Aftermath

These are grim and grimy days, my dear readers. The Kingdom of Northumbria is recovering from the results of the Great Count, and along with the sound of incessant whining from the Redistributionists, there can also be heard the sounds of wailing in the hallowed halls of Beeby See - as well as her bitter and twisted soothsaying sister, Guardy-Ann. The shovelling of the shattered fragments of Edweird the Milliner's slab of unattainable promises into waiting carts also breaks the stony silence of  the Northumbrian air.

Since Edward the Milliner fell on his sword following the demise of his dearly departed friend Edward the Spheres - the mendacious and charmless confectioner of magic mushroom delights - the Redistributionist camp has retreated into paroxysms of grief and bitter regret. A great deal of energy has been spent on their part in the process of soul-searching, wondering why the feckless, unwashed masses who comprise the electorate have chosen Dagwald Caedmeron and the Tree Faction instead of their own hallucinogenic, hand-wringing fantasies. All manner of fantastic explanations have been proffered by their shamans as to why their confident augury promising resounding victory was false. (It has never occurred to these dear and troubled souls that the majority of Northumbrians have sufficient nous to realise that Caedmeron's leadership was an infinitely better prospect than another five years of bankruptcy, high taxation and biscuit - despite Beeby See's relentless and tiresome prognostications of evil cuts, death, doom and desolation. Bless.)

The Liberationist Faction have also suffered heavy losses, and the sight of a remaining politico from their contingent is now worthy of a crowd of excited, pointing onlookers. Nickwald the Clegge has also decided to impale himself upon his sword, thus making a lasting testimony to his dedication to his faction and their extinct principles. It's all so very sad. The Alliance Administration is no more, and requiem masses are to be held throughout the churches of the Realm. Ding dong.

Nigwald the Forager - the charismatic ale-swilling, fast-talking leader of the Northumbrian Independence Faction - has also joined the ranks of the dear departed, and has hinted that - like King Arthur of British legend - he may return from Avalon to restore the Kingdom and rescue it from its Holy Roman Empire enemies. Until then he will sleep of the just failed.

However, Caddy Boy is hardly in a position to stamp his indelible footprint on the face of the Northumbrian body politic; the heavy losses on the part of the Redistributionists have been also inflicted north of the border by the Caledonian Realm Alone Praetorian faction, headed up by their sinister high priestess, Nickwealth McSprat. These people are by no stretch of the imagination either reasonable or civilised… Caddy and his crew have their work cut out.

As for your Cat - frankly, I couldn't give a rat's raspberry. I'm hungry, and I want some fish.

Edweird the Milliner's Magnum Opus

As the day of the Northumbrian Great Count approaches, the springtime air - puncuated by the mellifluous sounds of birdsong - is being permeated with the sounds of frenetic activity. This - I might hasten to add - is not only the increased amount of rhetoric, rhubarb and biscuit proceeding from the frenzied chops of the major faction politicos, who are all desperately vying with each other for a coveted slice of the Northumbrian cake: there's another noise ringing through the air. It's the sound of hammer and chisel.

Edweird the Milliner - the High Priestess of the Redistributionist Faction - is carving his magnum opus on a stone tablet, which he desperately hopes will adorn his view of the rear garden, should he be fortunate enough to assume the mantle of Prime Politico in the next Northumbrian Administration.

Upon this stone he's carving out the plethora of magic mushroom-fuelled promises, guarantees and an assortment of fantastic objectives that he's set himself in the hope of winning over the hearts and minds of the long-suffering Northumbrian electorate. Good luck with that, Eddy. (Bless.)

In the light of the previous record of the Redistributionist Faction in bringing the Kingdom to the point of bankruptcy under the benign and cheerful tutelage of Guffmund the Brown (whose objective was to rescue the entire world from the jaws of prosperity and solvency: a mission that he successfully accomplished in cahoots with his moneylender friends), it's highly unlikely that the electorate will be sufficiently impressed to cast a decisive vote in the favour of his gawky successor. The more likely outcome will be an indecisive one, where the balance of conviction on the part of the voters will be shared among all of the competing factions, which includes the Caledonian National Faction, led by Nickwealth McSprat, the successor to their Chieftain Emeritus Angus McTrout (why do they have fish names? your Cat wonders), and Nickwald the Forager, the fast-talking, slow walking, beer-quaffing impresario of the Northumbrian Independence Faction. The Liberationists - headed by Nickwald the Clegge (why do they have names that have connotations of theft? Your Cat wonders) - are destined for blessed annihilation as a punishment for reneging on their promise not to introduce Kindergarten charges for the legions of trainee pigeon psychologists, diversity coordinators and beehive accountants . A lot of bartering will take place with Dagwald the Caedmeron to decide who shares the executive decisions.

At the very least, Edweird the Milliner's monolithic enterprise will stand as a reminder for future generations that he actually existed. More likely it'll be his epitaph. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Your Cat is as excited as the soothsayers about the forthcoming result. I'll let you into a little secret. Although I'm a mere Cat, I'm still able to cast my vote along with the humans. And in these days of moulting my winter coat in readiness for the summer months, I've already cast my vote at the feet of Dagwald Caedmeron. And I feel so much better for having done so, too.

Hildabrand's Heavy Hit

Your Cat hasn't forgotten you - despite the lack of posts lately. As befits this special season in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, I've been absorbed by the current battle being waged by the politicos for the hearts and minds of the human population of this beautiful part of the world in the run up to the forthcoming Great Count.

Feaxede the Fox - my dearest friend - has really been quite concerned for my welfare, and I've endeavoured to put his mind - as well as yours - at ease.

During this season, the aspiring factions have been vying with each other to spin tales of alarm and despondency, ruin, desolation and biscuit about their rivals in the race to the coveted seat of authority in the Witangemot assembly of the wise. In their zeal to portray their opponents as the personification of evil has required no small amount of imagination, coupled with a patronising view that the average Northumbrian is stupid and unreflective enough to be mesmerised by their propaganda and to accept it without question. Without doubt, there are those who are lazy enough to allow their preferred politicos to do their thinking for them, but these constitute a relatively small proportion of the population. The remainder simply don't give a rat's rear end.

Today, the Redistributionist Faction wheeled out one of their most formidable weapons in their warfare from the astounding assortment of luvvies who adore them and share their taste in hallucinogenic fungi. The weapon in question is Hildabrand, a corpulent female who answers to the vague description of a court jester - although her humour is a matter of considerable debate among most humans, who really can't decide among themselves whether or not it actually exists. Naturally, the Redistributionists think very highly of her, and pretend to understand her humour.

Hildabrand rose to the occasion by criticising the evil Tree Faction, and blaming them for the alleged crisis in the Northumbrian Herbalist Service, along with the well-worn, tired and tiresome suggestions that these malevolent entities have been trying by stealth to dismantle it with a view to selling it to cartels of their robber baron cronies.

On the basis of this latest manifestation of this astonishing magic mushroom-fuelled performance, your Cat will make a prediction. Edweird the Milliner - the Redistributionist Grand Mufti and intrepid Nose Explorer - will be in a different job following the Great Count...

Green and Cabbage-Looking

Your Cat - in his customary fascination with the current race for the coveted Seat Of Power in the forthcoming government - has been fascinated by the latest developments in the political climate of the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria.

Apart from the usual and traditional runners and riders - the Tree Faction, the Liberationists and the Redistributionists - there are newer political trends coming to the fore.

One of them is the Northumbrian Independence Faction, headed by the ale-swigging, charismatic and slick-talking man of the people, Nigwald the Forager, whose political group is gaining a great deal of attention by virtue of its professed concern at the burgeoning increase in the numbers of Bactrians, Phrygians, Moors, Huns, Cyrenians, Cappadocians and other exotic nationalities, whose dietary, religious and linguistic habits and traditions are at variance from the plain food, religion, manners and speech of the indigenous Northumbrians. His following is noticeably at its highest in those areas of the Kingdom located nearest to the ports, where shiploads of these foreign hordes disembark daily to find a comfortable living away from their ancestral lands. Owing to the popularity of the Northumbrian Independence Faction, the Tree, Liberationist and Redistributionist Factions and their hangers-on and camp-followers have mounted a vigorous campaign of opposition, since the Forager's followers are painting apocalyptic pictures of overcrowding and strife, and growing national groups in an increasing population compete among themselves for the services of the Northumbrian Herbalist Service and the benefits coffers. Since this doesn't mesh with their pink-and-fluffy view of brotherly harmony and biscuit, they feel under some measure of threat, and for this reason they do their utmost to paint them as a Faction of xenophobes.

However, the most surprising development is the advent of the Green Faction, led by a female citizen of the as yet undiscovered land of Antipodea called Nutty Bandit.

The Green faction - named after the legendary Green Man, a representation of the infernal Prince of Darkness - is a collection of disenchanted Redistributionists and other masticators of the hallucinogenic fungus whose principal ambition is to forbid the lighting of bonfires and the cutting down of trees in the interests of their Green goddess, Mother Earth.

These beansprout-chewing bongo players are prepared to make any sacrifices - of other people rather than themselves - in the interests of their fantasy-fuelled religion.

The Green Faction is gaining a large number of disaffected followers of the feckless Edward the Milliner, who - according to their twisted theology - is not doing enough to save the polar bears in the allegedly melting Arctic regions.

With such growing interest in this new and fanatical religion, it must be a great comport to their acolytes that their beloved leader doesn't even have a command of such pedestrian issues as facts and figures when questioned. The mushrooms are evidently doing their work...

Klaxon Call

The gripping events surrounding the forthcoming Northumbrian Great Count are unfolding before our eyes, and your Cat has been enraptured by the fascinating interplay of rhetoric, ideas and ideologies being played out to the populace through the able and completely unbiased services of Beeby See and her half-baked country cousin Guardy-Ann. For me, it's been somewhat akin to a slow-motion circus with interminable pauses between the acts for deep meditation and sleep.

However, the occasional shaft of light finds its way through the soporific gloom, and recently the developments around the career of the Jar-faced Klaxon have grabbed the attention of all Northumbrian humans.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is an entertainer under the employ of Beeby See, whose purpose is not only to soothe the public with horror stories, scaremongering, climate scams, miserable diseases and other delights, but also to entertain. This is Beeby's appointed role by Royal Decree, and her services are similar to those of King Alhfrith's court jester, but on a significantly larger scale.

The Jar-faced Klaxon is employed to take the most modern carts and chariots available and to test ride them in the most exotic places. With two henchmen who are similarly occupied, he makes his business to entertain in the most outlandish ways, and to express his thinly-veiled contempt for the conventional forms of behaviour and speech. His acts of derring-do and his opinions - which are pungent and as contrary to the pink and fluffy bias of Beeby See as is humanly possible - have won him a widespread following among the adoring Northumbrian people, and have by the same token brought him many enemies among the delicate Redistributionist flowers of the Beeby See establishment.

Thus the impasse - adored by many, and hated by a precious few. However, recent events have proved to be a gift to his detractors, since he allegedly thumped a Beeby See flunky up the bracket. Needless to say, the Jar-faced Klaxon has been removed from office.

But as you Cat writes, the predominant sounds heard in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria are the hammering of the blacksmiths, as citizens take up arms in defence of their disgraced hero...

On Your Marks

You may have observed that your Cat has maintained an eloquent silence over these last few weeks. Please accept my apology for this. My explanation (and not excuse, I might add) is that Feaxede the Fox and I have been completely mesmerised by the unfolding drama which will eventually culminate in the Great Count in the merry month of May, in which the entire Northumbrian human population – along with throngs of non-existent names in certain Redistributionist-held areas – will be casting their votes to decide the Great Administration for the next five years. The campaigning has already begun, with all the theatrical dressing up, silly hats and make-up, the carefully crafted and rehearsed speeches, and not to mention surprise epiphanies of the major Faction leaders in all sorts of unexpected places. All of this showmanship has been in the eager anticipation of swelling numbers of acolytes, admirers, devotees and window-lickers. 

Dagwald Caedmeron – the Supreme Icing Of the Tree Faction Cake – has been giving solemn warnings to his carefully selected audiences of the potential perils of an elected Redistributionist government, along with apocalyptic images of desolation, abomination, ruin, bankruptcy and biscuit. 

Edweird the Milliner, aided by his side-kick, the mendacious and well-fed Edweird the Millispheres, have been in similar fashion alerting the hand-picked hearers of the likely deprivation, abomination, ruin, poverty and biscuit if the electorate are foolish enough (perish the thought) to elect a Tree administration – with their vicious and gratuitously vindictive cuts to public expenditure. 

Nickwald the Clegge has also been visiting the various faithful congregations of his dwindling Liberationist diocese, warning of the certain perils of Tree stringency and Redistributionist profligacy with public money. 

On the other hand, Nickwald the Forager – the fast-talking, slow-walking, hard drinking Chieftain of the Northumbrian Independence Faction has been cheerfully waving two-fingered salutes to rented crowds of feckless Redistributionist hecklers and commanding adulation among his growing number of supporters. It all has been so exciting…. 

Sorry – I was just thinking about herrings. What was it I just saying…?

Wrapping It Up

Although the title of this post might convey the idea that I'm intending to pull my claws in (and the absence of recent posts would go far to nurture that idea), This is not actually the case. Your Cat has been delighted and thrilled to hear of the next hare-brained scheme planned by the Northumbrian Tree/Liberationist Administration.

Water is a commodity that is necessary to the well-being of all Northumbrian humans - as well of course as all members of the animal kingdom. Naturally, it has its own merits and demerits; the average fisherman, artisan, soldier or street trader will find little advantage in this elemental fluid if he (or she) wishes to temporarily forget about the cares, woes and worried foisted upon their shoulders by the politicos and other species of vermin. Good foaming ale - or a stout flagon of mead - is far more helpful in conveying one to the banks of the river Lethe. Furthermore, water can be potentially hazardous; it can drown the hapless individual who falls into a lake, and even when gently babbling crystal clear though the brooks of the Kingdom, it can bear toxic and brackish substances that can bring the poor drinker to death's door - or at least, seriously ill.

In view of these potential dangers (and also in a bid to protect the children), some politicos have decided that Something Must Be Done. What is proposed is that all water within the Realm should be packaged in plain wrappers. This may seem absurd, but given the intimate relationship between the politicos and certain members of the Northumbrian business community whose company they perpetually seek and nurture, this is a most creative and ingenious enterprise. The task of the operation is vast, since the storage of it in barrels and butts - not to mention its manifestation in brooks, lakes, streams and wells - is a fearsome undertaking. The task of covering up some glass bottle or jug doesn't compare with the feat of shrouding an entire lake in some bland blanket. But, as you and I will agree, it's worth it for the sake of the younger generation, who could so easily fall foul of its dangers.

And think about the benefit of the businesses who gladly agree to execute such a decision at the Administration's behest. The financial benefits are little short of miraculous. And who will be paying for all of this? Look no further than the pockets of the average Northumbrian artisan, fisherman and street trader...