On Being Scottish (or something like it) . . .

It does happen, you know. Really. Every once in awhile, usually on the first or second date, and it goes something like this:

My date and I are at a restaurant and the waiter has just served the entrees. After a moment of flirtation, we begin discussing our respective ethnic heritages.

"So," she asks, halfway through this conversation, her eyes glowing with suggestion (or maybe its just the light from the dinner candles), "have you ever worn a kilt?"

No. And the answer isn't just no – its h*** no.

I'm not a cross-dresser and this isn't a story about a truly wild evening. The thing is, I'm Scottish. Or, to be politically correct, I'm of Scottish descent. So occasionally, when I'm getting warm and cozy with a young woman for the first time, they ask this question. Believe me, they do.

And they always seem a bit put off by the response. They demand an explanation, as if I have nothing better to do than spend my weekends showing off fish white legs beneath hideous wool plaid. (Okay, I probably don't have anything better to do, but the answer is still no.)

Egghh!! I take a drink of wine. I want to go back to talking about her eyes. But for now, I suppose I must offer some explanation. So I do what I do best.

I blame on it on my parents.

Actually, I blame it on my great-great grandfather several times removed, who immigrated to Canada, then to the United States in the early nineteenth century. Being a real Scotsman by birth, he took a dim view of all other Scotsmen (or to be politically correct, Scotspeople). Maybe it had something to do with the fact he was invited to leave the country (seriously – he got in trouble for marrying an Irish Catholic; seems like the men in my family cannot resist the red-haired ladies. My mother, bless her, is both Irish and very Catholic. She's also a redhead. But I digress).

Anyway, Grandpa didn't have a fondness for the old homeland and he made his dislike generational, instilling in his children a dislike for all things Scottish. They, in turn, instilled this dislike in their children, who in turn, instilled it in their children, who in turn – well, you get it, don't you?

"But," says the girl with the glowing eyes, "it's who you ARE!" (And they always put emphasis on the "are," like if they say the word loud enough I'll suddenly sail out of my chair and dance the Highland Fling for everyone's amusement.)

In fact, it's not who I am. Frankly, I'm severely Americanized just like the rest of my family. I've never eaten haggis and I eschew thistles. When I drink, I avoid Scotch (it always gives me hangover, anyway) and I never, ever, ever, ever wear plaid. Never. Seriously. No, I don't own a kilt, or for that matter, a tie cut from the family tartan (yes, we do have one). I hate flannel shirts. When I hear bagpipes, I sink a little lower in my chair and try to force the thoughts of Johnson and Boswell out of my mind.

Now, dear reader, you're probably wondering what all this has to do with STW, MTW, or RTW. (If you've read my posts in the past, you know that remaining on topic is not my strong suit). Well, believe it or not, there is a game-related reason for this topic.

You may recall that I recently bought MTW (there's another musing about that entire experience in the Entrance Hall). After that, I downloaded several mods so I could play all the factions. Right now I'm playing MTW XL2, a very nicely done mod. After the mod was installed, I noticed immediately that there was now a Scottish faction.

Hmm, I thought. Interesting.

From somewhere deep inside me, a place within my soul which I never knew existed, somewhere beneath heart and above my bowels and little to the left of my colon – oh well, just deep inside me -- came this unfamiliar desire to strike a blow for all Scotspersons, my great-great (several times removed) grandfather be damned. The time had come to take up the sword. Show the world and the game what the Scots are made of. In short, I was going to take over the world in the name of Scotland.

Little did I know that I had a better chance of wearing a kilt.

Not that the mod is poorly designed. If anything, it accurately reflects the nature of all things Scottish.

So, should anyone desire to engage in such a reckless and hopelessly optimistic endeavor, let these be your words of warning.

First, you'll have to fight off the rebels. No, not from next door; the rebels are right in your own country. That's right, every clan wants to run the show and, of course, they all rebel. Very realistic. Yes, every day is a family fight. A thousand years ago, it was called unification. Now it's called domestic violence. Then, as now, the only way to the protect yourself is to beat the other party senseless.

Once you've accomplished the domination, er, unification of your own people, you're faced with conquering the Island itself. And by this time, everyone's your relative. Because, unless you've completely isolated yourself and locked your daughters in the basement of your fortress, there's now more incestuous relationships on this Island than in an Arkansas statehouse. (And that is realistic, too. After all, when Elisabeth ordered Mary's execution, wasn't she killing her own cousin?)

And while you're trying to conquer this Island in the glorious name of Scotland, you run out of money. And you run out again. And again. In other words, you're poor. Not just poor, but dirt poor. Poorer than third world countries. In fact, by medieval standards, you ARE a third world country. Homeless people have more florin than you. And no amount of fancy financial juggling will change that fact. Face it, you can be as tight as, well, a Scotsperson and you'll still be begging for sheep from your Irish relatives.

Oh yeah, things aren't looking very good for the ole' Scottish Empire.

Now, if you're lucky enough to conquer the Island, you get to fight, well, the French. Who are, in fact, probably half-related to you anyway. But they hate you nonetheless. (Actually, they hate the English; it's just that in two thousand years, they still haven't learned to tell the rest of the Island apart.) The exception is, of course, unless you somehow marry your daughter off to France before you launch an attack on England. Then, the French will be just about as useful to you as they were to Mary Queen of Scots.

Wait a minute, she died. Hmm . . .

On second thought, just don't count on the French.

Well, in the middle of all this, doomed as I was to certain failure, the sun setting (or to be more accurate, plunging) on the glory of St. Andrew's Cross, I heard in my mind a sound that can only be attributed to my great-great grandfather several times removed.

And chuckling, he was.

Well, at that moment, I knew what I had to do. I exited the game and did not save it. I picked up the phone and called a young woman and made a date for dinner.

And, when the waiter was placing our entree on the table, and she looked at me with those glowing eyes and asked, "So, your name, is that Scottish or Irish?"

"Neither," I replied, taking a sip of my wine. "It's French."

"Really? Is it true what they say about the Frenchmen being lovers?"

I smile. "Absolutely." After all, I should get something more out of this name than just a kilt.

The Shadow One

:duel:

Money is the root of all evil. To remain pure, make your parents pay.

Nice story, thanks for sharing it ~:)

Sasaki:

Thanks, always nice to know someone reads my work.

The Shadow One

:duel:

Remember, a mother's love is worth the love of a dozen other women. Unless, of course, the other woman is Angelina Jolie. Then, mother, look out! :kiss2:

The Shadow One,

You should not blame your grand-father for immigrating to Canada. Those damn Scots built this country. ~:cheers:

Also, the kilt, even in Canada, has a noble heritage. During the war,German soldiers refered to Canadian soldiers in kilts as "The Ladies from Hell".

And whatever ability you have to woo the women comes from your Canadian grand-father's side. All us Canucks have The Gift. :cool4:

Shadow, despite your non-kilt avowals, I'm picturing you something like this:

https://secure.utilikilts.com/250H/rob-250H.jpg

Is that so wrong?

Lemurmania:

That is some picture. What really intrigues me is the kilt itself. It's not plaid, it's actually camouflage (from the French meaning: hide thy face behind the lie -- a concept I'm not completely unfamiliar with), and urban camo, at that. I cannot help but wonder if this is to be the fashion rage among the Royal Scots, The Queen's Own Highlanders or the Black Watch regiments of the British Army. To recapture some of the fighting spirit of an age long past, they will now wear kilts into battle. Might get a bit breezy, if you catch my drift. Hmmm . . .

No, I really haven't worn a kilt before.

But an incident comes to mind: While in law school, four of us decided to spend the weekend in one of the National Parks near the Univeristy. The park is huge and contains thousands of square miles of heavy forest. The forest is so inpenetrable and the likelihood of getting lost so great, that the National Park Service required anyone who entered to purchase a special pass, a topographical map, and sign a waiver releasing the Park Service from all liability in the event a member of the party got lost and something bad happened to them.

We hiked all day Friday, paying careful attention to where we were going, but still trying to explore the unchartered forest. We were so exhausted from our hike that, when we camped that night, we fell asleep almost as soon as we hit the ground. Despite our weariness, we were awakened during the night to strange sounds, raw and animalistic, howling from the shadows of the trees around us.

Saturday involved more hiking and now we moved deeper into the forest, until we came to a clearing where some previous campers had erected a fire circle (a large circle of stones in which to build a campfire) and large stone table. Naturally, we were disappointed to find someone else had actually been there first, but we decided to take advantage of the clearing and made our camp there.

Carter, one of the party, produced a couple of bottles of Captain Morgan's and, after dinner, we began to drink and get roudy. We were telling stories about each other (mostly true) and the women we'd been with (mostly false), when suddenly, at the edge of the campfire, appeared four of the most beautiful women we'd ever seen.

Dark they were, yes, with long dark hair and black eyes and skin the color of coffee and cream. I can't seem to recall what they were wearing, just the image of their laughing faces around the campfire, their sharp, white teeth glowing in the firelight.

Well, of course, we got a little liberal with the Captain Morgan's (althought I don't seem to recall the women drinking any . . . strange, eh?). The rest of the night was a blur of shadows in the woods, leaping flames, beautiful dark eyes and teeth. I do seem to remember teeth.

Well, the next morning when we woke up, we were amazed to find ourselves on the edge of the National Forest, not a mile from the Ranger Station. Completely exhausted, we attributed our relocation to the Captain's heady influence, and hiked to our car and drove back to the city. The only sign that the women were not figments of our respective imaginations (a bizzare group hallucination, if you will) were the series of intense hickeys that colored each of our necks. There were a few cursory comments about the women, some jokes about restless natives, but a lingering ache in our necks, and our loins, took the fun out of the conversation.

My friends dropped me off and as I started up the stairs to my apartment, I passed Mrs. Kelsey, an gypsy woman who lived in our building. She stared at me as I passed, whispering, "Mother of God," and crossing herself twice. It was only when I removed my jacket and denim shirt that I realized my t-shirt was covered with blood. I ran to the mirror and studied my neck carefully. Sure enough, in the center of each hickey, was a jagged, open wound about the size of an medium nail. As I stood there, staring at my mauled neck, I began to wonder just what the hell happend in the woods that night.

Jerking off my t-shirt, I just about fainted.

My torso was covered with lacerations. It looked like I'd been whipped with a cat-o-nine tales. And when I removed the rest of my clothes . . . well, there were these strange boils and burns on my thighs.

Needless to say, we never went back to the woods again. The wounds healed, including the burns, and my doctor pronounced me as fit as could be expected for a introvert that avoids all forms of physical exercise. In fact, there have been no lasting effects that I'm aware of, other than the need to eat my meat a little rare (No, waiter, I want it bleeding on the plate . . . Bleeding . . . You know, blood dripping?) and the sudden urge to relieve myself whenever I see a parked car.

Hmmm . . . maybe there's something to the picture after all.

The Shadow One

:duel:

The woods are full of dark and scary things. Send your sister in first.

Shadow, glad to see you survived your encounter with the sucubii. Or ... did you?

The picture is from UtiliKilts, a place that sells them here in the U.S. There are far scarier pictures:

https://secure.utilikilts.com/photog...kiltncigar.jpg

And that's just a sample. This could be you, Shadow, if only you'd embrace your scottish heritage.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by The Shadow One

"So, your name, is that Scottish or Irish?"

"Neither," I replied, taking a sip of my wine. "It's French."

"Really? Is it true what they say about the Frenchmen being lovers?"

I smile. "Absolutely." After all, I should get something more out of this name than just a kilt.

---

Better be careful with boasts like that. When you do get some, she'll only be terribly disappointed...

Funny story. ~D

Lemur:

Man oh man, that is one frightening image. Nothing I saw in the forest that night even comes close to distorting my psyche like that picture. If I have nightmares for just a week, I'll consider myself blessed and light a candle in gratitude.

And to think that somewhere, far, far down my family tree, there just might be someone that looks a little like that . . . Oh, that Darwin had been right and I was just related to apes. (Wait a minute, I think he is an ape. Scratch that thought.)

And the website is a real charmer, too. :rolleyes3:

The Shadow One

:duel:

Louis: Thanks for the advice. As a CUA (Certified Under Achiever) I usually do try to sell myself short, just to meet expectations in actual performance.

PanzerJager: As always, I thank you for the note and for reading. This weeks musing was a little long, so I appreciate you taking the time (and then even more time to comment). It's people like you that . . .

[The sound of gagging and choking as The Shadow One is dragged off stage.]

The Shadow One

:duel:

Death is not the end. When they bury you, that's the end.

I usually wouldnt continue reading such a long post about something im not particularly intrested in.. scotsmen.. but your post kept my attention and was entertaining. The mark of a true author.. ~D

Keep it up.

Well written.

~:joker: Very nice.

The thing is some men do look good in kilts. Proper kilts with the matching clothes, I hasten to add, not those wannabe fashion versions worn with a t-shirt, jeans or anything else. It's only a very few who can pull it off, but those few who do look good. It's like Bond and his suit; not everyone can wear a suit like that.

:looks around at staring, horrified patrons: No I do not have a thing for Bond or kilts! I'm just very slightly vulnerable to smart yet dashing.
:smitten:

I'm part english (way back like they moved here in the late 1600s) so I'm kinda like the guys that uses extreme numbers to kill the kiltwearers lol j/k.

Men in Skirts = nighmares for a year.

PJ, DA, et al.: Again, very kind words, seriously. Otherwise, I'm just kind of musing to myself.

Lady Frog: I am trying but I just don't see it. Maybe it's because I've been to too many Scottish Wedding wanta-bees (the most recent featured a sword through the wedding cake -- the psychological impications of that little gesture could fill a years worth of musings) where the groom and all the males wear kilts. (Or, to put it another way, everyone in the wedding party is in a dress).

I have yet to see someone carry it off, smoothly and without me wanting to glance down and ask if all their regular clothes are at the cleaners. Maybe it's the plaid knee socks or that thing hanging down the front that looks like a dead animal, but it just doesn't work for me. However, I've never actually been to England or Scotland and so, you know, maybe there are men who make it work over there.

Capo: Well, I suppose you English did manage to kill quite a few Scots in your time, although my somewhat hazy recollection of history seems to recall the English army was never quite able to defeat Scotland in a war. The actual "domination" of Scotland occured when Elizabeth died and James, being a rational and well-adjusted male of the species, realized the most restricted part of London was a damn site more entertaining than all of Scotland and moved his capital there. Two generations later, Scotland is a subject to England and without the loss of a single skirt-wearing man.

Am I wrong? (Seriously, I could be.)

Anyway, thanks to all and I'll be back next Friday night. I'm not sure what the topic will be but I'm thinking sometime this month I need to do a little tribute the greatest holiday of the year. Maybe a frightening little story, a cross between Washinton Irving and Vladimir Nabokov.

The Shadow One

:duel:

Keep your eyes on the ball and you'll never see your opponent take you out.

I ahve not the slightest clue. All I know is, we won the battle of Falkirk (we did, right???)

that was hysterical! good writing.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by The Shadow One

Am I wrong? (Seriously, I could be.)

---

Absolutely not. In terms of the transition from Elizabeth to James, and the moving of the capital, you're spot-on. In fact, James was considered so Scottish and so gay by his subjects that he was derisively referred to as a "Scottish Queen" while he was having the King James Bible created.

Funny bit of trivia, that.

I never cease being amazed at how people still refer to themself as Scottish or whatever nationality someone had when they moved to the New World. One would think all those people would mix up over time and become something new.

Well, perhaps not. I hear there's places like Boston and New York that are more Irish than Eire ever was. ~D

Good story anyway, and too true. My brother, being a seaman, does run into odd notions about our people too. Seems Finnish sailors aren't allowed to take part in drinking games. Apparently we're all professional drunkards. ~:cheers: And people sometimes check extra carefully for knives, since all Finns carry one and use it for killing people when drunk.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by The Shadow One

It does happen, you know.

---

Fortunately it is now happening almost every week and I'm beginning to look forward to it, scouring the boards for your name every now and then... As one of your earliest admirers and unqualified moral supporters, allow me to heap yet more praise onto your overburdened shoulders for that little pseudo-ethnic diatribe - it's spot on as well as hilarious. Give my best regards to your parents as usual and let them take comfort from the knowledge that there is at least one Dutch couple wondering what the [insert large clumpy wooden shoe sideways, then rotate] is wrong with their sole offspring.

Following on from Spetulhu, one of the things that really, really annoyed me about Americans when I lived there was they way they would claim to be "100% Irish" or "100% Scottish" because their great, great, great grandaddy was from there :furious3: They weren't Scottish or Irish or whatever, they were American!!!!!!! :furious3:

So, TSO, I am glad you refuse to embrace your Scottish "heritage". And after all, whats so great about being Scottish? ~;) you wanna know the reason why Scotland was never conquered by the English? (or the Romans for that matter) Its cos there was nothing of value there! Why fight a bunch of red haired skirt wearing barbarians for land of no real value? ~:) :duel:

Embracing your Scottish "ancestry" means that you have to hate the English for a bunch of real & imaginary grievances from about 800 years ago and go on and on and on and on and on about a couple of isolated military victories from equally long ago :duel:

*runs and hides from hordes of rampaging Scots after English blood - specifically my English blood*

Following on from Spetulhu, one of the things that really, really annoyed me about Americans when I lived there was they way they would claim to be "100% Irish" or "100% Scottish" because their great, great, great grandaddy was from there

and the funny thing is even though they hold onto that their still some of the most patriotic guys around, at least in the western world.