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

[The Shadow One]

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



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