Taming The Beast

It's taken me quite a long time to summon up the courage to make the following admission, and right now I feel it's time to come clean. My Christian education from my human master Caedmeron has developed within me a keen sense of conscience – a quality which should really be confined solely to the human race (after all, they're responsible for the wretched Fall which has unleashed all the fleas, flies, famines, fevers and feebleness of the Present Order of Things). Whatever. I am where I find myself.

It all happened a few months ago, when I was having a cat-to-cat chat with my good friend Lareow – the Senior Rodent Administrator in the household of Dagwald Caedmeron, the Most High and Mighty Mufti of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. I do like to keep in regular touch with my feline friend, as he passes on some very useful titbits of information about the goings-on in the dizzy heights of Northumbrian power. And he's such a gossip – and a wag!

He told me on that particular day that he'd been present at a meeting between Caedmeron, Blaeck Clegge (the Liberationist Faction Supremo and Pretty Boy) and Edweird the Milliner, the Holy Guiding Star of the Redistributionist Faction. When I heard this, I was very surprised; I'd no idea that such a rapport existed between such seeming adversaries as the Caddy Boy/Clegge Alliance and the magic mushroom-chewing Redistributionist cult. But it seems that it does. Whatever. They'd been discussing among themselves as to how they could control the Soothsaying Industry – specifically those under the patronage of the ubiquitous Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach - and oblige them to behave themselves, thus preventing further dark revelations about the thieving antics of expense-inventing politicos and other worthless specimens of human detritus. It appears that these three political leaders couldn't agree how to go about the process. How terribly sad.

I stopped and thought for a moment after Lareow had told me this, and, with tongue firmly in cheek, I made the following helpful suggestions:

They should secretly set up a pseudo lobby called 'Browned Off' (named after the colour of the substance that's been scattered so liberally by Prince Rupie's soothsayers over certain miscreants); this group could comprise various members of the celebrity riff-raff and hangers-on who've already been exposed to be cheats, rats and other forms of pond life; surely they'd be willing to give generously in support of the Great Cause of Rupie Control. Lareow looked very intently at me when I told him this.

I then suggested that they should feed the Big Idea of Rupie Control to the Kingdom's beloved pantomime dame and soothsayer Beeby See – and her embittered bosom pals Guardy-Ann and the Windy Pedant; there's no love lost between them and Rupie, and anything that makes them feel even more superior and self-righteous must be a Good Thing. They could play to the heartstrings of the average knuckle-dragging Northumbrian, and they'd shake the issue about for months like a demented terrier, and they'd work it to the point of public nausea. Snigger.

I further suggested that following such exposure of these wonderful and exemplary soothsayers (whose impartial partiality is beyond question), unreflective members of the Northumbrian populace should be carefully screened and selected for their own considered opinions, and the words 'disgusting' and 'shouldn't be allowed' should be listened out for – and encouraged it possible; thus a Groundswell of Public Opinion could be manufactured. A few statistics wouldn't come amiss either. They never fail.

And finally, I suggested to Lareow that they eventually bring the matter up for debate in the Witangemot; by the time it reached there, the public would be desperate to hear about something different, the issue would be cut and dried, and the three members of the infernal trinity could feel very pleased with the outcome – in fact, they could award themselves a huge pay rise and a pat on the back from King Alhftith. Sorted.

How was I to know that my flippant remarks would be relayed by Lareow to the ready lugs of these purveyors of foolishness?

If anyone has put a bounty on my head or tail as a result of this, I ought to point out that I'm not the only white cat in the Northumbrian kingdom – there are thousands of us, and we're breeding like bunnies every day. Must go – I've got some urgent business to attend to. Ta-ta!

Time Out

Things are getting very interesting here in the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria - if I've heard my friend Feaxede the Fox correctly. And to be sure, we've desperately needed some degree of excitement to dispel the turgid vapours that have enveloped us; the same tired old stories have been swilling around the same soothsayers' slop bucket for ages now, and a miasma of ennui has consequently hung over the Kingdom, augmenting the public gloom and pessimism which has been inspired by the Great Public Expenditure Cuts. And the Ð Factor doesn't start for ages, either...

But now we can rejoice! Fresh fragrant breezes have dispersed the noxious fog, bringing a sense of excitement and eager anticipation among the members of the Northumbrian human population. If - as I've already stated before - Feaxede has informed me correctly. Of course it's a given that one should never set too much store by a solitary source of information; it's always wise to wait until the account has been corroborated from another before daring to circulate the account. But the truth is that we've all been so desperate for interesting news, and like hungry rats fighting over a biscuit, we're glad to seize any form of consolation. Besides which, the soothsayers are no more reliable informers than my vulpine companion, and I'd even venture to suggest that he's more dependable, for the soothsayers have a specific narrative within which they must communicate, and all the tales they tell are obliged to be shoehorned into it - whether factual or imagined. Feaxede is not thereby constrained.

When the entire Northumbrian government emerges from their spell in the oubliette for their misdemeanours of mendacity and crookedness (as well as contempt for the pure, unvarnished truth), what are they going to find? Who's going to run the show in their absence? Oooh, it's all so exciting! If, that is.. I understand Feaxede correctly..

Out Of The Shadows

At last - the quest is over! After weeks of fruitless searching for the seemingly extinct Liberationist species of quasi-human politico, I'm gratified to announce that - contrary to my previous belief that they'd all been wiped out by the ubiquitous Stupid Disease – Liberationists have recently been sighted in the Beastleigh district of the South Saxons.

 

This exciting development came to light this morning when it was announced simultaneously by the beloved Northumbrian soothsayers Beeby See, Guardy-Ann, Dellimell and the Windy Pedant that the winning contender for the seat that previously had been held by the disgraced and now oubliette-dwelling Hune the Horehound was a previously undiscovered Liberationist. Hooray! Life is full of surprises, children. How exciting!

 

But a little bird told me (before I unsuccessfully attempted to stalk him) that the townspeople of that particular settlement have a peculiar and inexplicable predisposition to support the Liberationist cause; any person, animal or biscuit sporting the bilious Liberationist colours in that place is guaranteed to be voted a seat in the House Of Folly. It's also come to my notice that the contender for the Beastleigh seat was of a simian persuasion. Loyalty – like love – is hopelessly blind.

 

As for the result – every participating faction has predictably claimed an astonishing victory. The Tree Faction contender was the proud holder of the fourth place in the final result; having lost his deposit of three acres of prime smallholding and a herd of sheep, he was consoled by Dagwald Caedmeron – the Beloved Bey of the Tree Faction – that their result was a ringing endorsement for the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration. This unctuous outpouring of self-congratulation was founded on a misunderstanding, since the Trees and Liberationists were in bitter contention for the coveted seat.

 

Liberationists who'd suddenly and inexplicably emerged from the mists of oblivion, extinction and obscurity naturally claimed a momentous victory for their champion, who victoriously screeched, jumped up and down, chewed bananas and flung free samples of his colonic offerings at the adoring crowd. Hip, hip, hooray!

 

The Redistributionists – under the inspired leadership of their own Chief Primate Edweird the Milliner – claimed an astonishing victory for themselves, as the result had been a ringing indictment of the accursed Tree Faction. The ways in which humans seek consolation are many, varied and extremely bizarre.

 

Without doubt the most significant success was for the Northumbrian Independence Faction, whose second place came from those Beastleigh citizens who are mildly disappointed, disillusioned, sick and tired of the loving stranglehold and constant interference of the Holy Roman Empire (which is neither holy, Roman nor an empire) and its lickspittle lackeys.

 

Overall, everyone is happy. But this Cat has come to realize that most people are easily pleased. For at least fifteen nanoseconds, at any rate..

The Quest Of The Cat

I'm very sorry that I haven't written from the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria recently. My only explanation (and you must take it or leave it, according to your inclination) is that your Cat has been on a Special Hunting Expedition. Not, I might hasten to add, the usual quarry of small rodents and birds, but for a rather special species of creature known to inhabit the rare wastelands of the Northumbrian political system. Yes, I've been hunting for Liberationists. So far, my quest has been fruitless. It's been a complete waste of time.

To refresh your memory, dear reader, I must explain that Liberationists are relatively uncommon political animals that are reputed to resemble human beings; they exert a disproportionate amount of influence over the Administration which currently supervises the tyranny of the long-suffering Northumbrian taxpaying electorate. One of the great and unresolved mysteries of the human world is what these creatures actually do - and by which principles they operate.

Ever since their beloved tribal chieftain Blaeck Legge conveniently forgot his solemn vow and undertaking before the Northumbrian populace to resist any increases in kindergarten fees, thus throwing his lot wholeheartedly with the Tree Faction, the Liberationist cause has suffered inestimable damage to its already nonexistent credibility. Whereas many Northumbrians out of boredom, disillusionment, desperation and biscuit had previously opined that a Liberationist Faction Administration might provide an infinitely better one than the tired dichotomy of the Redistributionist/Tree seesaw, it only took about thirty milliseconds for such expectations to evaporate. From that time hence, things for the Liberationists have accelerated from bad to irrevocably hopeless.

In view of Hune the Horehound's recent lapse from grace to the loving embrace of a Northumbrian oubliette (where he rubs shoulders with less refined criminals as well as elderly ladies who've been incarecerated for - horribile dictu - allowing their pet dogs to deposit their brown hundreds and thousands on the streets of the Realm), one might reasonable expect the Liberationists to take a low profile. Coupled with the unpleasantly priapic stories surrounding the corpulent Earl Renege - reputed to have been a devotee disciple of the late and sadly unlamented Beeby See protege Ine Sovile, these events have hardly been good news. But the Horehound's Beastleigh seat in the Witangemot is now up for grabs, so one might naively expect that the Liberationists might unite in a common cause to fly their banner and hold the seat.

However, so far their voice has been ominously silent. Feaxede the Fox has told me that he believes that they've been hunted to extinction, and has promised to take me to the place where their bones are scattered. I'm rather doubtful about his hypothesis; he's an expert on chicken bones, but that's about the extent of his understanding. My inclination is to believe that they've succumbed to a new and virulent strain of the Stupid Disease. And I reckon the Trees and Redistributionists are prime candidates for the next infection..

Cat Nap

A Post from the Catmeister

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise for the infrequency of postings recently; last week I was on holiday in the Beautiful Land, and I have to confess that it was a blessed relief not to have to listen to the incessant and tedious burblings of the British propaganda machine and the inevitable political posturing. I returned to find - surprisingly enough - that the same obsessions with horse meat are being paraded as they were before I departed these shores over a week ago. 

I still find it amazing that so many people around the globe are reading these acerbic rants, and this feeds me with a feeling of responsibility to 'keep the customers satisfied'; I'm sorry if I've been found wanting in this respect. There are times when I become so saturated with ennui with all the predictable guff spewed out by the mainstream media that my sense of humour runs into the last crumbs of emergency rations. Nevertheless, I've no intention to abandon the blog, although I'm realistic enough to recognise that it will never attract the volume of readers that Guido Fawkes, Cranmer, Anna Raccoon and Nourishing Obscurity do, as it serves quite a different purpose. Sometimes we simply have to laugh at the absurdity of our culture and its leading actors. Even so, I'm more than grateful for the loyal audience I have! Thank you.

I noticed this morning that the page-view total has now exceeded 20,000 - a figure which I would never imagined when I started the blog - from over 6,000 visitors. Some have been trawling the archives to seek out stale crumbs from past news. If it still raises a chuckle, I'm very happy that it does.

DAF

Brown Field Sighting

The entire Northumbrian Kingdom has been buzzing with excitement, euphoria, hype and biscuit since the Great Significant Announcement Of The Century was made the other day. I hasten to add that this is not the news about His Holiness, the Most High Archbishop Húne, the former Tree/Liberationist Alliance Politburo Climate Commissar, exotic dancer and professional Jehu charioteer (at taxpayers' expense, of course) - affectionately referred to as 'Horehound', who was (surprisingly) discovered to have been dishonest, mendacious and duplicitous before the Great Moot (in other words, his credentials as a politico were paraded before an astonished public). No, my readers, no: I refer to the amazing discovery of Guffmund the Brown - that legendary Redistributionist sovereign, who in his day led the Kingdom of Northumbria into unparalleled success, and single-handedly rescued the Entire Known World from the ravages of solvency.

Since his sudden demise, Guffo's whereabouts has been the source of endless idle speculation, puzzlement, wonder and fishpaste, and many schoolchildren have written doctoral theses on the subject. It's as if he'd been translated like the early patriarch Enoch into some other sphere of existence.

However, thanks to the tireless labours of the Guffmund the Brown Society, who've been anxious to rewrite history in order to portray their hero in an entirely different light from that of public consciousness, Guffo's remains were discovered under a field used as a tethering place for mules, donkeys and carthorses in the city of Leire's Chester.

After exhaustive investigations, the bones were confirmed to be those of the missing politico. Bells were rung, banners were furled, parties were thrown and caught and masses were celebrated.

Nobody has as yet explained how he got there, though. But this Cat observes that Tondvig the Blur - Guffo's contemporary and silver-tongued colleague has recently disappeared. I wonder if these two factors are related?

Aiding And Abetting

The question, 'What has Dagwald Caedmeron - the Principal Primate of the Tree/Liberationist Alliance Administration - has been up to lately?' might easily have slipped into your mind from time to time. Such an enquiry hasn't entered my feline consciousness until recently; I've been more engrossed with my own world of hunting, gathering and defending my own realm. After all, Caddy Boy's been quite content to do what all politicos do, which is to steadfastly ignore the voices of his long suffering public - not to mention the more moderate and restrained tendencies within his own Tree Faction.

Ever since the Cad has set his face resolutely towards the deeply unpopular course of Free Votes And Cake For Homeopathic Prisoners (backed by the abundance of the Northumbrian taxpayer, of course) as well as foreign adventures in Mauritania with the Franks, he's managed to bathe himself in the fathomless depths of public hostility, resentment and biscuit. Oblivious to the contempt which now surrounds him like a thickly woven blanket, Caddy has once more launched his energies into other unpopular policies.

This time he's decided to give a Speech about the Northumbrian aid to the Poor and Uncivilised Foreigners. I should point out that this isn't anything new; for eons the Northumbrian Realm - out of the goodness of its heart - has seen fit to donate Holy Groats to the causes of the Needy in Other Lands from its tax-funded Treasury. This is only to be expected from a Christian kingdom, where the virtues of charity and compassion towards the poor and vulnerable have been cultivated and encouraged by the teachings of the Church. However, the reality is somewhat different, since most of the boundless resources of taxpayers' Holy Groats haven't ever reached the intended areas of need, but instead have ended up in the treasure chests of exotic brigands, thieves and other assorted Redistributionists, who've proceeded to spread the financial happiness liberally over their own pet projects, weaponry and luxurious dwellings while their own people have continued to languish under the cruel yoke of poverty and hardship.

This is an unpleasant reality which is accepted as fact by the majority of Northumbrians, who've constantly asked why so much aid is sent abroad to those who don't deserve it, while there are people under Caddy's own nose who are subsumed by the same woes.

Of course, the charitable side of this Cat could assume that Caddy Boy is suffering from chronic naivety, and that he fondly imagines that some poor farmer somewhere has received enough resources from Northumbrian Holy Groats to plant a new crop to support his family and to irrigate his thirsty fields. But I'm more inclined to assume that he wants to continue to grease the palms of the brigands so that he can curry favours from them at a later time. Perhaps he fancies a holiday in Mauritania..