What's new
Frozen in Carbonite

Welcome to FiC! Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!

The Bordererers are over the Border: An Off-kilter Tale of a future Britain (Original)

RegrettableRateofReturn

New member
Author
We thought they were just a tale, something to scare children and make deconstructive jokes about on the net, but no. Nothing could be further from the truth. If I had clung to that belief then I would not be alive to tell this tale, which has a great deal more truth to it.

I could tell in detail of my life before the incident, but to be honest there is not much of interest in that time. I was born in Scouseria shortly after the Drink tea, not blood-party of pacifists first came to power. A family of twelwe, my father did not have much sense to go around and most of my siblings lay dead by their inaction,only I ever made it to university and only I fled southward when Northumbria fell. After graduating I became an informant for some fishing company with their base in Lundunn and was eventually sent to Nyucassle to look into the general public's views on legalising whaling.

It was when I arrived during a rainy night by the gravely polluted Tayn and went into the run-down shabby inn where the company had booked a room that I heard of the events at the border. At first it was just something of a rumour, people at tables mumbling of incoherent and disparate reports coming from up in Berrick telling of klit clad clansmen crossing the border to the sound of bagpipes and awful hair metal. The bartender dismissed the idea of an invasion with a short laugh before suggesting that those saying otherwise probably had a bit much to drink and should really go to bed instead of frightening his patrons.

But when I was out the next day, preforming a door-to-door survey in some suburb to the south of the city the tale of the drunks came true. I was just about to knock on the door of an old brick house whose resident or residents evidently had a rather pequiliar taste in garden gnomes, then I heard them. Loudly roaring, more distant at first, but soon the ground shook from the sounds of Highland pipes. Most geordies fell deaf within minutes and the few police officers who didn't were hacked to bits during furious charges by the highlanders.

As soon as I understood what was happening I threw open the door, grabbed the car keys from a little table by the enterance, ran out and drove away. Now you might think that to be a bit immoral and cruel, not only stealing their car, but also leaving them to loose their hearing to the Scots, but I tell you, people who own a full set of the geordie shore season 1214 cast interpreted as equivoque garden gnomes probably won't fit in anywhere but some needlessly cetaphilic suburb in Northumbria, and, judging by the giant Poison poster just inside the door; they weren't making good use of their ears anyway.

As I raced southward to the sounds of the more upbeat Queen songs, various thoughts ran through my head: Were the dreaded Borderers actually real? My mother always spoke of them when we refused to go to bed, but the only scotsmen we ever met were utterly pissed tourists banging on our door demanding we let them in because they had "Focken payd for a focken fortnite alreddy" even though their hostel was on the other side of the town, so I never saw any reason to believe in the Borderers when I grew older. Why were they attacking now, hadn't we been at peace with the Scots for the last century?

I turned off the music and turned on the radio to clear my head. They were broadcasting a debate from the Commoners' chamber. The MPs of the Pacifists Eat My FIST-democrats were chastising the Drink Tea, not blood government for not preparing the military properly, the Teadrinkers replied that the situation was the fault of the PEMF for their inflamatory rhethoric against the Scotsmen "Who might find it very insulting that you repeatedly refer to their national dish as the invention of a demented caveman". Eventually the foreign minister was called up for questioning and accused of not having followed the political developments in Scotland. He replied that it was regrettable that they had not forseen this, but added "But really, who cares what goes on in Scotland?" Which was met with an unanimous, if disheartened "Hear".

I wasn't in the mood to listen to politicians argue while the country burned, so I switched to a news frequency. After a minute the debate on whether or not the playing of Highland pipes should be called "music" was interrupted by reports that the Shetlanders had apparently discovered their Norwegian heritage and were currently pillaging Scouseria. At hearing this a certain insecurity came over me, if Scouseria had already fallen then I had nowhere to go. After a few minutes of thinking I decided to continue southwards. Whereto you might wonder? Anyplace that was not on fire.

I stopped in Stamford to recuperate and get some food, to my disappointment the place had already been looted. I think I lost my virginity to a gal from Stamford, a nice girl. Probably would have married her hadn't she bestially murdered one of my sisters and been executed by way of practical moral thought experiment. Bit of a shame that. I eventually found a few apples hanging onto the high branches of a tree and with the help of a plank managed to make them fall. When I got back to the car someone had scribbled "Fa's a pissed nutta noo, ey?"

I had at this point been driving for hours and my body began to ache, so I sensed a feeling of relief when I saw the sign of Enfield. That relief vanished when the astonished newscaster reported that the Neo-Normans had landed at Hastings and were rapidly advancing towards the capital. Despair struck, stuck between the Scots and the Bloody Frogs, what fate could possibly be worse than this? Nevertheless, I chose decisive action and drove quickly through the suburbs towards Reading and then took off to the west.
The roads were now beginning to fill with the fleeing. I didn't have time waiting to be caught by either of the invaders so I drove off the road and onto the fields, this might seem a bit reckless, but thankfully the Geordie car was suprisingly sturdy.

Finally I came to Stoake Giffore and made my choice, Wales or Cornwall? According to the news king Charles "The nearly as long-lived as his mother" III had gone to Wales to lead the resistance from there after Lundun fell to Neo-Norman chemical weapons based on ancient bits of Camambert, but if I went to Wales I'd probably have to live with the sheep, so Cornwall it was.

I came to Truro just in time to witness one of the most important political meetings of our time. Richard Handler, a member of the Vampires, the PEMF youth organisation, was standing before a great crowd as I parked the car. He was holding one of his great rousing speeches. "But, my fellow countrymen, it is time to realise that most of England is irretreiveably lost. Though we should not lose heart because of that. We need to look to our future and secure it. At the old border to Scotland there were only one fort and nothing else to keep the highlanders out. We cannot take such risks and as such I suggest we live up to this county's name and build a great wall to keep the Scots and the French out." There was a careful cheer in the audience before a voice raised an objection. "But there was no need of a wall against the French, there was the channel and look what good that did us. And Scouseria wasn't attacked overland but by bloody vikings. Cornwall is surrounded by water, how will a wall shield us from the sea?". Handler straightened himself and replied with a confident smile: "Yes of course there is water, no wall would be complete without a moat" this was followed by booming cheers despite the fact that he had not answered the question. After work on the wall had begun it was decided that "Cornwall" was a bit of an unfitting name given the current situation and the area was rechristened "Bloodwall" in celebration of the national demise of the Drink tea, Not blood party.

You all know the rest. The war has continued, the Scots had nearly pushed the Frogs out of York when the Norsemen decided to invade. Wielding an even more formidable sonic weapon than the highland pipes in the form of a horn using the skull of an ancient mythical cow and possesing even deadlier chemical weapons than the Neo-Normans due to, somehow, having an even more disgusting diet than the French, the Norse have carved out a respectable territory in the midlands. Northern Ireland eventually declared independence from England, but due to having some disagreements with the Dublin government decided to invade the republic rather than joining it. King Charles is now "The even more long lived than his mother" and I am stuck here at the inn, playing the state subsidised Anglo-saxon lyre and telling tales of of the time before everything went completely mad.

The End.
 
Well something has certainly gone horribly wrong...
 
Back
Top Bottom