Rob Roy, General Borchester and the Great Sedition thread….

[Thomas]

 The trouble is, who do we get to command the Scots? We have been buying the buggers off for centuries and on the cheap as well, but the current crop seem a bit po faced and I am not sure that they know how to run a real war.

Me of course.



The "toom tabards" currently in charge have been replaced with something far more ruthless. As for buying people off , as the english pound has now been devalued to such an extent its more worthless than the argentinian peso , even the beggars on the streets are refusing to touch it.



Everyone is crying out for the new scottish petro currency.....the "smackeroonie".



Meanwhile borchester , never one for being known for his undying loyalty , is declaring his latest undying support for the new reunified irish republic and claiming citizenship based on his parents being chip pan lickers and left footers.

[Thomas]

Wayne was a chippie but yes not far off the mark and if I dont get to a barbers soon I will be doing an impersonation of his grandfather .



 As one of Borky's loyal advisors Im telling him to keep right at junction 19 give Manchester a swerve and carry on straight to Edinburgh .  By the time Rob Roy has got wind of it we will have Jimmy Crankie swinging from the Forth Bridge

Feck off ya canadian interloper.



Borkie would be rallying the cockney sparras , fist punching the air , and just as you are about to embark , he would quietly slip aside to his favourite curry house , the hackney bhaji ,and disappear onto a large table filled with a pungent passanda and plenty of warm beer.



Knowing his luck , he would get the table next to the clissold park curtain twitcher , and spend the next few hours being regaled with tales of back lights being put in , while wishing he hadnt shat himself and went ahead instead.



Meanwhile his loyal second in command , streetwalker , with his trusty trowel and workbag , would fare marginally better.



Confidently , he would get as far as the watford gap , check his map , and realise there is nothing but a big grey area beyond , so make the tactical decision that edinburry is somewhere on the east coast , so take a right , and ends in up great yarmouth among all the norfolk yokels.



From there , by day he would spend his time preaching ukip`ism to the static dwelling locals , while at night he would be shacked up in the local brothel stuffed full of trafficked ukrainian prostitutes , and swamping the local economy with forged scottish banknotes called the smackeroonies.



Meanwhile, i have concentrated my entire forces on a surprise attack on faslane and coulport , took control of the uk nuclear arsenal , and pointed the lot at westminster. To give a slight warning  , i have fired a wee tester at the wirral  , and took the wirral windabgs house right oot the picture fur his cheek.



After receiving englands complete surrender  , i have declared scotland independent , joined forces with our european counterparts , and proceeded to end the english menace by carving the country up once and for all.



Cumbria and northumberland once again come back under the scottish kingdoms rule , northern ireland is returned to the republic , yorkshire and the midlands i give to the welsh , and the southern english shandy drinkers are set up as the kingdom of wessex with a new vichy government headed by javert and beelbeeb running the place on behalf of france and germany.



I proceed to ban the sale of warm beer , outlaw cricket and morris dancing , and drag nigel farage around europe in a small cage for folk to throw shit at .

[Thomas]

Imagine the scenario if you will? Its 2024, and Boris Johnsons bumbling Brexit government is nearing the end of its catastrophic term. Coronavirius has killed virtually everyone (well, 0.1% of the population at least) the country is still locked down, and no one will go back to work in case there are any more than 3 excess deaths recorded this month. Common sense has been banned, and no one is allowed to question anything unless they have a 264 page dossier of ruthlessly crunched numbers proving exactly how many atoms there are in a Rice Krispy. The economy has ceased to exist, largely replaced by a barter and exchange system based on old washers and Dire Straits CDs. Unemployment has become immeasurable and poverty has returned on a massive scale. In common with most western style economies, government debt has become insupportable, bonds have become worthless, meaning no one either can or will buy them and effectively prohibiting imaginary money being printed, deflation has killed any chance of recovery and the government can no longer afford to fund even essential public service except the Police to keep them safe from attack by a disgruntled population. The pound is worth seven tenths of feck all and most Local authorities are bankrupt so everything from disposing of waste to care for the elderly has become the peoples own responsibility. Whole industries have disappeared, from car manufacturers to the travel industry, already crippled by "green" legislation and over capacity, they couldn't even have survived a small downturn for long. The only people who can afford transport or travel are those with wealth, who need it in any case to fund private security against the largely anarchist nature of most of society.



North of the border, Nicholas Sturgeon, a seditious post op transvestite leading the Scottish Nationalists, constantly denied a legal second referendum, has invoked a popular vote anyway which has come back at 75% in favour of Independence. Seizing the opportunity, well known rabble rouser with rock star good looks and a penchant for English wimmin, "Rob Roy" Thomas, raises a rabble Army of Jocks and other various malcontents and any treacherous English liberal tosspots who will join him, and marches south for a clash with the auld enemy.



The British Army, indulging its current obsession with the Rainbow Alliance flag to want anything to do with fighting a proper war anymore, and too busy choosing new frocks and high heels for the battalion ball on Friday, are unable to intervene. Only 1 of the RAFs 3 planes is serviceable, and that is being used by Air Commodore Bigly-Smythe to ferry his kids to private school, so they can't do anything either. The Navy, its entire budget spent on two aircraft carriers, haven't got any money left to buy any planes for them, and in any case, some daft cnut got one of them stuck on a sandbank trying to do a U turn in Portsmouth Harbour after forgetting to combat load the Pimms



With the Geordies and Mackems still too busy fighting with each other over who has the worst football team in the North East to confront Rob Roys Army, it seems the rebel march will be unimpeded, Scotland will take Parliament, and we'll all have to accept Jock rule and survive on a diet of deep fried mars bars. Nevertheless, in London, and facing a severe shortage of Ericaceous compost at B&Q, the English Middle classes are stung into action, and, led by a crusty old former tax inspector, boating lake rowing boat captain and well known forum raconteur, General Borchester, an army of former city traders, brickies, hairdressers, old tories, brexiters, market capitalists and Kate Bush style Empire dreamers sets off north up the M1 to confront the treacherous Scots and their lap dog English allies.



Meanwhile, just south of Carlisle, and having sacked the city and drunk all its off licences dry the previous evening, the Scottish Seditionists led by our hero Rob Roy, sets off south down the M6. From the speed and trajectory of the opposing armies, it seems clear they will meet just outside Manchester, and a mighty clash that will decide the future of this country seems inevitable.



Ladyblokes and Gentleladies, its time to choose your side – will you join Borchester and his decrepit old Tories and save the Union, leave the EU and stick it up the dirty traitors? Or will you join Rob Roy and his vengeful army of pissed up Jocks intent on making sure the Scottish Flag flies over Westminster and that Brechin and Alloa play in the Premier League?



Let battle commence.



Note: This is a DD Productions thread meant as a laugh – could certain posters PLEASE try not take it too seriously for feck sake.



Feck me, I'm too good for this place  ::  ::  ::

 ::  ::  

[Borchester]

Hey, you're on your own pal. It was all you ancient brexiters that voted to leave the EU, so you row the boat. I would suggest trying to keep them at a distance. A load of crusty old pensioners against a pack of pissed up Jocks is only going to end one way. You could try sending messengers ahead to all the hostelries on their route, tell them to bring out all the old antifreeze, drain cleaner and anything else with alcohol in it and leave it by the roadside? With a bit of luck, they'll all be that shot to bits by the time they get there they'll forget why they came ::

Tough luck. It was your idea and me and the rest of the board have had a secret ballot and elected you leader of the Yellow Company. I know I know. You see yourself as a latter day John Hawkwood leading England's White Company against the rebellious Scots, but us old geezers can't always find a loo on time and a yellow uniform will hide the stains better.



So, carry on sergeant, but remember that our aim is first to defeat the enemy and then civilise it. So take along some after shave to mix with the antifreeze and give the Jocks a taste of gracious living.

[DeppityDawg]

Mmh, I am liking this but I can also see a problem.



Our model should be the condottieri armies of Renaissance Italy. As you all no doubt know, when the city states fell out they would hire mercenaries who would raise armies and face each other on the battlefield  and think sod it. The folk over there are the only ones we like. Bollocks to the civilians. So the rival generals would meet, have a few drinks and then decide which side was going to win. Sometimes, if the wages were particularly good and no one was overly keen on going home they would agree that one side would win the first battle, the other lot the next and so on until they had bled their employers dry.



I think that DD understands this sort of thing so I am handing over command of the UK's forces to him. The trouble is, who do we get to command the Scots? We have been buying the buggers off for centuries and on the cheap as well, but the current crop seem a bit po faced and I am not sure that they know how to run a real war.

Hey, you're on your own pal. It was all you ancient brexiters that voted to leave the EU, so you row the boat. I would suggest trying to keep them at a distance. A load of crusty old pensioners against a pack of pissed up Jocks is only going to end one way. You could try sending messengers ahead to all the hostelries on their route, tell them to bring out all the old antifreeze, drain cleaner and anything else with alcohol in it and leave it by the roadside? With a bit of luck, they'll all be that shot to bits by the time they get there they'll forget why they came ::

[Barry]

^^ Oh! That's where it comes from.  :hattip

[Borg Refinery]

It's a downright liberty. Somebody's put "Hi Diddly Ho" under my name, which is prejudiced against Lo Diddly Hoes, so I shall be making a complaint.

[Barry]

PS I just noticed it says Daffy Duck underneath my name on the posts. Is that auto-generated or have I earned it somehow? Had my name been Hypergoose Honk Honk would it still say Daffy Duck?

It's a downright liberty. Somebody's put "Hi Diddly Ho" under my name, which is prejudiced against Lo Diddly Hoes, so I shall be making a complaint.

[Hyperduck Quack Quack]

This is actually the most sensible and coherent post I've ever seen from DeppityDawg  



PS I just noticed it says Daffy Duck underneath my name on the posts. Is that auto-generated or have I earned it somehow? Had my name been Hypergoose Honk Honk would it still say Daffy Duck?

[Borchester]

Yeah, ok Bishop Desmond Tutu. Just because I neglected to say I usually write 55 of the 57 pages.



Anyway, when we left our intrepid leaders, the treacherous Jocks had just left Carlisle and the pensioners brigade had only got as far as Watford before they all had to stop for a wee and a lie down.



Meanwhile, in Manchester, Ken Clarke, learning of the approach of these two titan armies, contacts the UN and begs for an intermediary to be sent to prevent the Emirates being destroyed in the inevitable battle.



We've heard from General Borchesters command, but as yet, no word from the treacherous Jocks leader, Rob Roy, rumoured to be so pissed after drinking the entire contents of Carlisle last night that he's incapable of coherent speech. No change there then  ::  ::  ::

Mmh, I am liking this but I can also see a problem.



Our model should be the condottieri armies of Renaissance Italy. As you all no doubt know, when the city states fell out they would hire mercenaries who would raise armies and face each other on the battlefield  and think sod it. The folk over there are the only ones we like. Bollocks to the civilians. So the rival generals would meet, have a few drinks and then decide which side was going to win. Sometimes, if the wages were particularly good and no one was overly keen on going home they would agree that one side would win the first battle, the other lot the next and so on until they had bled their employers dry.



I think that DD understands this sort of thing so I am handing over command of the UK's forces to him. The trouble is, who do we get to command the Scots? We have been buying the buggers off for centuries and on the cheap as well, but the current crop seem a bit po faced and I am not sure that they know how to run a real war.

[DeppityDawg]

Come on you lot! This is one of those DDs special entertainment posts which should have 57 pages by now. Buck up. :kikass:

Yeah, ok Bishop Desmond Tutu. Just because I neglected to say I usually write 55 of the 57 pages.



Anyway, when we left our intrepid leaders, the treacherous Jocks had just left Carlisle and the pensioners brigade had only got as far as Watford before they all had to stop for a wee and a lie down.



Meanwhile, in Manchester, Ken Clarke, learning of the approach of these two titan armies, contacts the UN and begs for an intermediary to be sent to prevent the Emirates being destroyed in the inevitable battle.



We've heard from General Borchesters command, but as yet, no word from the treacherous Jocks leader, Rob Roy, rumoured to be so pissed after drinking the entire contents of Carlisle last night that he's incapable of coherent speech. No change there then  ::  ::  ::

[papasmurf]

Come on you lot! This is one of those DDs special entertainment posts which should have 57 pages by now. Buck up. :kikass:

Really? I thought he had been at the magic mushrooms.

[Barry]

Come on you lot! This is one of those DDs special entertainment posts which should have 57 pages by now. Buck up. :kikass:

[Borchester]

Meanwhile, just south of Carlisle, and having sacked the city and drunk all its off licences dry the previous evening, the Scottish Seditionists led by our hero Rob Roy, sets off south down the M6. From the speed and trajectory of the opposing armies, it seems clear they will meet just outside Manchester, and a mighty clash that will decide the future of this country seems inevitable.

I was thinking of changing the sign posts at Leeds so that instead of marching down the M1 to London the sweaties would storm along the M62, pausing only to refresh themselves at strategically place stock piles of vodka and Irn Bru. Then when the motorway became impassable due to the mountain of empties and the rebels were trapped, we could hire the Campbells to fettle them as we used to do in times past.



But your scenario does sound more fun  

[Borchester]

Imagine the scenario if you will? Its 2024, and Boris Johnsons bumbling Brexit government is nearing the end of its catastrophic term. Coronavirius has killed virtually everyone (well, 0.1% of the population at least) the country is still locked down, and no one will go back to work in case there are any more than 3 excess deaths recorded this month. Common sense has been banned, and no one is allowed to question anything unless they have a 264 page dossier of ruthlessly crunched numbers proving exactly how many atoms there are in a Rice Krispy. The economy has ceased to exist, largely replaced by a barter and exchange system based on old washers and Dire Straits CDs. Unemployment has become immeasurable and poverty has returned on a massive scale. In common with most western style economies, government debt has become insupportable, bonds have become worthless, meaning no one either can or will buy them and effectively prohibiting imaginary money being printed, deflation has killed any chance of recovery and the government can no longer afford to fund even essential public service except the Police to keep them safe from attack by a disgruntled population. The pound is worth seven tenths of feck all and most Local authorities are bankrupt so everything from disposing of waste to care for the elderly has become the peoples own responsibility. Whole industries have disappeared, from car manufacturers to the travel industry, already crippled by "green" legislation and over capacity, they couldn't even have survived a small downturn for long. The only people who can afford transport or travel are those with wealth, who need it in any case to fund private security against the largely anarchist nature of most of society.



North of the border, Nicholas Sturgeon, a seditious post op transvestite leading the Scottish Nationalists, constantly denied a legal second referendum, has invoked a popular vote anyway which has come back at 75% in favour of Independence. Seizing the opportunity, well known rabble rouser with rock star good looks and a penchant for English wimmin, "Rob Roy" Thomas, raises a rabble Army of Jocks and other various malcontents and any treacherous English liberal tosspots who will join him, and marches south for a clash with the auld enemy.



The British Army, indulging its current obsession with the Rainbow Alliance flag to want anything to do with fighting a proper war anymore, and too busy choosing new frocks and high heels for the battalion ball on Friday, are unable to intervene. Only 1 of the RAFs 3 planes is serviceable, and that is being used by Air Commodore Bigly-Smythe to ferry his kids to private school, so they can't do anything either. The Navy, its entire budget spent on two aircraft carriers, haven't got any money left to buy any planes for them, and in any case, some daft cnut got one of them stuck on a sandbank trying to do a U turn in Portsmouth Harbour after forgetting to combat load the Pimms



With the Geordies and Mackems still too busy fighting with each other over who has the worst football team in the North East to confront Rob Roys Army, it seems the rebel march will be unimpeded, Scotland will take Parliament, and we'll all have to accept Jock rule and survive on a diet of deep fried mars bars. Nevertheless, in London, and facing a severe shortage of Ericaceous compost at B&Q, the English Middle classes are stung into action, and, led by a crusty old former tax inspector, boating lake rowing boat captain and well known forum raconteur, General Borchester, an army of former city traders, brickies, hairdressers, old tories, brexiters, market capitalists and Kate Bush style Empire dreamers sets off north up the M1 to confront the treacherous Scots and their lap dog English allies.



Meanwhile, just south of Carlisle, and having sacked the city and drunk all its off licences dry the previous evening, the Scottish Seditionists led by our hero Rob Roy, sets off south down the M6. From the speed and trajectory of the opposing armies, it seems clear they will meet just outside Manchester, and a mighty clash that will decide the future of this country seems inevitable.



Ladyblokes and Gentleladies, its time to choose your side – will you join Borchester and his decrepit old Tories and save the Union, leave the EU and stick it up the dirty traitors? Or will you join Rob Roy and his vengeful army of pissed up Jocks intent on making sure the Scottish Flag flies over Westminster and that Brechin and Alloa play in the Premier League?



Let battle commence.



Note: This is a DD Productions thread meant as a laugh – could certain posters PLEASE try not take it too seriously for feck sake.



Feck me, I'm too good for this place  ::  ::  ::