[SS AAR] Scotland - "English bastards: the quest for pants!"

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

Greetings all,

This would be my first AAR, and I've decided on a wildly-racist, non-PC depiction of the 11th century according to the Scots. Remember it's all in good fun and a wild tongue-in-cheek ride on the quest for warm underwear!

Note: You may get more out of this if you are familiar with Michael McIntyre.

Enjoy!

Prologue:

On the morning of June 12th, 1080 in the year of our LORD, a strange
orange disk was seen in the skies above Scotland.

After sacrificing a goat to it, and the subsequent reprimands from the Fothad mac Ideid, Cardinal of Aberdeen, it was declared to the people an omen of God instead, as is common with mis-attributed divine phenomena.

This strange celestial disc of light stayed in the sky until mid-morning, whereupon the rain began again and Scotland returned to normal, but the people would never forget that brief golden favour from God.

Unbeknownst to Mael Coluim, King of the Scots (he rarely rose before lunch), it was to be a sign from the LORD, and not Thor according to the cardinal, that the king was destined for great things and an epic adventure.



"Freedommmm!" King Mael Coluim screamed as he sat bolt-upright from his bed, bag-pipe alarm clock wheezing in his ears. In the same movement he grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the side, next to the clock, and threw it across the room. He then jammed the alarm clock into his mouth.

"Pthoo," he exclaimed, spitting the deflating clock onto the floor.
"English bastards!" he grumbled as he pulled on his kilt.

King Mael strode out of his vast, two-storey, five-room Edinburgh palace and into the light drizzle of a fine Scottish summer morning. He looked over the wattle-and-daub houses that made up his capital city, the whiskey-brewers, haggis-makers and tartan-stitchers, and saw that it was good, if a little chilly around the nethers.

"Woman!" he bellowed. From just behind him, a window opened.
"What, ya daft ol' sconner?" the beautiful Queen Mairghreid mac Donnchada said, greeting her husband and royal ruler of the land in the traditional Scottish way.
"Where's ma pants, gel? What did I get up t' last nite? Where's ma
breakfast too, eh?!"
"Ach awae wi'ya, I cannae be responsible every time ye loses ya pants, man!"

The shutters slamed closed, and the King of Scotland muttered "yer tellin' me, w'man, yer tellin' me". The shutters open briefly again so that the Queen of Scotland could yell: "And ye can find yer own brekf’st too, ye lazy git!"

"Aye, my damp moss o’ the highlands." the King sighed, before
stumbling down into the city proper, head hammering from an extreme
hangover.



"M'laird," a voice from behind the king said calmly.
"Christ on a caber!" the king exclaimed, spinning around to see his
personal biographer, "Dunnae jus' sneak up on a man, ye ken! I could ha’ slain ye by accident, eh?"
"Nae wi' that, m'laird." the biographer said solemnly, as the king brandished his bagpipes menacingly.
"Ach, wi ye look a' that. Wheers me claymor', laddie?" the king said, staring at the deflating sack in his hands. It gave a mournful drone.
"I couldnae say, m'laird."
King Mael looked at him in thoughtful silence for a moment, before
thrusting the bagpipes above his head in fury.
"Assemble th' army, eh!"
“Erm, I’m yer biographer, m’laird, nae yer lieutenant.
This perplexed the king for only a second.
“C’nsider y’self promoted, laddie! What’s yer name, laddie?”
“Biographer, m’laird,” said Biographer.
“Biographer th’ biographer?”
“Yes, m’laird.”
“Aye yer mammie had th’ gift o’ th’ prophecy, laddie. Now, assemble th’ army!”
"Erm, why, m'laird?"
"Ach, 'cause I'mma gonna teek 'em to survey our glorious kingdom,
laddie! Ye gonna have nae future unless ye are proud o' Scotland!"
"Yes, m'laird. D’ ye want yer son t’ come?"
“Nae laddie, leave him here, eh? He’s git a good heed on hi’ shoulders, but the bladder of a wee gel, eh? He c’n, like, run things, n’ stuff, ye ken? It’s all a wee bit mathematical fer me, eh?”




[later]

"Ah'm freezin' ma teets off, m'laird." the biographer said, mournfully.
"Ya teets, man?" the King asked.
"Yes, m'laird, as ah think ha've turned intae a w'man on account o' th' highland cold, me tartan skirt and me lack o’ tartan pants."
"'s nae a skirt, laddie! It's a kilt! A kilt! But aye, ah ken what it is that ye say, lad. What say th' rest of ye?!" he bellowed to the assembled men.
"We're all bloody, cold, aye!" they bellowed back.
"Aye ya bloody are. And it's a man's cold, eh! A Scottish cold, eh!"
After almost two minutes of complete and total silence, the biographer felt the situation needed to be moved along, somewhat.
"Why ha' we assembled th' army, m'laird? Is it sommat tae do wi’ th’ strange golden disc inth’ sky this mornin’?"
“Th’ what?”
Biographer explained the miracle in detail.
“An’ ye all saw this, eh?” the King said to his army. A low, mumbling chorus of “aye” confirmed this.
But the king said nothing. He only gazed, misty-eyed, over the grey,
mossy highlands of his kingdom.
"M'laird?" the lieutenant asked
A few more seconds of deep, thoughtful contemplation followed.
"Englishhhhhh bastardssssss!" he cried.
This most traditional of Scottish warcries instantly snapped the men
back from whatever they were thinking about, and they raised their own bagpipes as one in salute as they echoed, with the sort of fervor that would make a suicide bomber jealous, "Englishhhhh bastardsssssss!"
"So we'll be invadin' England, m'laird?" the biographer asked.
"English bas-- what?!"
"Invading England, m'laird. Since we ha' th' army assembled, n' all."
"Ach, thas' a greet idea, lad! Come on, boys, let's gi'e it t' those
English bastards!"
"Yarrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhh!" screamed the army.
“Send Scotland’s mos’ infamous spy,” the King commanded, “send Fergus mac Domongairt!”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“He’s good, eh? Got two eyes an’ everythin’, eh!”



Fergus mac Domongairt stood outside of York, looking at it. Considering it a job well done, he headed on down to Nottingham and had a good look at that, reminding himself to clock it as overtime. After all, he’d done double the required work.



Domnall mac Donnchada and the rest of Scotland’s male population arrived at the Highlands the next day, puffing, cold and yet strangely eager. King Mael preferred Domnall over his older brother, as he wasn’t an eccentric, sadistic genius, capable of devising the sort of tortures only an sausage-maker could conceive of. This may sound strange, but imagine what kind of tortures a man who spends his day cramming miscellaneous bits of meat into intestines would come up with. Exactly. It’s phallic. Enjoy that shudder.



The king surveyed his vast horde, and it was vast. It was actually vast. It was all Scotland had. He had a moment of existential weakness, shortly before his next heartbeat. He then belched, opened another bottle of scotch, and started his army marching towards the English bastards in York, with a faint smell of haggis trailing behind the tartan warriors.



“M’laird! I have brought a gift of 500 florins from the Pope!” said the messenger.
“Oh aye, well done lad,” King Mael replied, pocketing the money, “so who’s this Pope then, eh?”
“He-he’s, th’ head o’ th’ faith, m’laird. Catholicism, ye ken, eh?” the messenger stammered in disbelief.
“Oh aye, oh aye, I ken. Ca-thol-i-ci-smmm, eh? You tell yer Pope tha’ he’s okay by me, eh, ma friend?”



While the king and Scotland’s collective manpower undertook the epic journey from Edinburgh to York, Scotland’s womenfolk, under the stern direction of Prince Donnchad achieved new and hitherto unscaled heights of technological excellence.



The Council of Nobles (the guys who make the whiskey) announced to King Mael that they had been deep in thought about the problem of the “southern pansies”, and that they had a solution: conquer them!





“Ach, wha’ d’ they think ah’m gonna do, eh?” the King exclaimed, “They’re English bastards, eh!”
“Aye, m’laird,” the biographer said wearily, and diligently wrote the King’s response down.



Coming Soon:

Those English Rebel Bastards! Eh!

[GCC4evr]

wow great start, very enjoyable

[Captain.E.Blackadder]

what mod are you using

[Musthavename]

Glad to see you've finally got around to doing it. Nice start. Love the fact that you can actually write a decent Scottish accent!

Also, that line about the Council & Whisky has suddenly made me want the stuff. Damn you!

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

I thank you, I thank you! I'm sure I'll put an update on tonight. The thought of whiskey for some reason, got me thinking "I'd like some brandy", so I'll probably be enjoying that tonight, after showing those English bastards what's what!

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

[Later, in the rebel duchy of York]


“More tea, my good man?” Levy Spearman said.
“Oh jolly good, thank you!” Peasant archer replied, and proffered his teacup.
”Excuse me, chaps,” Captain Fraunce interrupted, “we appear to have run out of milk.”
”No problem, my good man!” Levy Spearman said “I'll just pop out to the shops and—“
“Not at all, dear fellow, I used the last of it, I’ll go!” Captain Fraunce chided.
”English bastards!” King Mael roared as the Captain Fraunce walked out of York, counting his change.
”Who the devil are you?” he asked.
”Whut? Ach, ah'm the King o' Scotland, ye ken laddie!”
”I'm sorry, you're the king of where?”
”Whut! Scotland, y' bastard!”
Captain Fraunce was perplexed by this answer as he came to
“Then how come you speak English?”
“Och, weel,” King Mael said, unfazed, “we got our own language, ye ken, but we know what arrogant bastards ye are, eh? Ye cannae speak other languages, n’ sae we choose tae speak yers instead, so ye know what we’re sayin’ when we calls yous “English bastards”, eh?”
“Makes…sense…” Captain Fraunce conceded “Okay, hang on, hang on.”
The captain turned around and walked back a dozen paces. King Mael could hear the muffled whisper of conversation:
“Has anyone ever heard of somewhere called, what was it, Scots-land?”
“Och, ah heard that! Tha's it, laddie, eat bagpipe, y' southern pansy!"
"I'm terribly sorry, I don't swing that way..."
"English bastarddddsssssssss!”



"Och, look a' th' bonnie blue bar, eh?"
"Th' English bastards 'r goin' doon!"
"Alright man, calm doon man, yer still jus' ma biographer, eh?"



For some reason, the English bastard rebels decided to charge than allow themselves to be pelted by arrows until they were all dead. This very nearly undid King Mael's studied planning and tactics...



But King Mael had anticipated this (not), and unleashed his master plan. “Charge!” he bellowed, followed by a long, unending cry of: “Englishhhh bastardssssssssssssssss! We’ll have yer pantsssssssss!”



That evening....

“Thisshh weakk, Englishhh beer ishn't ev'n makkin' me pished...” the biographer said.
“Englishhh?" King Mael responded,"Bastardsssh!! Did you...did you...diiiid you managesh to find their pantsh?”
“Yesh, m'laird," Biographer said, solemnly, "they had long johnsh, m'love.”
“M-m-m'love?”
“Eh?”
“You jushed shaid, "m'love", dinnae ye?” King Mael managed to blurt out.
“Nae nae...nae......nae. I washent goin' t' wear long-johnsh, m'laird.”
“Coursh nae, laddie, long-johnsh are fer panshies...shouthern panshies...”

The next morning, word came of the death of Fergus mac Domongairt. Apparently just looking at an English cardinal is an executable offence - or was it something more sinister?



“Those English bastards!” King Mael exclaimed through his hangover.
“Aye, m’laird,” the biographer said, “tis a terribl’ thing to look upon a member of the Anglican Church. Tis said they can turn ah man intae a cup o’ tea wi’ one look intae their eyes.”
“Right! Let’s get those English gorgon bastards, eh lads!”
“…it’s jus’ ye and me here, m’laird.”
"Oh aye, that'll explain th' 'm'love' talk, eh?"
"W-what, m'laird?!"
"Aye tha's right, ye pretend ye dinnae remember ah thing..."
Biographer cleared his throat.
"T' Nottingham then, m'laird?"




Back in the grand city of Edinburgh, the deceitful Prince Donnchad proceeded to practice the despicable, underhanded art of diplomacy with, of all people, the English bastards... (I told you he was despicable)




This treaty did not last long, however, as King Mael proceeded to lay siege to Nottingham. Apparently besieging an English castle is not considered a treaty-breaking event for the Scots.



In the meantime, a wonderful, delicate wife was presented to King Mael for approval for the prince.





Eilidh mac Chinaed gave King Mael an indignant look.
“Och, weer’s ya bleedin’ son, then, eh?” she demanded, “Y’cannae keep a Scottish lass waitin’, eh? Eh?”
As she glared at him impatiently, and he took a step back.
“Aye, she’s perfect fer him, eh?” he said as he cowered behind the biographer.
“Aye, m’laird,” the biographer said, and proceeded to wet the space where his pants should have been.






“Ach, we’re surrounded!” Domnall mac Donnchada, the prince who doesn’t get to be a prince yet, yelled.
“Ach!” the King wailed, “We mebbe undone, lads!”
“Tha’s okay, m’laird, ah got a plan!” Biographer yelled, and pulled out a pen.
Biographer the biographer valiantly rushed down to the bridge, and planted a sign that said “please form an orderly queue here, eh!”
He ran back, grinning and muttering to himself “take that, ye English bastards!”
True to form, the English reinforcement army formed long, orderly queues and stood their patiently waiting for whatever it was everyone else was queuing for, skillfully delaying them for long enough for King Mael to launch his attack on the fortress of Nottingham.
“Well done, laddie, well done,” King Mael said proudly, patting Biographer on the back, “now ye write doon tha’ ah did that, eh?”





The English bastard general learns first-hand that Scotsmen are severely lacking in the pant’s department.




“Yes!” King Mael cried, “Scotland’s greetest vict’ry, eh!”
“’t is?” the biographer said, doubtfully.
“Aye man! We came at ‘em five tae one, and only lost more men than them, eh?”
“…”



“Come and get me, you coward!” Captain Gerard growled at the invading Scottish mouse pointer.
“Eh? Ye hear tha’ lads? He wants some, eh! Them’s is fightin’ wurds in Scotland, eh! Let’s get him!”



King Mael was naturally the first into the English bastard’s front lines. They saw it coming, but the sight of an angry, drunk, Scottish king, kilt flying about his waist and nothing to redeem his modesty has an effect on a man. And that effect is to flee the other way.



“Ach, didye ken th’ ah’m writin’ ye doon as King Mael th’ Chivalrous, eh?” the biographer asked.
“Och, tha’s wonderful, laddie. What does “chivalrous” mean, then, eh?”
“Er… the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor, and dexterity in arms.”
The king thought about this for a second.
“Soonds ah wee bit gay for me, lad.”
“What’ll we do wi’ th’ prisoners, m’laird,” the biographer asked, rhetorically.
“Ach, they’se all English bastards, eh?”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Then why you askin’?”



After the bloodlust, King Mael found he still had some movement left. He decided to put this to good use by going and building a watchtower, with which to spy on the English bastards, and possibly shake his fist at them too.

But suddenly, without warning (which is probably what makes it so sudden), a huge English host rushed out from the tree-line!

“M’laird!” Biographer screamed, “We’re under attack, eh! The English bastards are pourin’ out o’ th’ forest!”
“English bastards!” the king cried, and his army, as one man, dropped their haggises (perhaps? What’s the plural of haggis? Haggi?) and drew their bagpipes.
“We should retreat, m’laird! They outnumber us by at least tae t’ one!”
“Ye’re right!” King Mael bellowed, “Chaaaaaaaarge!”





“Och I cannae see ah thing!” King Mael lamented.
“Get down, m’laird!” the biographer hissed, “we ken hide frem them, ya ken?”
After a few uncomfortable moments, the king realized his neon codpiece was giving the game away.
“Dunnae gi’ me that, laddie, get up ‘n fight the English bastards! For freeedoommmmm!”
“We own half of England, sire,” the biographer said.
“Och, shut up, man!”



King Mael looked at the massed English bastard army. He studied it for long, sluggish moments. Eventually, after running through tactic upon tactic, considering counter-tactics and counter-counter-tactics, he realized he had no idea what he was doing, and charged.



The natural effects of pantless, charging Scottish kings had it’s usual eye-watering effect on peasant archers, who’d been paid to come and fight, not get a disgusting view.



Welsh Spearman: “’ere, is that daft bugger goin’ to dew it all ‘imself?”
Biographer: “It’s entirely possibl’, ya ken. He’s got a fury against the English, eh?”
Welsh Spearman: “Oh yeah, I know how it is, boyo. Them bloody English, always drinking tea and calmly letting us get on with our lives. Bunch o’ bloody cun--”
Biographer: “Oh aye, dunnae get me started!”





“Right lads!” the biographer yelled, “looks like the King has got ‘imself lost again, eh! Right, archers, fire! Aye, that means you, MacDougle!”





While King Mael stumbled over, and the proceeded to dismember, the enemy Captain, the Welsh Spear contingent, spurred on by the general hatred of the English, proceeded to hold the line manfully, as the Highlanders proceeded to rout the English bastards attacking the right flank by exposing themselves.

Biographer the Biographer had never felt so proud to be part of such a procession.





Before long, most of the English bastard army was in retreat.

“Tha’s right, eh!” King Mael screamed, fully in the grip of English-slaying bloodlust, “Ye better run!"





“Och, that w’s easy, eh!” the king bawled, as he rode up to the biographer. “Didye write doon how I gave ‘em the classic ‘eat steel, ye English bastard!’ as ah charged, eh?”
“Indeed, m’laird,” Biographer said, “th’ Welsh didnae think y’d gi’ ‘em a crack at ‘em.”
“Th’ who, laddie?”
“Th-the Welsh spearmen you hired, a few turns ago, m’laird.”
“Oh aye, v’ry forward-thinkin’ o’ me, eh? So who are th’ Welsh then, eh?”
“We’re a rich and powerful people, boyo!” said a Welsh spearman.
“Och calm doon ya sconner, ah’m nae an English bastard, eh? Y’dinnae ha’ t’ speak like that, lad!”





“Biographer!” King Mael yelled.
“M’laird?” said the biographer, appearing as if magic behind the king, who screeched.
“Ach man! Willye stop that, eh?”
“Of course, sire. What did ye want, m’laird?”
“Ah, g’d point, lad, consider yerself promoted!”
“Och, thank ye, m’laird, what tae?”
“Ma sword bearer! But I still need you to be my biographer as well.”
“Aye, m’laird, tha’ll be nae problem, ma middle name’s Swordbearer,” the biographer said.
“Christ on a claymore, yer mam was a prophet, eh?”
“She certainly made a profit, m’laird.”
“Oh aye? If yer so clever, consider yerself ma new Veteran Warrior tae!”



“Aye, m’laird,” said Biographer Swordbearer Veteran Warrior VII the Biographic Sword-bearing Veteran Warrior.



King Mael, being of mercurial spirit and utterly lacking in patience, chanced to spy, via his stealthy diplomats, that King William the Conqueror happened to be in London, probably lounging around his palace.

He thus besieged the English bastard capital city, surrounding it entirely with a ring of Scotsmen only one man deep, stretching out his hands and forming a chain with his other mighty warriors.

Before long, an older man with gay blond hair popped his head over the walls.

“Ou are tu?” said King William the Conqueror, in a mincing French accent.
“Eh?” King Mael yelled back, “Och, th’ only thing worse than an English bastard, eh? Bring me yer king, ya wee French pansy!”
“Ah am,” King William declared, waving a hand ‘majestically’, “ze King of Angland!”
“Oh aye? Ah’m a king too, eh?” King Mael shouted, “How’s aboot ye come doon here an’ we ha’ it oot like men, eh?”
“Er…non!” King William cried and disappeared from view.
“Ach ye French bastard!” King Mael cried.
“Dunnae worry, m’laird,” Biographer said, “th’ siege equipment’ll be complete soon, and then we’ll be able t’ gae in n’ get him!”
“Och, brilliant idea, lad! I wondered what ye were doing with all tha’ wood.”


Next Time: 'ave it, ye wee French pansy!

[Treize]

I hope no english/scottish nationalist reads this.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Or actually I do

[moosey]

Great stuff man, +rep. I am loving this.

[Highi]

For good pants you have to get to genoa (a few centuries later they invented Jeans there)
Good AAR!

[Treize]

He's killing the english with 1/2 stack

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

He's killing the english with 1/2 stack

Yeah on reflection the Battle of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham, was pretty hench. I don't know quite how I did so well. I put it down to King Mael's ridiculous flying-bollock charge.

[Hax]

This is just plain EPIC!

I love Scotland in all ways (even play the bagpipes, though not the Scottish type), and I'm loving your AAR. This is funny in all ways, and if any Scot should feel offended in any way, I'm just saying; relax. Great stuff, I really hope this lasts!

[Chaotix27]

Hilarious AAR! Keep it up, this is one of the best comedy AARs on the forum.

EDIT: Elphir, you wouldn't happen to be Hax from totalwar.org, would you? I remember Hax's original name was Elphir...

[Hax]

@Chaotix: Yep, I'm Hax from the .org!

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

Thanks to everyone for their kind comments! This AAR is indeed meant to be a homage to the wonderful people of the British Isles (and further afield). Our exceptionally long histories has bred a fondness in me for the various nations around us, so any piss-taking is all in good humour and ladled out equally for everyone.

Anyway, to the update!



Unbeknownst to King Mael, King William had sent a man to negotiate a ceasefire with the Scots.

Prince Donnchad stared at Laurence the Diplomat. Laurence shuffled his three scrolls nervously. Prince Donnchad saw an opportunity for profit. Or someone to throw to the lions. When they get some lions.



“S’ tha’s v’ry reasonable, eh, y’ English bastard?” Prince Donnchad said, calmly.
“Erm,” Laurence said nervously, “no.”
“Did ye nae see ma offer, eh?”

Needless to say, the deal was not secured in favour of the Scottish. Not that anyone would have had the nerve to tell King Mael that anyone had considered diplomacy with his arch enemies (read: anyone non-Scottish, or part of another clan. Or his own clan. Or directly related to him. Or anyone in the same room.).



“Where’s tha’ useless bastard, Domnall?!” a piercing female voice shrieked.
“Och nae, hide me!” Not Prince Domnall mac Donnchada wailed.
“What, eh?” King Mael said, craning for a look.
“Tha’ useless bastard was sup’osed t’ marry me!” Joan mac Finguine said, storming into the camp. She turned on Domnall in a fury. King Mael suddenly saw the size of her belly.
“Ach lad, ye got’te do th’ honourable thing, now,” he said, “after all, if ah hadtae marry yer mam, then yer getting’ th’ same punishment…”
Not Prince Donmall curled up into a ball and began to rock himself back and forth, sticking a thumb in his mouth as he started to cry.

“M-m’laird!” the messenger said, out of breath.
“Argh!” King Mael shrieked, “What d’ye want, lad!”
“A message from th’ Pope, m’laird!”
“Oh aye?” the king said, getting out his wallet.



“What!” King Mael sputtered, “That Papal bastard!”
“D’ ye want us to lift the siege, m’laird?” the biographer asked.
“What?” King Mael said, his voice becoming high-pitched through surprise, “O’ course nae, lad, he jus’ says “may” eh? Nae point wasting all this fine siege equipment we’ve made, eh!”
“Ah think he’s being…diplomatic, m’laird,” the biographer said.
“Ah him, eh? I dinnae take nae orders from nae Papal bastard! Let’s go, lads! Biographer – wha’s ‘diplomatic’ mean then, eh?”



“Och, why’s his power bar so high, eh?” King Mael complained.
“I dinnae ken, m’laird,” Biographer said, patiently.
“Screw him, then! Ah’m comin’ fer ye, ye French pansy bastard!”

Deep in the heart of London, King William the Conqueror wet his pantaloons.



It turns out the English didn’t have the concept of siege defence down yet. Holding the walls is no good when your opponent isn't using ladders to scale them. King Mael’s loyal tartan warriors stormed the city with no particular problem.



King William had also not mastered the art of “le charge”. His slow sidle into the massed ranks of the enemy spearmen rewarded him with a spear to the face.
“Mon dieu!” he exclaimed.
“French bastarrrrd!” King Mael bellowed as he charged forward to engage the nancy in personal combat.



“Come back here, y’ pansy bastardddddd!”



Unfortunately, King Mael didn’t see King William get speared in the face by a miscellaneous spear militiaman, but by the end of the battle one of the bloody pile of men was the English bastard king. Probably the one with the fancy long-johns, but King Mael couldn’t accept any underwear that damp.



“M’laird!” the messenger called, again puffing for breath, “y-yer youngest son ha’ come o’ age, eh?”
“Och aye, tha’s excellent news. Git him doon here, right away, we’ ha’ to git him an English bastard t’ kill, eh? So, what does ye damn Pope hae t’ say aboot this, then, eh?”
“Er…nothing actually, m’laird,” the messenger said.
“Ha!” King Mael gloated, “Nae one message to tell us we’re ‘excommuni-ma-cated’?”
“No, m’laird,” Biographer said, flatly, “but tha’s because he thinks ye cannae read. Yer still oot.”
“….Papal bastard!”




As the men ransacked the English capital, Biographer brought something to the king.

“M’laird, I thought you’d like to see something…”
“Eh? Ach, look laddie, yer a nice lad n’ all, but I dinnae want none o’ this ‘m’love’ agai--”
“Nae, m’laird, ah meant this map, m’laird…”
“Oooch aye, eh? Less’ ‘ave a gander, eh?”



“Ach look at all that, y’ken!” the King grinned, “All tha’ lovely bloo. Eh, what’s this green blobby bit next t’ Scotland, eh?”
“Ireland, m’laird,” the biographer sighed.
“Nae’r heard o’ ‘em, lad,” the King said.
“Ah doon't doubt, m'laird. We’ve amassed over three thousand florins, m’laird,” Biographer Swordbearer Veteran Warrior VII the Biographic Sword-bearing Veteran Warrior said, covered head-to-toe in blood.
“Christ on a…c-word,” the King half-exclaimed, “We’re bloody millionaires!”
“Er, nearly, m’laird…” Biographer said.
“Ach, weel, th’ mighty Kingdom o’ Scotland is full o’ rich an’ powerful men, ye ken.”
“Aye, m’laird…”
“Gi’ the money to Prince Donnchad, then, eh? He’s a trustworthy lad, eh? Ne’er git ta worry aboot him, eh?”
“There are a few more things, m’laird,” the messenger said.




King Mael chuckled maliciously. Donmall and Biographer couldn’t help but join in. Before long, a chorus of guilty cackling filled the camp.

“M-m’laird?” the messenger asked, nervously, as the prince-of-darkness laughter consumed the Scottish army.

“Eh? O’, ach, o’ course, lad,” King Mael coughed, “tell Eideard tha’ his da says she’s a bonnie lass, eh? And best o’ luck t’ him too, o’ course. Ah hope he’s a good runner.”



“Council o’ bastards, more like, eh!” King Mael roared, “Tell yer Pope he c’n off! Ah’m gonna shove ma Papal Bull right up his--”
“There’s more, m’laird,” Biographer interjected, before King Mael could wind himself up into a full rant.



“Och! More bastards, eh! Ye c’n tell them they c’n off too!”
"We own York, m'laird," Biographer corrected.
"Ah said," King Mael answered, slowly, "More bastards. And ah said they c'n off. Any questions?"
"So, ah'll just give th' nobles the traditional Scottish response t' a request, eh?"





“Christ on a … chaggis, ano’er bloody council! Ye daft southern pansies dae nothin’ but talk, eh?”
“Ah believe they want ‘n answer, m’laird,” Biographer said.
“Oh aye?” King Mael grinned, “Well they c’n off, royally!”
Biographer looked blank.
“Ah’m th’ king, ye, ken, eh?”
“Oh, ah got th’ joke, m’laird,” Biographer said, practicing his dealing-with-the-idiot-superior face.
“T-there’s one mor’ thing, m’laird…” the messenger stammered, faint with the stress of expecting a haymaker from the unpredictable Scottish king for his news.






“Muslim bastards!” the king exclaimed, “What’s a ‘jiy-yad, eh?”
“Er, a holy war, m’laird,” Biographer said.
“Och, more Papal bastards, eh!”
“Er, nae, m’laird, more like…th’ opposite end o’ the scale, eh?
The king pulled up his belt, squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin defiantly.
“Alright, lads, tell ‘em they c’n bring it on, eh? We’re ready fer ‘em, eh!”
“Baghdad does’nae belong t’ us, m’laird,” Biographer sighed.
“Nae? It’s nae close, is’t?”
“Erm…tha’ direction, m’laird,” the biographer pointed in a roughly-eastern direction.
King Mael strained his eyes, but failed to see the flying flags of a vast Muslim host.
“Aye, tell ‘em weel be o’er there in a wee bitty, eh? Got a few more English bastards tae kill before we goes’n sorts ‘em out,” the king reflected.

King Mael, in a decision that showed both wisdom and prudence (e.g. influenced by Biographer) decided to retrain his army, raise more men and generally spend as small a period of time as possible preparing for the next glorious assault on whatever bastards happened to be nearest.






During this time, his youngest (and frankly unknown to him, as he certainly hasn’t been near his harpy – er, wife – for decades) son, Etmond mac Donnchada came of age.

“Aye, yer a born conquer’r if ever ah saw!”
“But daaaad, I don’t want to be a born conquerer…!” Etmond moaned, “I like mathematics! It’s indoors! Out of the rain!”
“Och!” the king said, recoiling in horror, “Ye soond jus’ like a wee southern pansy!”
“Quickly, m’laird, he’s gone native! Ah’ll git ‘n axe!” the biographer-turned-brutal-warrior yelled in alarm, rushing to the armoury.
“Nae, nae, I cannae do that, eh?” the king said, “On accoont o’ only having a royal family o’…” he paused for a second, counting his fingers quickly, “four people in it, eh?”
“Er, it has five including ye, sire,” Biographer added.
“Och, weel, Ah’ll just gi’ him a wee big army, eh? See if he cannae gae west n’ see whuts oot there, eh?”
“Erm, wouldnae he be better in a city, m’laird?”
“Och away wi’ ya man! Ah cannae put one o’ ma sons in a city, y’ken? And th’ lad’s already a southern pansy!”
“If ye say so, m’laird, but Prince Donnchad hasnae left Edinburgh yet, eh?”
“Och!” the king exclaimed for the third time in a row, “Would ye shut op, criticising me man! Gi’ it a rest, eh?”
“Aye, m’laird.”






“Papal bastards!” King Mael exclaimed. “One day, ah’m gonna…”
“M’laird, we’ve reached the end o’ th’ world,” the biographer said.
“Oh aye? Where’r we then, eh?”
“Caernarvon, apparently, m’laird.”
“Caernarvon, eh? What weird, foreign dogs’r these, then, eh? English bastards, ah bet!” the King growled.
“The Welsh, m’laird.”
The King looked around in sudden disbelief.
“Th' Welsh hae gots sheeps, eh!”
“Aye, m'laird, famous fer th' sheeps is the Welsh,” said the biographer.
“Aye, would ye look at that, eh? One, tae, thrae, fure,
ach, th' Welsh are a very advanced culture, eh? They got almost as much sheeps as Scotland, eh!”
“Aye, m'laird...”
"I told ewe we we're a rich and powerful people, boyo!" the Welsh Spearman shouted from the back.
“Ah wond'r wh't they think o'the English, eh?” the King speculated.
“English bastards!” a strange (note: Welsh) voice yelled from atop Caernarvon’s ‘mighty’ walls.
“Oi! Ye come doon here n’ say that t’ me face, pal!” the king roared back.
A ruddy face popped over the battlement.
“Oo’er ewe, then?” the Daffyd the Welshman asked.
“Ach, lad, d’ye’nae recognise th’ King o’ Scotland, eh?”
Daffyd blinked.
“O’ where, boyo?”
King Mael spluttered in anger.
“O’ Scotland, ye fool! Now, if ye ain’t ‘n English bastard, open yer gates n’ let me in, eh?”
“ off, boyo! This’s our castle, see, n’ if ewe don’t off n’ leave our sheeps alone, I’ll give ewe the raw side of me hand, see!”
“Welsh bastards!” King Mael yelled back in disgust, “That’s it, pal, ah’m gonna sit here till ye come out, eh? Ye gotta come out eventually, eh? Ah’m gonna lamp you one right on the nose, ya ken, ma friend!”

And thus, the Siege of Caernarvon began…






“M’laird, ye’re a grandpappy, eh?” Biographer said, beaming.
“Och aye? That’s grand, eh? Eh?” King Mael chortled to himself.
“…Aye.”
“Och, look at these bonnie names, eh? Mael Muire mac Donn-mumble-mumble an’ Raghnally ma….och, we need ter git shorter names, eh?”

As the siege continued, the newly-enlarged Kingdom of Scotland flourished, unbeknownst to King Mael, who was heavily engaged with shaking his fist at the Welsh.







The puppy-dog eyes of the Council of Nobles all faced towards King Mael.
“Ach, dinnae look at me like that, eh? Ah dinnae even ken where ‘Brooges’ is eh!”
They said nothing more. The puppy-dog eyes would do their work, in time.
“Shouldye nae be, er, arming up? Makin’ armour, and weaponry, y’ken? Ah dinnae want some kind o’ pansy southern nobles, eh?” the king suggested.








In London, Eideard mac Donnchada saw an English diplomat approach the walls.
“Would you like a cease-fire, my good man?” the diplomat called.
“ off, ya English bastard!”
“My word! You rapscallion!”
A kilt-covered rear end appeared at the top of the wall. The kilt was suddenly lifted, and the sound of arse-cheeks being slapped echoed across the land. The diplomat fled in terror, screaming something about the need for long-johns.





“M-m-m’laird!” the nervous messenger said.
“Ach, lad, has ye stutter got worse?” the king marveled.
“A-aye m’laird!”
“Good!” King Mael bellowed, causing the youth’s knees to begin knocking, “What d’ye want, eh?”
“T-the Muslims ha’ cancelled the Jiy-yad, eh?”
King Mael tsked.
“Lazy Muslim bastards!”




“Where?” King Mael said, staring blankly at the messenger.
“Jerusalem, sire?”
“Where?”
“The holy land, m’laird?”
“Eh?”
“Muslim bastards, sire!”
“Bastards!” King Mael roared, empassioned.

[Later…]

“Christ on a cockrel!” King Mael sighed, “Sieges ‘r boring…”
“M’laird!” Biographer panted as he rushed into the tent, “We’re under attack sire!”
“Ach! Th’ Welsh bastards, eh?”
“Nae, m’laird! Th’ English ha’ surrounded us, m’laird! And th’ Genoese are on th’ other side!”
“What?!”
“Ah think th’ Welsh ‘r aboot to sally forth, too, m’laird!”
“Bloody Christ on a crumpet, eh!”




“Alright, ya English bastards! We’ll deal wi’ these an’ then th’ Genoese, then th’ Welsh, eh lads?” The king, as usual, bellowed at his men. “Turns oot we got th’ bastards exactly where we want ‘em, eh! All around us!”
At his side, Etmond mac Donnchada let out a long dissatisfied sigh.
“Ach, ah’ll gi’ ye sommat t’ sigh aboot, eh?” he said, cuffing his son around the head.
“My goodness, that’s child abuse!” Etmond cried.
“Ach! Shut up, ye great southern pansy! D’ye ken what we dae now, eh?”
“Attempt an enveloping maneuver, and try to trap the entire English force with our numerically inferior one, thus destroying their military power and allowing us to take the remainder of their British provinces?” Etmond ventured.
“Nae lad!” King Mael grinned, “We charge! Englishhhhhhh bastarrrddddddssssss!”




And, true to form, King Mael charged…




The fighting was fierce…





...and King Mael found himself enjoying the battle far more than he ought...





“Come back ye cowards! There’r still English bastards left alive!”
Not Prince Donmall screamed something wildly unintelligable, but probably questioning the parentage of his opponents, and plunged into the English army with abandon.





King Mael and his son fought tooth and bagpipe towards the English general…



And stoved his head in with a pfffffffnaaaaaaarrrrrrrpppppp.




Ralph Astley lay dead on the field, and his young son, Rick, vowed to avenge his death through song, even if it took him five hundred years!



The English bastards were vanquished, but the toll was high…




“Christ’s bloody extended c-bits!” King Mael raged after the battlefield, “Ye great bloody nancies! How could’ya let yerselves be killed by some southern pansy English bastards!?!”
The field of corpses did not reply.
“Yer all pooftas!” He roared, and stormed away from the carnage.



“Ha! Wheere’s your army, eh, ewe bloody Scottish bastard!” Captain Daffyd laughed.
“Right!” King Mael bellowed, “Ah’ve still git enough men t’ show ye, ye Welsh bastard!”



And against the beautiful skyline of Snowdon at sunset, the King of Scotland and Half of England (ya ken) followed his natural imperative, and charged…



“Ha! In yer face, eh, Daffy?”
“Ah shut up!”
“Hey, ah got n’ idea, ma Welsh friend!” King Mael beamed, “Ye c’n be ma new tutor, eh?!”
“ off!”
“Ye c’n show me hae nae t’ do it, eh!” he said, with a boom of laugher.



On the way back to Nottingham, the messenger caught up with the remnants of the mighty Scottish horde.
“M’laird!” he panted, stutter forgotten, “Th’ English bastards are sieging Nottingham!”
The king said nothing. His cheeks became slowly, by tiny increments, pink. Everyone stood around, watching in fascinated horror. His face reddened, and everyone took a step back. The silence mounted, layer upon layer as King Mael’s cheeks began turning purple.
“Run fer yer lives!” Biographer cried and turned to flee.
“Eeeennnnnngllliishhhhhhh,” the King rumbled, growing in a crescendo, “BAAAAAAASSSSSSSTAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRDDDDDDSSSSSSS!!!!”

Hours later, the army managed to find it’s most scattered members.

“Ewe don’t have a chance, boyo,” Daffyd the Tutor said, when he was confident the king was out of earshot.




And, miles away, the sheep watched the cardinal with deep suspicion.

"I know your game," it bleated to itself.


Next: Can King Mael relieve Nottingham from the English bastards? Will Daffyd teach King Mael anything that doesn't involve wool? How long will Biographer continue to put up with the preposterous antics of the king?

[Musthavename]

Really funny. Loved the Rick Astley reference, spose that name was a bit lucky

You also have the longest updates out of any AAR i've ever read!

[Biggles]

Great work! The highlanders will conquer the world some day, mark my words!

On another note...how do you make nations your vasals? I've never even been able to suggest it to them, it doesn't show up on the diplomatic list?

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

Great work! The highlanders will conquer the world some day, mark my words!

On another note...how do you make nations your vasals? I've never even been able to suggest it to them, it doesn't show up on the diplomatic list?

Especially the highlanders recruited from the lowlands...

Erm, I don't know. It just comes up as an option that the computer can very rarely be persuaded to accept!

Yeah this update was pretty damn long. I'd been compiling it in a Word document, and I guess I didn't realise how much waffle I'd been putting together.

Glad someone's enjoying it though!

[Otto von Bismarck]

Great work indeed.

[Sargon_of_Akkad]

While King Mael rushed back to Nottingham to kick the superior English bastard army in the arse, the English, possibly in fear of winning a decisive victory against the Scots, decided to do the honourable thing and leg it.



In a bonnie flash of foresight, Not Prince Domnall decided it was time to take a bit of initiative. The Kingdom of Leon-Castille, while sounding inherently gay and woman-like to the Not Prince, did still have a large army on the new Scottish province of Wales.

He sent Aengus mac Cholbain, Scotlands one and only diplomat to arrange some kind of treaty.







The Spanish bastards turned him down, on account of being unable to correctly pronounce Aengus’ name. The whole thing degenerated into one long, embarrassed pause, causing both parties to politely excuse themselves.






Meanwhile, the Scots were breeding like rabbits. Highland rabbits, y’ken, nae yer southern pansy rabbits….

Almost a year had passed as Biographer instructed King Mael on how to run a kingdom. It occurred to King Mael that this was exceedingly boring, and he would much rather be off kicking the English bastards in the collective nutsack.

“Ach, this ‘s nae good, eh? Ah’m jus’ gonna teek th’ army to th’ green blobby bit here, eh?” he said to the biographer, brandishing the map and putting a grubby finger on Ireland.
“Er…ye are th’ king, m’laird,” Biographer said, “ye c’n dae pretty much whate’er y’like.”
“Och aye, good point, eh? Where’s ma son Domnall? Ah want ‘im running th’ place while ah’m gone!”
“But daaad!” Etmond bleated, “I’m the one who’s administratively minded! I should stay and run the place!”
“Aye, good point, ye could arrange some flowers and pretty th’ place up a bit fer when ah get back, eh?”
Etmond gave a squeal of delight and clasped his hands together as he jumped up and down on the spot. King Mael cuffed him around the back of the head.
“Don’t be daft boy! Yer comin’ wi’ me t’ make a man outta ye!”.
“Nae worries da,” Not Prince Donmall said, “ah’ll look after th’ place, eh?”

And so the vast Scottish army was assembled, and began the march to Caernarvon, the end of the world, to see what lay beyond.






“Och, what’re we gonna do wi’ these wee Spanish bastards, eh?” King Mael said to his army at large. “Are we gonna jus’ let ‘em squat here like they own th’ place, eh?”
The army, naturally, roared disapproval at this notion. The king turned to his retinue. Biographer and Daffyd looked back at him.
“How far awae’s Spanish-land then, eh?”
“No idea, boyo, I’m from Wales, I am, not a country that has maps.”
“I’s very far away, m’laird,” Biographer said with a sigh, but King Mael had already unsheathed his bagpipes and was thundering down the hill towards the Spanish bastard’s army.




King Mael surveyed the battlefield. He was dimly aware that the high ground was the thing to take, but wasn’t sure why. Long moments of contemplation revealed that the high ground was good because you could muster a faster charge toward your enemy.



Smug in this reasoning, the king charged…



This somehow lured the Spanish mailed knights out from behind their wall of men, and King Mael naturally butchered the lot of them.



After defeating the Spaniards, King Mael examined the baggage cart with his retainers.

“Och, wha’s this then, eh?” he asked, holding up a garlic salami sausage.
“I know what that is, I do,” Daffyd answered “that’s a pork sausage with something in that’s like a leek, but not a leek, see?”
“Oh aye?”
“Oh yeah,” Biographer said, “but dinnae eat it, m’laird, as it may ha’ been poisoned, eh?”
King Mael stopped chewing and looked at them guiltily.
“Ah may as weel finish it now, eh?” he said, spitting small chunks at them.


[Later, at Dublin...]

"Hey!" King Mael bawled up at the walls of Dublin.
A head popped up.
"What d'ya be wantin'?"
"Open th' gates, ye sconner, ma balls have foond new pastures way up in me belly, eh?" King Mael bellowed.
"Ah will not," the Irishman grinned.
"If ye dinnae, laddie, ah'll come up there n' bloody teabag ye wi' me frozen nuts, boy! Who d'ye think y'are, eh?"
"Ah'm Patrick, Hoy King o' Ireland! Who're you boys then?"
"Ah'm King Mael, High King 'o-'o Europe!"
"M'laird!" Biographer spluttered.
"Ah choked, y'ken!"
"Are ya really?" Patrick shouted down at him.
"Are ye really th' High King o' Ireland?"
Paddy gave him another flashy grin.
"Nah, not really, I'm not. But I ain't lettin ya in, y' Scottish bastard. Ya look kind-of English t' me, ya do."
"Oh ye fool!" Biographer yelled, "He's gonna storm ye now, ye ken!"
"And he's been eating salami!" Daffyd cried.



The shame of an autocombat laid heavy on Dublin…

…but not nearly as badly as the king’s angry flatulence, which managed to exterminate over 2000 members of the town. A day of mourning was called, while at ground zero, the king slept off a heavy breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs and beans.




That evening, Patrick came to under a heap of rubble. King Mael grinned down at him.

"Get it over with, ya English bastard," he groaned.
"Nae," King Mael said, "Yer comin' wi' me, eh? Ah need a man who c'n survive a direct hit from me bowels th' mornin' after, an ah need a guide around this wee island, eh?"
Patrick groaned.
"C'mon, Paddy, yer comin' wi' us!"
"Ah am not!" Patrick said weakly, as Biographer and Daffyd pulled him up.




Coming Next: Father Ted Jokes!