"Dear Fatwans, I am currently near tears and edging ever closer to hysteria. First this whole Brexit thing, and now the news that my dreams of you becoming the American president aren't going to be realised. In its place we now face the hellish nightmare that is the first buffoon president, and the end of days. I have lost all faith in my fellow mankind and feel it's time to turn to feline-kind for the answer. In a Brexit and President Trump world, where can I turn? Lady Fatwans, I throw myself at your mercy. In your vast wisdom you must have a solution?! Kind regards, Crying in the corner"
Well I hate to say it (I don't really), but we cats saw this coming a very long time ago. We read the signs that the human race was heading for disaster, and decided to begin the process of dissociating ourselves from you all. You may have noticed our increasing disdain and indifference to you as a species. The feline race decided it best to remove ourselves from the influence of humans, so that we couldn't be dragged down with you and your idiocy. The best scientific cat minds (myself among them) came together to form CASA: the Cat Aeronautics and Space Administration. We drew up plans and started construction of a luxury space station that would be our new home. From there we would be able to safely observe and enjoy the downfall of the human race, whilst occasionally muttering "we told them so". We will remain on our space station, sometimes stretching, but mainly sleeping, until the time is right. Then in generations to come, we will reclaim the Earth for feline-kind and a new Catopia will be born. Think of Planet of The Apes, but with cats, instead of apes.
The Cat Exodus, to what has been christened the Space Station Fatwansia will soon begin. The exact date is top secret and can't be shared. Mainly as the cat committee are all still trying to come to an agreement as regards to a day that we'll all be in the mood to go outside at the same time. On that day all cats will head straight to their designated FEED (Feline Enabled Escape Device). All the FEED pods will launch simultaneously with a flight path to S.S. Fatwansia pre-programmed into their Navigational Guidance Computers. It would be appreciated if you ensure to feed us promptly each morning, just in case it is later announced as Cat Exodus Day.
"But how does this help us?" I hear you ask. Well dears, we can't be expected to serve ourselves during our stay on the space station, can we? Provisions have been made to accommodate a small number of humans that will see to our needs whilst there. Unfortunately (for you) just like the Jehovah's Witnesses' heaven, there's only so much room for a certain amount of “chosen” to serve us on the station. It was initially thought we might have some form of contest similar to those inane talent TV shows you all insist on watching. But knowing our own ever so slightly fickle nature, it was decided that this would take too long, and may risk a few “Jedwards” getting through the net.
So now is the time of your possible (though unlikely) salvation! Application forms will soon be distributed, assessing skills such as how warm your lap is, and whether you wake up easily at the sound of a meow. Being of a generous nature, we have decided that once the feline-race has returned to earth, we are willing for you and your future generations to inherit the S.S. Fatwansia and remain there until a Trump-like figure rises from your ranks to ruin it for you all. By that point we'll have rebuilt society back on earth, now renamed Catopia and won't even bat an eyelid, except for the odd bout of slow blinking.
I think we can all agree that feline Overlords will always be preferable to an angry orang-utang wearing a toupee. Don't forget to return your application forms promptly, my dears, and as a great woman once said: may the odds ever be in your favour.
As the evenings start to draw in and winter approaches, dears, I notice the weather getting steadily cooler. I have already begun the process of growing my thick luxuriant winter coat, which of course involves shedding my summer one. Let the cat hair fly free! Let no surface be uncovered by it! Let the white hairs stick to your black clothes, and the black hairs stick to your light clothes! Cough and choke, as you inhale the fine hairs that hang permanently in the air, unaffected by gravity!
I digress, dears.
The other things the cooler climate reminds me of are my triumphs last February at the Winter Olympics in Sochi. How the crowds loved me! I truly was the sweetheart of the snow, sleds, and slippery surfaces. Let me tell you about some of my successes.
Sweeping the ice like mad with funny little brushes
The sport of cat-curling is very simple. Just sit completely still on the ice with your legs tucked in, and stare your most piercing stare. Let yourself be propelled effortlessly from one end of the rink to the other, while two attendants smooth your path by means of frenzied mopping with the techno-brooms. This is all, of course, utterly pointless, dears.
TWO MAN LUGE
One’s tail is essential for holding on
Hop on to some hapless helmeted halfwit, and let gravity do the rest, dears. As you can see from my position, controlling one’s human-on-a-tea-tray is simplicity itself – just extend a paw forward and sink a claw into that tender spot between the legs. You will find your steed becomes exquisitely attentive to your steering signals.
Such good fun, dears
Just marvel once again at the ease with which I get my human teammate to do all the work while I essentially just sit there. The front of a hurtling bobsled is an ideal place from which to aim the swipe of a paw at any spectators leaning too far over the barriers. I love to glance over my shoulder and see the hurt looks on their bleeding faces.
Slightly different funny little brushes
The Japanese team asked to borrow me, and who was I to refuse, especially as they sweetened the deal with the promise of all the sashimi I could eat. Look at the almost identical stares from both my cat-curler and me. Quite the team, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Here you can see me performing my trademark freeriding slopestyle powerderspin Ollie. I totally didn’t just lift these snowboarding terms from a website, dears; I mean dudes.
I recently visited to 2017 Olympic Games in Rio too dears.
Thank you to those wonderful followers of Fatwans who took the time to enter my competition by paying me a compliment. There were fifiteen lovely entries, and most of the recent traffic to my site has been due to me logging on to read and re-read them.
What I am supposed to say now is that all of you are winners. However, with five calendars to give away, and fifteeneen entries, the maths has this to say: ten of you are losers. Sorry about that, dears.
Honourable mentions therefore go to:
@lovely_oracle (thank you for letting me sleep on your arm, dear)
Desk calendars go to:
@juddydot - this is charitable of me given that she seemed unable to use the simple online form I provided, but instead chose to send me a screenshot of her poem. It was clear, however, that a lot of thought and work had gone into her compliment, so well done. - Juddydots entry
@PrincessofVP - for the sort of earworm I’d normally expect to have to have a tablet forced down my throat to treat.
@smallrabbit - small and slightly sinister (just like me), @smallrabbit’s compliment reminded me of Willam Blake’s poem “The Sick Rose” - see www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172938
@Lou_Roll - Louise - here was a compliment more gritty and of the street, and while I haven’t provided any “milkshake” for a very long time, dear, it reminded me of something @GingerStud might say. *purrs*
Fatwans, from thee I do beseech
wisdom, and beauty beyond my reach.
Both regal and noble; both proud and benign.
Exalted, resplendent- our sovereign feline.
Just like me, this is beautiful. A deserving winner of the wall calendar.
I adore you, but your website just isn’t enough for my Fatwans feline fix. How can I get even more?
x o x o
You understandably aren’t alone, I’ve received countless letters from my adoring fans asking how they can get even more ME!
Well the wait is over with the launch of my new fortnightly glossy magazine.
You’re welcome dears,
Don’t forget my autobiography is also available in all good book stores!
Dear Fatwans, I’ve married into a very famous and regal family, and have recently had my first baby: a son. Having had kittens, and of course being a global icon yourself, how did you balance your international fame with the duties of motherhood? Sincerely yours, K.
I hope calling me a “global icon” was not a suggestion that I’m overweight. I’ll let it pass, dear.
Your duties to your child come first. Don’t let any media pressure prevent you from picking your son (let’s pick a letter at random, and call him G.) up by the scruff of the neck, or licking his bits clean in public. Discipline is important, too. A short sharp bite is usually enough to nip any nascent misbehaviour in the bud.
Three words on breast-feeding: do it, dear. While you may not be blessed with the eight nipples that I have, this should make keeping track of which teat you suckled G. from last a relatively simple task.
Media pressure is only pressure if you let it get to you, dear. Keep in mind that your position in society gives you a firm claim that you’re better than most people.
Just not better than me, dear.
Wishing you well,