytes. He's gone to those barbaric realms to appeal to them in the light of the forthcoming Wee Referendum Votie, the results of which will determine whether or not the Caledonians remain in the existing loose affiliation to the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

The High Chieftain of the Caledonians – Angus McTrout – has never concealed his desire to pull away his people from the benign Anglo-Saxon sphere of influence, and has tirelessly campaigned among his compatriots to persuade them of the beauty and the utter necessity of separation from the wicked Sassenachs (for whom he has the highest regard and the deepest contempt).

In spite of this posturing, many Caledonians are either ambivalent or unconvinced by the rhetoric, having realised that such a separation would spell out ruin rather than romance, since the average Northumbrian taxpayer has unwittingly helped to maintain the Caledonian Kingdom in magic mushrooms, Holy Groats, oats, boats, coats, goats and stoats. How possibly could they support themselves if the goodwill of Northumbria is withdrawn?

In view of this, Caddy Boy has ventured over the border to address the Caledonians and appeal to those of their number who are of two minds.

This Cat sincerely wishes him well, but somehow suspects that the majority of the indigenous populace won't understand a word he says – unless he affects an appropriate accent. Perhaps the uisge beatha will help; after a few bottles of it, his speech should be slurred enough to be discernible…

On The Run

I was quite intrigued to hear this morning from the soothsayers that a crocodile has been reported as having been seen loose within the Kingdom of Wessex.

For the benefit of those who are unaccustomed to the intricacies of life on these glorious islands, I must point out that crocodiles are not indigenous to the Northumbrian, Mercian or Wessex lands; indeed their own native habitat is to be found in the warm currents and sultry banks of the river Nile, along with other similarly humid regions where, in similar fashion to a Trade Guild chieftain, they indolently lounge in the sweltering heat, cheerfully tearing off the leg of a hapless passer-by for a tasty snack.

Naturally such a sighting has been greeted by a mixture of incredulity and panic by the Anglo-Saxon public; some have automatically assumed that such stories are apocryphal fancies designed to keep the gullible and malleable public in a state of fear, dread and biscuit. Others are genuinely afraid lest they should return home to their hovels to discover the creature making itself comfortable while digesting their family members.

Your Cat is quite sure that such accounts are indeed bona fide; the fact that the Slimy Yeoman has recently been deselected by his Tree Faction constituency is surely not inconsequential. After all, it's not natural to see crocodiles in trees, is it?

Strike Up The Banned

After weeks of sheer torpor from the politicos and the soothsayers, your Cat is pleased to announce a welcome break!

It's been announced that in certain shires it has been proposed by local aldermen to ban food from the lunches provided at the kindergartens. Their sustenance henceforth is to be the application of fresh, steaming supplies of dumplings of knowledge.

Breaking this new development to hosts of eagerly salivating soothsayers, the spokesman stated that this measure was being put forward in a bid to quell the unhealthy tendency of the present emerging generation to grow, which in turn necessitates a demand for even more nourishment to sustain this disturbing trend - hence a vicious spiral of supply and ever-increasing demand.

Many soothsayers decided to try to ascertain the mood of ordinary Northumbrians, and were pleasantly surprised with the responses they obtained. To a man, those who were asked for their views ventured the opinion that such measures were a Good Thing, and that the local authorities concerned were taking a responsible step to deal with this problem.

Naturally, those regional politicos who've submitted this proposal - evidently as a measure to prime the public for its intended introduction - will continue to wine and dine (at the taxpayers' expense, naturally) and to expand their own abundant waistlines.

What they've failed to anticipate is the forthcoming crimewave, when starving children are seen to break into bakeries and Viking fast food outlets to steal bread and ratburgers...

Honour Off

As we stride (or, in my case, prowl) confidently into another year, your Cat would very much like to take the opportunity to wish you all a very happy New Year in these turbulent Dark Age times. May mice ever be within your reach and fish be in your bowl!

The passing of an old year and the entrance of a new one affords Dagwald Caedmeron - the Archpalooka and Dancing Bear of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - a golden opportunity to grant awards to the more deserving members of this lovely Northumbrian realm. Each new year is invariably accompanied by the naive and childlike excitement of the soothsayers, who anxiously and endlessly speculate as to who's likely to be next to receive the highest honours that Northumbria can award its notable subjects. Without exception the resulting list of prizewinners ends up taking them by surprise.

I've just heard through my feline contact Lareow - the Rodentfinder General of Caedmeron's household - that one recipient of such an award as the Order of the Ancient Spheres is none other than Caddy Boy's personal foot groom. This particular lackey certainly deserves the honour - along with another servant whose responsibility is to tie the laces of the Great Leader's footwear (his wife - in open defiance of the terms of her marriage contract - has steadfastly refused to perform such a task for some unknown reason).

On careful consideration of this unusual award, this Cat has reached the conclusion that this honour is justifiably merited; only a minuscule percentage of the Northumbrian population would possess sufficient reserves of courage to remove the potentate's footwear without recoiling in horror, let alone scraping the hardened skin from the Great Man's heels and removing the dark and sinister deposits from beneath his toenails. Moreover, it must demand extraordinary powers of endurance to politely ask the despot where he's planning to go on his holidays, and whether or not he requires something special for the weekend.

Without doubt it's an infinitely more honourable occupation that the one his master is engaged in...