TLIAD: La Isla Blanca
- Thread starter Lord Roem
- Start date
Not as much as his younger brother, No-Fornication-or-Sodomy-or-Onanism Gladstone.
They inherited a proud tradition from grandpa No-Nocturnal-Pollutions Gladstone. Their modern descendants probably would change the familly name to Sadstone.
Dr. Strangelove
Banned
Maybe in the 20th century those names go on as a proud british tradition, but stripped of religious meaning.
Here's looking forward to Britain's first socialist Lord President; If-You-Tolerate-This-Then-Your-Children-Will-Be-Next Jenkins.
I-Shoot-Every-Tenth-Trespasser-The-Ninth-One-Just-Left Palmerston.
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[Puritanism intensifies]
I am looking forward to Britain's Franco - and, presumably, Spain's role as a bulwark against European fascism. While allohistory.net's Chat section argues over the 'return' of the 'Isle of Wight' (to use its offensive name) to Britain, the After 1913 board will clearly have a big sticky with a Glossary of Operation Mountain Lion Threads.
'Crossing the Pyrenees is totally ASB, guys, you need a POD in 1910s France to give Napoleon V even a snowball's chance of getting the Chasseurs Alpins across into Spain without being cut down - and don't forget that Iglesia told his cabinet he would be prepared to deploy mustard gas in the foothills...'
I am looking forward to Britain's Franco - and, presumably, Spain's role as a bulwark against European fascism. While allohistory.net's Chat section argues over the 'return' of the 'Isle of Wight' (to use its offensive name) to Britain, the After 1913 board will clearly have a big sticky with a Glossary of Operation Mountain Lion Threads.
'Crossing the Pyrenees is totally ASB, guys, you need a POD in 1910s France to give Napoleon V even a snowball's chance of getting the Chasseurs Alpins across into Spain without being cut down - and don't forget that Iglesia told his cabinet he would be prepared to deploy mustard gas in the foothills...'
While no doubt complaining about the French leaving their towels on the deck chairs and how you can't get a good bottle of cerveza - nothing but Barril Rojo.
Cheers,
Nigel.
And Spanish animal rights activists protesting bear and bull baiting, which are still somewhat popular.
As we know, Paco, bull fighting died in Spain at the close of the 19th century...
... save for traditional bull tournaments done on horse by the rich.
Which are also heavily protested against as well, but seem to go on nonetheless.
“This way, please Sir.”
There was an even more brooding, austere air to Windsor Castle than usual. The romantic, almost fairy-tale candy colours and turrets of the early 18th Century restoration were still there, but the windows were still slathered in flaking black-paint, with the vast lawn of the inner court now dug up and replaced with a vegetable patch - with a half-dozen Atmos-Guns dotted around like martial scarecrows.
Fight-The-Good-Fight-For-Faith Chamberlain, the Secretary of State for the Interior, winced as he was helped out of the staff tank by one of the Legionaries that the new regime had taken to using as an new official bodyguard. The Grenadiers had been disbanded after that da-m fool Charteris had lept into action too soon back in ‘03 - and neither he, nor the Lord President, had had time to think about reorganising them in the chaos that had followed the ‘Glorious Fifteenth’ and Maxwell’s death in the Dirigible explosion over Exmoor.
Another man, a civilian this time (what was the fellow’s name, Chamberlain thought to himself, Edmundsbury? Fife?) was waiting in the Entrance Hall for him.
“The Cabinet is already meeting to discuss the latest from Clydeside, Interior Minister” the flunkie explained, “but I had informed them that you would be delayed given the circumstances.”
“Circumstances” was a polite way of describing the act of shooting fifteen striking Miners in the Rhondda, Chamberlain thought to himself. He paused on the landing, coughing. The handkerchief came back, flecked with blood. The aide stopped a couple of stairs ahead of him, giving him a respectful pause to take a swing of whatever vile concoction had been prepared for him this time.
“Shall we continue, Minister?”
Chamberlain grimaced. Losing a lung in Plymouth was a decent enough war-wound, he thought to himself, but it meant that he had the stamina of a man twenty years older than him.
The doors to the makeshift Cabinet Chamber - formerly used as Henry X’s dining room - were opened by two members of the Wessex Guard, their Wyvern insignia shining in the gaslight.
None of the Cabinet rose, but a few heads turned and nodded at the his arrival.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” Chamberlain said, taking a seat next to Blackwood, the First Sea Lord, “I was unaccountably delayed.”
“No need to apologise, God-Botherer,” the Colonial Secretary barked in cruel amusement, “we made good time without you.”
Noel Pemberton Billing - the Minister for Theological Affairs - gruffered.
“How is Unity?”, he continued.
“Quite well,” Chamberlain replied, fiddling with his fountain pen.
“If I could call you all to order,” the Lord High Constable said from the head of the table, “I rather feel that you’ve done enough to make Mr Chamberlain feel welcome.”
Field Marshal Sir James Grierson was one of the younger men around the Cabinet table, but was unquestionably the most powerful figure in the Isles since the time of the Absolute Monarchs (which, to be frank, he was in all but name.) Back in the summer of 1905, his star had appeared to be on the wane, thanks to a third, failed attempt to recapture London. However, a successful pacification of Ireland, a respected term as Military Governor of Mercia, and - perhaps most importantly of all - being neither a limp-wristed Constitutionalist, nor an unabashed Synthesist made him an acceptable candidate to all camps. His appointment as Supreme Military Commander during the dying days of the Second Commonwealth had be assured, as had his assumption of political control soon after.
“If the Secretary of State for Scotland would be so kind as to repeat the latest news from the Clyde for the benefit of Mr Chamberlain,” Grierson said.
If-God-Died-For-Our-Sins Hamilton-Gordon, the erstwhile Earl of Aberdeen, cleared his throat as a rumble of cannonfire rolled over from the direction of Eton.
“The present situation amongst the Unified Diggers is grim” the Hamilton-Gordon said, barely suppressing a smirk, “our landships have provided us a beachhead in Constitution Square, and I am reliably informed that representatives of the ‘moderate’ faction may come over to our side within the next day or so. Supplies of materiel; shells, armour casing and the like, are reaching critical levels for them, as are provisions of more basic necessities, not least clean water,”
Two thirds of the Cabinet were nodding, delighted. The other third, including Chamberlain, sat in appalled silence.
The Lord High Constable clasped his hands in thought before rising to his feet and approaching the two tapestries that hung on the East Wall. One, showing the Mace of Parliamentary Authority signified the old world, whilst the other - a stylised Round Table - showed the ‘New Britain’ that Grierson had set out to create, simultaneously ancient and modern, and very much of an Anglo-Saxon air.
After a few seconds of contemplation, Grierson spoke again.
“This does, fortuitously, reduce the pressures currently facing us on the Channel.”
Henry Verney, the Southern Secretary, consulted his notes.
“The Dutch embargo of the Straits continues to harm our trade via East Anglia,” he said, “although I am reliably informed that a third shipment of Landships and Dirigibles from the État will arrive at Southampton by the end of the month. Foreign volunteers for the Diggers have also seen a marked decline over the past quarter, mainly by virtue of the new government in New Denmark clamping down on returnees.”
“And what of Vectis?”
“Ah...” Verney said, turning a page, “...it rather continues to rebuff any advances from our Emissary there.”
“Why can’t we just shell the b-stads?!” Charles Spencer-Churchill yelled.
“I would rather not given any excuse for the Spanish to declare for the Commonwealth,” Verney replied, “we would rather risk invoking an Article Nine response by the Viennese Collective.”
“Quite so,” Grierson responded, throwing an irritated expression at the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster “and despite M. Pujo’s ambitions, I have no intention of throwing us into a general war on the continent, not whilst Churches burn, Lancashire starves and rebellion ferments in Cymru.”
Chamberlain - against himself - joined in the nodding.
“Who cares for whatever we have to gain from Boetticher’s Classicists in Frankfurt,” Grierson continued, “it is a fight that can wait for another time.”
It was Spencer-Churchill, Pemberton Billing, and the other Synthesists' time to look morose now.
“No,” the Lord High Constable said, “the Clyde comes first, then Cymru, then - if we are not too exhausted, then, perhaps, the Channel.”
He raised his hand, alone.
“The Ayes have it,” he concluded, “the Ayes have it.”
Who needed a new Constitution, Chamberlain thought despondently, when Magna Carta doesn’t seem to even being followed anymore?
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As a serious comment, I didn't spot 'Vectis' the first time around, so was disapponted there was no longer any mention of the IoW. But of course there is! And a clever one, too. I will admit I think you're taking the piss with the Puritan names now (I mean that affectionately).
But neither of those are meaningful criticisms: the world you're creating is EdT and Thande -esque, which is a great compliment. Our *Spanish Civil War has come earlier than expected, it seems, and Grierson is our Franco. L'État is a magnificent way of suggesting in one, simple word that France is fascist (or worse) now. And 'Viennese Collective' is my favourite addition to the canon.
Onwards, Jack. This is a great piece of work.
