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.