Buckfastleigh, Devon, August 2020: “First we take Melton Mowbray, then we take Buckfastleigh,” the words of Empress Nicola Sturgeon, who since securing Scottish independence following the debacle of the UK’s exit from the European Union now seeks to build a Greater Scotland with a view to have, as its seat of government, the small market town of Buckfastleigh, Devon. She added, “The choice of Buckfastleigh was obvious, indeed a no-brainer, for the place is something of a Mecca to Scots far and wide what with the sterling work of the monks at the Abbey there knocking out the ambrosial nectar that is Buckfast Tonic Wine, or more informally known as ‘Buckie’, my nations tipple of first choice.

Since Nicola had her eureka moment when it dawned upon her that the entire pre-Brexit British Army, save for the ‘English officer class’ consisted of Scottish squaddies only, the invasion, ‘payback time’ as she preferred it called had been inevitable. Thus far, the marauding Scots, with Nicola proudly leading from the front, have taken and drunk dry every brewery town in England from Carlisle, to Faversham, to Taunton (although reports from Taunton do suggest they found the cider brewed there not particularly to their liking as it came served in glass bottles rather than their preferred plastic fuselages).

As of now, the massed forces of Nicola’s Tartan Army stand at the gates of Buckfastleigh Abbey itself. Indeed, the door to the gift shop there has already been breached, the shelves now empty of tonic, although the assortment of novelty pens, coasters and tourist maps remain intact.

There is only one man who can save England from the humiliation of defeat and occupation under the Empress’ new regime.

San Pedro, Paraguay, August 2020: 40 years retired, and now domiciled in Paraguay, former MI5 secret agent extraordinaire, Twatersley Fromage OBE, arrives back in his San Pedro apartment a little the worse for drink and notices a new message on his ansa-phone.

Mumbling to himself whilst attempting to aim Percy at the porcelain, Twatersley stands confused, “Well fuck me cried the duchess!  What was that message all about? ‘We need you back in England sharpish, Twato; Nick Ola & the Scots are at Buckfastleigh’ the chap said. If they think I’m going all the way back to England just to attend a rock concert with a band I’ve never even heard of, Nick Ola & the bloody Scots, they’ve got another bloody think coming. Cheek of it.”

Outside, sat upon the balcony enjoying a last snifter before taking to his bed, Twatersley spots a carrier pigeon sat proudly upon his window ledge. The message the bird delivers is from none other than Lord Carruthers of the Foreign Office in London. It explains in some detail the plight of old England; that a gal named Nicola Sturgeon had led her army all points south of Hadrian’s Wall; that the ‘officer class’ were all ensconced in the Gentlemen’s Clubs of Mayfair fearing the worst now that the once great English nation had no current means of defence; that Balmoral and Windsor had fallen to the rampant Scots and that the monarch herself was in hiding; worse still that Nicola had decreed all fast food outlets now offer only deep fried frozen pizza and Mars Bars.


It is thus that Fromage once more fires up his trusty old Lysander, makes it to the Atlantic seaboard whereupon he takes the swim he never thought he would have endure again in his life. Some three days later he rises out of the ocean upon the pebble beach of Slapton, South Devon. After a two-hour jog, under cover of daylight (the Scots use the daylight hours for sleep and hangover recuperation) he arrives at Buckfast Abbey.  A tubby friar gives Fromage the low down as to the goings on vis-à-vis the ‘sweaties’ encamped on the edge of Dartmoor ready to commence their final attack come dusk.  Using the binoculars he had stuffed down the front of his Union flag embroidered speedos, and from above the cloisters, he is taken aback to note that the massed army of the Empress is full charge toward Buckfastleigh and the liquid prize it holds.

“Well I’d never have credited it friar. There she is, I see her clearly at the head of her troops. A bare-breasted Caledonian warrior Nicola, sat side-saddle upon one of (if I’m not mistaken) her majesty’s very own Arabian thoroughbreds, a pack of yapping West Highland terriers and a few bewildered Corgis keeping her company, and in her wake as far as the eye can see legion upon legion of these ginger wrong’un Scotch types, their uniform a blend of tartan kilt and 1978 Scotland World Cup acrylic drip-dry football shirts each with ‘Saint Archie Gemmills’ name emblazed thereon, the swines.

Yet Fromage is a man of action and has formulated a cunning plan. “Friar, do you have about your person a fishing rod…good that’ll come in handy…and friar, if my memory serves me well the Abbot here always has a case of Talisker single malt…tastes like fucking mud yet hits the spot alright…do go acquire a bottle with haste and affix it to the line of the fishing rod if you’d be so good.”   

Within minutes, our hero strides the battlefield alone, save for a bottle of Talisker dangling from the end of a fishing rod, and bravely confronts a now, at the very entrance of Buckfastleigh, Empress Nicola. Following her, albeit visibly knackered many thousands of puffed out foot soldiers, some even bent over, hands upon knees, all coughing their rings up.  Although taken with her knockers and rather smitten, he tries not to let it show (a difficult thing when clad in just speedos), he puts Queen and country first.

“What is that you dangle before me Sir?”

“Madam, it is a thing to savour…look see…you know what it is, how sublime it can be when swallowed. Play you cards right and it could be yours.”

“Play my cards right?”

“Oh yes, the Abbot even gave it a good dusting with his favourite alter cloth.  As you can see it is sparkling like a jewel fit for a queen, or in your case an Empress.  Would you like to touch it?  Wrap your lips about it?”

Nicola alights her mount, walks serenely toward him as if to fall foul of Twatersley’s sneaky little plan of taking her hostage, then using her as ransom by way of which to negotiate with the Scots for a once again free England. However, in his dotage Twato makes the one crucial mistake he would never have made in his prime, namely overlooking a thing called the ‘Glasgow Kiss,’ a long nurtured speciality of the Empress and her kin.  Said ‘Glasgow Kiss’, a head butt of lethal consequences is applied. Twato drops to the ground, dead as a Dodo’s dick.

England is doomed to a future of servitude under the rule of Queen Nicola I, Empress of Greater Scotland. Come nightfall her army find their spirits lifted even further as she tosses them Twato’s severed head, and suggests they team up for a game of footie.


41 thoughts on “THE SEIGE OF BUCKFASTLEIGH 2020

  1. For those outside the UK who might not have heard of her, Nicola Sturgeon is First Minister of a Scotland that voted, unlike their English counterparts in favour of remaining within the EU. In the light of this and at this time, she is mulling over whether or not to pursue her dream of a Scottish nation outside of the UK. This piece is merely a muse regarding what might happen should that be the case. I rather like Nicola, one of the few politicians who endeavours to answer question put to her, rather than avoid them.

      1. Don’t be sorry old chap. My research tells me the easiest place for me to obtain a new nationality seems to be Paraguay…sadly ‘land-locked’ and I need the sea (and access to at least half-decent red). I shall thus beg the Belgians to take me in.

      1. I’ve certainly got enough of them Leslie. 20 odd missions I reckon…shame he died as he did…still, retired 40 years before he was snuffed out not bad going.

  2. ‘Can yer maw sew? …..Tell hur tae stitch that.’ Crack!

    Yon Twatersley guy must have put it about a bit to have fathered so many twats now taking up air space in that big pointy, pointless building.

    I shall inform my empress of your prophetic words and let her know that there are others yonder who see the future clearly. 😉

    1. ‘Nice one’ as they say in Olde London Town. I read you post the other day by the way. Brilliant, we think alike. For me, I live in an England I no longer recognize. To a large extent I am ‘stateless’. This very morn having spent time in France/Belgium shopping yesterday and having woken up in England brings it all home and as my lovely Shirley just said, ‘You look as miserable as sin’! I believe I do. Best of good fortune be upon you.

      1. Thanks, Mike. I feel I’m stuck in perpetual panto land, shouting boo! hiss! at just about every character acting out their part. And I hate pantos. God help us all with what’s on offer for the next PM. I can feel Maggie’s ghost rising and that’s a terrifying thought.

      2. Ms May (an I voted ‘remain’ opportunist) wanting to hold back on letting the poor souls living here already from the EU as to whether she’ll send them home or not. I know so many from Croatia, Slovakia, Poland all worried sick…inhuman to torture them thus.

      3. The tone of the whole campaign preyed on fears and revealed a nasty xenophobic streak. That the political class used people in this way is scandalous but almost to be expected. Standards seem to have sunk to an all time low. I hope your friends and all others are not used as bargaining pieces in this fiasco and that they don’t incur hostility from the xenophobes. Worrying times ahead, Mike.

      4. You know the odd thing is that had one purchased a car from a salesman who lied about the spec of the vehicle, then the whole ‘sale’ would be unscrambled by agreement or litigation. I have met so many people who voted ‘leave’ believing the NHS funding would be there in place, and/or that the entire population of Turkey would be sat in their front room if they didn’t (vote leave). False promise means to an end…so wrong. And I shall not bore you with tales of racism in these parts…breaks my heart just thinking about it. My wife and I actively seek a new nationality even as I write.

    1. Poor Twattersley is no more, the archetypical Englishman duly fell victim of the Glasgow Kiss. Something rather profound about that…a thing I can’t put my finger on. Yet I still have his secret diaries!

  3. I enjoyed this very much indeed. A rock band! It all sounds about as likely as all the other events of recent weeks – and the merit of being genuinely funny. Taunton I know well. We had cider with lunch as children – my father (from living in France and Gibralter/Spain) did not consider it to be alcoholic.

    1. Crikey, I think your old man must have had a passion for apple juice. We lived in Dartmouth for 15 years…a town on red noses and explosive bottoms…cider rules there…best avoid the place! That aside, my thanks for your kind words in a world that isn’t that kind right now. Have a splendid weekend.

  4. I think he produced his rod far too early. He could perhaps have set the mood in advance, thus lulling Nicola into his confidence, by whipping a couple of haggis’s from his Speedos beforehand.

    1. Advancing years was the poor chaps demise…little can withstand the Glasgow kiss of death. Some years ago I found myself in Glasgow City centre somewhat the worse for drink. The Scot I was with spotted a cab pull up, the cabbie rushing from the drivers door to the passenger door. At this point he dragged the passenger from the cab, kicked him senseless in the street then drove off at a pace. My chum went over to see if the bloke was OK. His riposte, ‘Does nay matter, I did nay pay the fucking fare’!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s