this is what happens.`

they were ken fine, and they were.

in the shadow of the Citadel, they fought. how they rained it down, the fire, the madness, and still we rose up and said, 'ye shall nae hae this city'. They the French said, 'look, m8, we hae set yez on fire and the air smells as if a Pork Chop Roast.'

And we said, ye bloy spalpeen bastards, this is our city and you will take it if we be dead or mouldering.

And it sort of ended up that way.

'But we won. So f*ck off.'

-monsieur le bastard rotten, late of loisbourg, cape breton, turncoat internationale, on the taking of the Citadel, by the French, late 1800s

Mister Alfred, whose last name was an unadvertised 'Dreadful', walked down with hands clasped behein his back, and languished a bit. The ironclads were closed up at London, and in Portsmouth he had a batch of flaming wreckage.

'Sakes,' he mumbled. Portsmouth was rather taken by the French. In a spectacular meltdown, now, the French Navy, as patently laughable as it went, even if it was newly and vigorously led by a divinely resurrected Richileu.... OK. so this wasn't so laughable. The Richileu was here, in the flesh, and the greatest Admiral England had fielded was in a sickbed with the trifling flu... may we act, may we do, may me what?

Naval simulacrum! Bring it, English spunks! =D

Oh. So -that- is what happens when I'm drunk. 'Sakes. My apologies.