UPDATE: Corrected after a review left by nyada pointed out that 'brasser' is not only Irish slang, therefore wouldn't really be used by anyone in Northern Ireland, but also that it isn't commonly used in Ireland anymore, making it probably a fair bit dated. As such, it has been removed. Thank you, nyada, for pointing this out!

A series of short stories explaining how Britain may have reacted to certain developments in the news, be they historical or modern. The stories will jump about significantly, so take note of the chapter title.

How Scotland may have treated England after the results of a new survey.

Anything followed by a * has a note attached which can be seen at the end of the chapter.

Scots stand proud in accent polls

17th January 2005


The door produced a deafening bang once it had collided with the wall into which it had been thrown. The culprit of this abusive handling of the door was, rather predictably, France. There were only a handful of nations that had the nerve to be so brash and rude and three of them were already in the room at the time. France, being France, had not noticed this. Instead, France closed his eyes, held his hands to his mouth and sang out his traditional greeting:

"Oh, ~ Bretagnnnnne*"


"Ye could at least try an' say it! It sounds better when ye say it my way!"

"Why the HELL are you holding a SAUCEPAN!"

France had chosen a poor moment to visit his younger brother over the Manche*, but he wasn't aware that it was a poor moment, it just so happened to be this way when he arrived. It wasn't an irregular occurrence, to enter a room and see Britain fighting his siblings, but France would be lying if he said he wasn't slightly concerned about the fact that Scotland had somehow taken control of a casserole*. The only thing that concerned France more than Scotland's possession of a casserole was the fact that the other two, usually fairly boisterous countries, were hiding behind the canapé*.


"Now say it in Scottish!"

France snickered slightly as he watched the elder of the two sparring countries chase the youngest around the kitchen brandishing the aforementioned weapon, and apparently threatening to hit poor Britain on the head with it. Though highly amusé* by the situation, France decided to join the two hiding nations behind the canapé in order to find out exactly what had happened to cause a fight between the two countries, yet again. At least, that's the reason France gave for wanting to join the two nations behind the canapé.

"What has happened, mes petits?" queried France, each word of his question seeming to become caught and purr in his throat before being released, "Why are they fighting?"

"New survey's come out. 'Pparently, the Scottish are really proud of their accents," replied Northern Ireland, voice so loaded with sarcasm so as to be tangible, "I would never 'av guessed."

"Bon," nodded France, aware of Scotland's virtually infamous pride, "But how does this explain why they are fighting?"

"Oh, when do they ever stop?" replied Wales, speaking very clear English but with a notable accent entirely separate and distinctive from that of dear Bretagne's, "They're always fightin', it's a wonder we ever get anything done with those two!"


France smiled. He found all of the accents of Britain greatly amusing, even if a couple of them caused him a great deal of difficulté*. What he found even more amusing than this though, was that the previously all-powerful British Empire was being beaten around the head by his older brother with a casserole. France briefly observed that perhaps he ought to be recording this with something, just to show the rest of the world's nations what family life was actually like for Britain. That or he could just record it and use it as a form of blackmail later on.



Scotland visibly paused. The (now) three countries hiding behind the canapé dared to peer their heads over the edge slowly. Whilst Britain was cowering in one corner of the kitchen, staring at the saucepan as though it were the most terrifying thing in the world, Scotland was standing in the centre of the kitchen. His left hand, still clutching said saucepan, lay across his abdomen so that his right elbow could teeter on it. Holding his chin thoughtfully and gazing off into the distance, Scotland pondered his little brother's question as though it were somewhat more significant than it actually was.

France noted, because he was France, that Scotland towered powerfully over his little frère. There was at least a head in height difference between the two nations, though Britain's cowering made it difficult to estimate precisely what number of centimètres separated the two brothers. Britain seemed somewhat shorter and feebler looking when compared to Scotland, who seemed to be physically stronger, with an apparently greater number of toned muscles. However, whether this was just due to his naturally more aggressive personality (and therefore propensity to get himself into fights) was a contentious area.

The two were evidently related, sharing the same sparkling green eyes. Gazing from a distance, France noticed that Scotland's eyes were a bit of a darker green, resembling more the foggy, mysterious and more fantastical green of the Highlands than the bright green pastures more commonly associated with the fields of England. Even their hair wasn't all that dissimilar: Scotland's hair took the same uncontrollable, boring, predictable shape. However, unlike Britain's ashen blonde, Scotland's mane of hair was a distinctive red, seeming to burn like a deep brick red flame rather than the more common bright orange-like red.

"Why am Ah hittin' ye 'til ye speak with a Scottish accent?" repeated Scotland, tapping his chin thoughtfully, before an insanely cruel smile broke out on his face and he declared loudly (and slightly hysterically), "Coz it's fun!"

"FUN!" cried out Britain in what was probably a combination of shock, horror and pure mortification, "You're a sick bastard, Scotland."

"That wasnae a Scottish accent, was it?" smirked Scotland, thwacking the gleaming metal saucepan against his hand, apparently immune to the pain which the cooking utensil wrought, "Ye mus' like bein' burst in the head with a saucepan."

France, and his two neutral friends, probably should have done something to aid their ally, but they feared for their own safety, because Scotland was bloody terrifying at the best of times. Seriously, a man that chooses to wear a kilt (essentially a jupe*, let's face it) without anything underneath in winter, is clearly a bit loose in the head. It was the 21st century and the man was still wearing tartan kilts, though he had apparently taken to wearing underwear underneath them (usually whenever France was around). Scotland was, arguably, the hardest, scariest country in the world and France wasn't going to go against him for Bretagne's sake.

An awkward silence fell between the three countries hiding behind the canapé as they watched Britain fall to Scotland at the hands of the devious cooking utensil. Britain, stupidly, had backed himself into a corner, and Scotland was not renowned for his mercy against the English (who in turn were not well known for theirs against the Scottish). They observed the scene in vague fascination as Britain, somehow, managed to squirm his way out of the corner and ran for his life away from his crueller, older brother.

"Alrigh' then, Scotland's beatin' up England again," sighed Wales, before ignoring (to the best of his ability) the situation and interrogating France, "What're you doing 'ere anyway, broga*?"

"I was just here to see my petit frère," purred France, silkily (as always), "And it was a plus to see you as well."

"I'm sure it wus," sniggered Northern Ireland, often referred to as 'North' by his brothers because his name was otherwise a lengthy thing to say, "Why ye really 'ere?"

"Why," replied France, feigning injury, "Can I not just visit my dear Bretagne?"

"Don' mess around," frowned Wales, known, despite his protestations, for being quite amicable towards England, though (going by the standards of his other brothers) he was really just behaving normally towards the suffering sibling, "What's going on?"

"I am not plotting anything… dangerous against your precious Bretagne, if that was what you were thinking," responded France, having genuinely just popped over to check up on his younger brother, "I just wanted to see how he was."

"Really?" asked Wales, finding the statement difficult to believe, though unable to question further as the battle suddenly escalated, "Oh what have they-"




"Uh," came the normally very self-assured Scottish accent, "We might av a slight problem."

"'Ow slight?" queried Northern Ireland, still from behind the relatively questionable safety of the canapé.

"His head is bleedin'," informed Scotland, having placed the saucepan on the work surface before slowly walking away from the kitchen, "Ah think mebbe we should just leave."

Having regained enough confiance* to leave their hiding place behind the canapé, France, North and Wales approached Scotland, of whom they remained dubious. They approached the kitchen and peered over the kitchen counter that parted it from the front room. On the floor, limp as a kitten but pretty much spread-eagle across the floor, lay Britain. The trio, minus Scotland (naturally), sighed. All four of them silently acknowledged that the Englishman never managed to look quite so peaceful and chilled when conscious.

"We can't leave 'im like that," sighed Wales, "He'll only complain about the mess."

Wales made his way over to a large cabinet, which all of the four nations present knew very well. It was the first aid cabinet, though it felt like a drastic understatement to refer to it as a cabinet. It was at least deux mètres tall and un mètre wide, and there were seven or so shelves of equipment for treating everything from cardiac arrest to a blister to a collapsed lung. Returning with alcohol wipes, a tetanus shot and bandages, Wales entered the kitchen to treat his unconscious brother.

The other three nations had followed Wales into the kitchen but only North opted to actually help. Scotland was leaning, supposedly nonchalantly, against the work surface, trying not to look guilty or a little bit concerned, whilst France was standing behind the two helping nations with a wicked smile on his face. North was holding petite Bretagne's body up whilst Wales set about cleaning and bandaging the bloody patch which indicated where the saucepan had done its worst. It was sweet, in a twisted way, to see how the siblings supported the one they had just mangled.

"Ye can leave if ye want to," sighed Scotland, watching France warily though his tone didn't obviously indicate suspicion of the Frenchman, "He won't be wakin' up fur a while."

"Did you really hit him that hard?" asked France.

"Pff, should be used to it by now," grumped Scotland, frowning slightly as he watched France's face light up like a perverted schoolboy, "English bastard."

"Why don't you call him Britain?" asked France, having only just noticed that the three brothers had never ever referred to him by the name used by every other nation in the world (to France's knowledge), "I thought that was his name."

"S'complicated," began North, turning around to look at France, though immediately being disturbed by France's proximity to where his arse had been seconds earlier, "Ter us 'e is, an' always 'as been, England, so we call 'im England."

"He's the one who holds us all together," explained Wales, wrapping the bandage around even as faint moans begin to whisper from the Englishman's throat, "So we let 'im call 'imself Britain with you lot, though technically, he's the United Kingdom, but he's always been England to us."

"Or Albion* if we feel like pissin' 'im off." added Scotland, not entirely helpfully.

It was one short minute later that the white bandage had been successfully secured in place, much of it thanks to Wales's well-practised first aid skills. Bretagne was left sleeping on the floor of the kitchen with the white bandage forming a sort of halo around his head. The four conscious nations, no longer concerned for his welfare, decided to go down to the pub and get pissed, mainly because none of them wanted to be there when the Englishman finally woke up.

The poor attempts at conveying the countries' respective accents were aided by '.uk' and no insult is intended. Additionally, I am basing the physical appearance of the characters of Scotland, Wales and on a DeviantArt picture created by Annaciel, which I would advise you go and see.

According to surveys, the Scottish are very proud of their accents (rightfully so); it's something like 73% of them are proud of their accents. Whilst the Scottish don't openly attack people with English accents or force us to try and use theirs, I thought it would make an amusing little story.

*Bretagne: Britain, I could have used Royaume-Uni (which is UK and would have been much more politically correct) but being as all of the nations in the English Dub refer to him as Britain, I thought it would be the most appropriate (though inaccurate)

*Manche: the English Channel

*casserole: saucepan

*canapé: the French word for sofa, though the word 'sofa' does exist as a French noun

*amusé: amused

*Sassenach: a friendly term of abuse used by Scots to describe the English, according to Wikipedia it's still used though I've never been called it

*difficulté: difficulty

*jupe: skirt

*broga: according to Google Translate (which I hate using) it means 'frog', if you are Welsh-speaking and know this is wrong, please let me know; as a linguist I know how annoying it can be to see people butcher languages with Google

*confiance: confidence

*Albion: an uncommon way of referring to England, it's not really used outside of fantasy works and football nowadays (West Bromwich Albion like to boast about the fact that Albion is in their club's name)