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.
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
"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?”
“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?”
"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’?"
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
"Yarrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhh!" screamed the army.
“Send Scotland’s mos’ infamous spy,” the King commanded, “send Fergus mac Domongairt!”
“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.
Those English Rebel Bastards! Eh!