NationStates Jolt Archive

My fellow delegates, it has come to my attention that - possibly as a result of the unusual stress under which we have been working - many delegates have been behaving in manners which are...er...less than becoming for a representative of a sovereign government at such an august body as this.
Therefore, it is with great joy that I announce the establishment of the United Nations Strangers' Bar.

For those unfamiliar with the term, the name harks back to the days of the Westminster system in England, where MPs would receive guests there - constituents, lobbyists and so on. Over time, the Strangers' Bar evolved into a kind of private club to which the politicians could repair for food, drink and convivial company aside from the strain of legislation.
Those who have seen the series "Yes Minister" and "Yes Prime Minister" know that, in addition, many "back room deals" are also organised within the Bar as the free flow of hospitality breaks down barriers of ideology and party politics.

The Bar here is open and all UN representatives are most welcome to avail themselves of it, whether just for a drink or two or to nut out something more serious involving the politics of the United Nations. I am sure that all members will take full advantage of the facilities.

OOC: This is a rather strange beast, an open RP set in the United Nations and with a constantly-revolving cast of characters. The nearest thread I can imagine would be some of the "House" threads in General.
The theory is simple, instead of trumpeting proposals constantly, UN members can come in and sit down here in peace and quiet to discuss the ins and outs of certain issues and then trumpet proposals. Obviously it would be handy if everyone had a "character" for their UN persona, but I accept that not everyone using this forum is that much into RP so it's not compulsory by any means.
The only catch is that this is not intended to turn into an extension of the boozy parties that some threads seem to. There's a certain decorum to be maintained in a Bar like this, even if your nation is a cross between Libya, Saddam's Iraq, Haiti and Zimbabwe.
Setting-wise, I imagine a kind of a marriage between a quality English pub and a gentlemans' club (not in the brothel sense, in the "I'm just popping down to the club, old sport" sense). A few billiards tables maybe, possibly a dart board, a few private-looking alcoves, a menu catering to all tastes, beers from around the world on tap, most spirits known to man somewhere about, wood-panelled walls, leather chairs and a collection of old maps and portraits of old diplomats on the walls.

Great idea!

Most clubshave trophy cases, don't they? We could have cups for "most often attempted overworked issues", such as abortion, gay marriage, and abolition of religion.

Hmm, it smells good; fine food, cigars, and aged drinks perfume the air.

I believe I'll have some broiled red snapper with capers and a spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette.

*wanders over toward the billiard s tables while the order is being prepared*

Hi, I'm John Marat, I've been sent to the UN by Albion because I'm too useless for the real world. I think that a UN bar is a marvelous idea. ^_^

You've been great, I've been John Marat, thanks for listening. ^_^

Wonderful! One of the finest suggestions I've seen in this forum. Hmm... I'd like a pint of Seductively Smooth and the liver and onions, please.

Much obliged
Samuel Smith
Speaker for t'Pub
Community of Ecopoeia

Ahh, it's ready.

*digs in*

Mmm...say, may I have some Earl Grey wiwith this? Much thanks.

Anyone play backgammon?

Absolutely - I'm a bit rusty but hopefully I'll be able to offer you a decent contest. I just happen to have a chess set with me as well.

The recommended method is a barrage of I.G.N.O.R.E. Cannons.The plural of cannon is cannon, not cannons.Fris - I may call you Fris, may I? - are you sure that "cannon" is both singular and plural? I'm certain I've heard "The cannons spoke again" somewhere, as well as the famous "Cannon to the left of them/cannon to the right of them/into the valley of death/rode the six hundred."

-Overheard at the Strangers' Bar of the UN complex during a meeting between MJ Donovan of Frisbeeteria and Graf von Hermannstein of Enodia
Fris is fine. Consider this:

"There were fifty mounted cannon in the battery
Thundering, thundering, louder than before"

If you can't consider Meredith Wilson's "Seventy-Six Trombones" a definitive source, what can you trust?

Care for a few games of pool, Herr Graf? Or should we make that billiards, since pool is a known corrupting influence, and we know that Enodians in general avoid the taint of corruption like unto the plague?

What a jolly fine idea, all the best ideas are made over some quality alcohol, with quality folk, in quality settings. Now, do we let those 'women' into this old boys club?
Sir Albert Threllfall Ambassador to Bahgum

[ooc: /me huggles Enodia for this excellent idea]

Lord Evif, the Goobergunchian UN Ambassador, sat down at the bar. "It's been a hard few months in this chamber," he says. "Pour me a stiff one."

Absolutely - I'm a bit rusty but hopefully I'll be able to offer you a decent contest. I just happen to have a chess set with me as well.

Right, then!

*rubs hands*

What goes with the game; brandy perhaps? No, too early yet. Gin and tonic then.

Now: what will be our stakes?

If you'll just excuse me for a moment - *gulps remainder of Seductively Smooth, smacks lips, belches contentedly* - thank you, I'll join you in a G&T (extra lemon, easy on the ice).

Stakes...how about keeping it simple as I'm not a gambling man? Loser buys the next round?

*Waves* Hi, I'm John Marat, Albion's UN spokesperson! I see that you're enjoying yourseves, but can I intrude for just a second? thanks! I've just finished my latest book, its called 'Even Rvolutionaries Have An Inner Child'. and its about getting in touch with your real feelings okaay? Alright, you guys just think it over and let me know what you think okaay?

You've been wonderful, thanks for listening ^_^

Ah yes, Fris. Some pool would be a great idea, methinks. Shall we play for stakes, steaks or neither?

(Note: von Hermannstein's English is not what you'd call "perfect" by any means, but every now and then he's capable of Borge-esque insight)

If you'll just excuse me for a moment - *gulps remainder of Seductively Smooth, smacks lips, belches contentedly* - thank you, I'll join you in a G&T (extra lemon, easy on the ice).

Stakes...how about keeping it simple as I'm not a gambling man? Loser buys the next round?

Mirabile dictu; loser buys then.

Let's see what they have for equipment.

Ahh, very nice, very nice indeed.

So how are things going in your line of diplomacy? Personally, I am becoming rather fatigued navigating a course between delegates who seem alternately outrageous or banal.

All righty then, lads and lassies.

Here's one of the last known intact cases of Rhabadash's Rainforest Rum, made from sugar cane grown on partially cleared former Mottlevanian rainforests. Since we won't be clearing any more rainforests (or any other forests, so it would seem), this is probably the last of a dying breed.

Frisbeeteria will pick up the tab for the pineapples, coconut milk, and little paper umbrellas. Anything else, you pay the man at the bar. Genties and Ladlemen, the bar is OPEN.

Here's a toast to the renewed 'turism' in the rainforests. Live long, and fail to prosper!

Ah yes, Fris. Some pool would be a great idea, methinks. Shall we play for stakes, steaks or neither?


Mind if i step in, i quite enjoy pool

Ah yes, Fris. Some pool would be a great idea, methinks. Shall we play for stakes, steaks or neither?


Mind if i step in, i quite enjoy pool
By all means.

*makes practicing motions with cue*

The disgruntled delegate who also happens to be President of Caligatio walks into the bar.

Oh, great. It's that John Marat guy. God, I hope he doesn't see me.

He grabs a cue from the rack and begins shooting a game of "billiards" at at the table next to the delegate from Enodia.

*the dashing envoy from Lubria, Peter Javanis, recently created Baron of Altrec, roams into the bar.*

"Evening all. Barkeep, a round of Lubrian Kya Ale for the room, on my PM's tab."

*Takes his drink and waltzes over to the billiards table*

"Gentlemen, to the sheep. May their economies stagnate, their citizens revolt, and may all their hastily passed resolutions come back to bite them in the ass."

*The Lubrian envoy downs his drink in one gulp, then sits down at the piano and pounds out a tune*

*Graf von Hermannstein breaks away from his game, picks up his ale and heartily follows Javanis' toast*

"The Sheep!"

"I say, Altrec old fruit, do you play requests?"

"Darling, before tonight I didn't even know I played piano..."

*motions the barkeep for another drink*

*points at one of the stodgy old diplomat's portrait, and laughs eccentrically, as he downs the ale*

“Anyway, what’ll be milord, a little of the deaf man? Or would you prefer some of the prodigy. I’m horrid with names, you know.”

"hmmm...decisions decisions. I suppose a spot of the old Mozart would rather spark things a bit. Possibly something to dance to...I say, any ladies here?"

Lady Nessa slides into the bar, asks the barkeep for a glass of the finest scotch available, weary of a long day of debate about the newest proposal.

She eyes the billiard table longingly. "Best not", she thinks, "I don't know that I am up for a wager".

She is grateful for the piano music, it puts her at peace. She hopes for some of 'the prodigy". The scotch is satisfying and warm....the laughter and good will in the bar is just what she needed. Good show.

I say, Nessa, fancy a dance?

That would be most lovely! I do love to dance!

"Mozart, that was the fellows name! Sonata in A, K331 Third Movement, for milord's dancing pleasure."

*The Baron Altrec begins to play, imbibing ale from time to time.*

Jim Moehlman walks in, working on recovering from a hard weekend of partying over the Valentine's weekend. He walks over to the bar, quietly observing the number of folks already in the place. He leans against the bar, pushes his Stetson back a bit, puts one snake-skin Justin boot up on the footrail.

"Coffee, please. Black."

After finishing his solitary game of pool, the man known only as Todd M. walks over to the bar, settles himself two seats from the delegate from Greenspoint, and grabs the attention of one of the many bartenders that night.

"I'll take anything, Bob (the bartender). Anything that will get the nagging voices of those environmental whackos out of my head."

just saying Hello and it's nice to meet you all.

hope you don't mind losing to a girl at pool.

which way to the hottub?

~ cq

Ecopoeis, the policies of your nation seem very compatible with ours. Perhaps we could set up a cultural exchange, maybe do some trading.

We have a huge turnip surplus, you know. We burn the stuff for fuel and still have kilotons left over.

Comrade Guevara, Delegate for Rum and Other Revolutionary Beverages, crashes through the door waving a half-empty bottle of Ochayepoeian and resplendent in a metallic red party hat. He is closely followed by three clowns flinging custard pies, half-a-dozen jugglers dextrously tossing knives, melons and chainsaws between them, a bearded lady, two dancing bears and, last but not least, three gaudily-decorated elephants each clutching in their trunks a large box marked "Party hats, metallic green, pink tassels, six dozen".

"Say, nice bar you've got going here, Comrade Enodia. Would make a good place for a.... circus?"

sorry, i disepried there, now then who am i playing in this, game of pool? i must worn you i am prity good.

* The Rep of Komokom (tm) makes his stylish entry, with a nod of greetings to the representative of Enodia, and to the same of Albion Soviets, And, upon checking his antique silver pocket watch, works out he's enough time to down a quick one. Heads to the bar.

"I say John Marat, old boy, is that that noddy from Caligatio over there getting himself sloshed to the brim.... always thought the man would be too partial to the tipple, so, care for a Komokomian Vodka on me?"

* Begins to walk about the room with his drink, reviewing the snazzy old gilt framed portraits of the U.N's old school. Admires the quality of wood grain in wall pannels. Moves across to the Enodian representative, having just finished his dance...

"I'm yet to find that loop hole yet you know, but when I do... Ka - Boom... Talking of which, I think cannon is most certainly the plural of, well, cannon. (Chuckles) Anyway, might I suggest we have one of those great hulking open fire places set in the wall, I do so love to roast nuts and toast bread, and there is nothing quite like a cheery fire to brighten our spirits on an cold U.N. day... Say what you old chap?"

Sir Albert from Bahgum puts down his pint and notes that women have been allowed in to the club, "wouldn't have happened in my day", he mutters under his breath. "Anyhow, best get use to it, any fine ladies fancy a waltz, I do a mighty fine spin turn and triple lock step with a whisk and chasse?".
"I'll play pool and darts later, after all, pub-games are the national sports in Bahgum, it would be rude to beat you all immediately!...."

"Methinks the Representative of Komokom (tm) is onto something" thinks von Hermannstein.

As a result of the wonderful time-space-bending properties of the Bar, a fireplace appears, roaring heartily.

Oh, dear. It really has been a long time since I played. My round then - same again? You know, I think this has been just what I needed. The other Speakers would love it here, especially Vlad - he's our Speaker for the Economy - the poor guy's been in a bad way ever since that uniform 35% income tax proposal.

"Ecopoeis, the policies of your nation seem very compatible with ours. Perhaps we could set up a cultural exchange, maybe do some trading.

We have a huge turnip surplus, you know. We burn the stuff for fuel and still have kilotons left over."

The cultural exchange - we'd be honoured. I'm sure our science and industry boffins would be very interested in the turnip fuel as well. As for what we can offer you...well, we're not just all about the whisky and the beer (contrary to how it might appear). Come visit our island, we'll arrange a tour for you.

You know, we've got Javanis tinkling the keys over there but no one's singing. We got any crooners in the building?

*Looks over at the party from East Hackney*

Hopefully Guevara didn't hear that. Hmm...can't help but feel that a table further away from those elephants might be a good idea...

Komokom, hi! And hi, indeed to everyone, okay? I'm John Marat, and I like to think of myself as the Oprah of nation states. I see a lot of people playing pool and I think that's just great, but remember:

My dear mother would often tell me that life is a lot like a game of pool-- there's always someone around trying to poke you down a hole with a big stick. And of course, she was right. So please, people people people, think of the pool balls okay?

Okay, barperson, if we could interface for a moment, I'll have an herbal tea and a macrobiotic lunch okay? That's great, thanks ^_^

You know, we've got Javanis tinkling the keys over there but no one's singing. We got any crooners in the building?

Comrade Bragg, Delegate for Rock and Other Left-Wing Fun, sidles through the door clutching a battered guitar emblazoned with the legend "This Machine Kills Fascists".

"Did someone call for a singer?"
He looks over at Lubria on the piano. "Hey, comrade! Do you know 'Workers Unite To Crush The Capitalist Oppressors'?"

At the rate we're going, it looks like a game apiece. Does that mean we buy each other lunch? :lol:

I'll take the side toward the elephants if it makes you feel better; I was a trainer and handler of mastodons in my youth.

We do not have much grain for distilled bevor, but we do have root crops for vodka, and a variety of fruit wines. Our embassies can exchange libations, hm?

We'll prepare a list of some of our unique cultural offerings in which you may be interested.

We'd be delighted to sample your fine beverages and will prepare a list of our own cultural calling cards, so to speak. And going Dutch for dinner suits us, too.

I'll take you up on the elephant offer, too.

Best of three?

"Don't we need a large chorus of children dressed in red for that one, Bragg? And you know how difficult the sickle and hammer are to play. How about a nice rendition of "The company' good, the food is good, the wine we couldn't care,” an old Lubrian drinkers song. I believe it goes a little like this…"

*Peter Javanis begins to hammer out a rousing tune, and begins to sing, his normally well metered tone and inflection exchanged for a fair impression of a Lubrian bargoer..*

Oh, the company’s good
My friends are all around.
They’re drunk and rowdy,
They’re gonna be tossed out
The company’s certainly good!

Oh, the food is good,
Turkey and trout abounds.
It’s smoked and salty,
The taste hangs in your mouth.
The food is certainly good!

Oh, the wine is good,
But we don’t really care.
All that really matters is
It’ll knock you out.
The ale is stronger still!

The ale is stronger still, my friends.
Barkeep, pour us all a round.
If a man can’t hold his glass up,
Pour it right into his mouth.
The ale is running out!

The ale is running out, my dears,
We’ll have to go get more.
And if we cannot find some,
We’ll settle for our tears.
Our tears taste just like ale!

Our tears taste just like ale, alright.
We’re cryin’ cause we’re out.
We’ve been tossed onto the street now,
And it’s to home we should now go.
Another bar is open!

We head into the open hall,
And step up to the bar,
And start the whole thing over,
And more, and more, and more!
The company still seems good!

* The Rep of Komokom enters the Stranger's in time to applaud:

"Give that man one on the house!"

* Makes his way over to the fire, sits in one of the deep leather chairs, and begins to review his notes regarding his latest speech he intends to make later that day. Orders a cut crystal glass of komok bandy.

We'd be delighted to sample your fine beverages and will prepare a list of our own cultural calling cards, so to speak. And going Dutch for dinner suits us, too.

I'll take you up on the elephant offer, too.

Best of three?

*wonders if he's being hustled- it's the innocent looking ones you always have to watch out for- glad he didn't play for higher stakes*

Hm? Oh, yeah sure...sure....

*sinks the eight ball but scraches* Damn, another game? this time, the bets 3000 Apache's?

Actually the plural of cannon can either be cannon or cannons so you were both correct.











.....Never think you're smarter than a smartass.... :wink:

Actually the plural of cannon can either be cannon or cannons so you were both correct.











.....Never think you're smarter than a smartass.... :wink:

* The Rep of Komokom notes from his usual position by the fire:

Good point, after all, they all go boom in the end, well, least at one end you would hope. (Tips back the brandy and heads to the bar for another)

*nods a little bow, before resuming playing.*

For those of us tonight suffering from politic overload, and who isn't, may I present to you a charming piece very popular in the capital of Lubria called "The Sheep Can Have It!," again, always sung in bars, around a nice piano.

I…spend my days on the capital grounds,
Seeking to make squares become round.
I toil away, writing sensible law,
But then they go and ruin it all!

You, can’t tell them what you cannot do,
When they’re done, horses will moo.
They’re driving me way up the walls,
It’s almost come to leaving these halls.

I’m…here to serve the people,
But they don’t make it easy
They want it all for nothing,
Their bread and circus all for free!

It doesn’t work like that at all,
There’s bills to pay and funds to withdrawal
But worse than them, I’ve come to know,
A band of men who I must bemoan.

They bah and drown; their reasons escape,
Any attempt at logic or fate.
I can’t deal with them anymore,
I’m going home, and closing the store.

I’m giving up on politics,
The bills and motions have made me sick!
I’m going now, to open a bar,
Far away from the capital; very far!

[tempo picks up]

The sheep can have it,
They can have it all!
I’ll just watch around,
To see them fall!

They’ll screw it up,
Some way some how.
It’s only a matter of time
From now.

I’ll serve my drinks
And collect my fee,
And I’ll never pay my taxes
To thee…

…se sheep have driven my the walls,
These sheep have seen that I shall fall!
I’ve saved a bottle from the day I came,
And now I’ll drink it all away.

The sheep can have it,
They can have it all!
I’ll just watch around,
To see them fall!

Very nice
*applauds politely*
*how can I salvage this game? Looks like I have to pay the dinner tab. Hope its not lobster.*

Why thank you :D

*quickly orders lobster*

:)

"And bring another ale!"

* The Rep of Komokom, having returned to his position by the fire, raises his glass in tribute to the singer, drains it, then debates on his next actions...

"Another drink would be grand, but I best not... Still, theres a while till I'm due back in the office upstairs to do some passed proposal research, and I can't stand being locked in a room with all that musty paper lest I am a little sloshed..."

* Walks back to the bar...

"I say, Marat old chum, did you know we passed a bill of sorts a while back in this very building, that acknowledged equal rights to homosexuals, as well as granting them the right also to, oh, do wait for this, killer punch line, - gay marriage. Imagine, if those fire and brim-stone preacher types caught on, why, half the U.N. could be lynched in a day! Hilarious it is, ain't it! Just think..."

* The Rep gets a re-fill.

"... Indeed. And from some confidential communications with a fellow diplomat in the higher circles of U.N. / International administration, I've been informed that for the time this resolution would, well, "resolve" any threat of those damn preachery types installing a resolution to eliminate gay rights to marriage..."

* The Rep snags a snack from a passing tray of those little savoury things you can have, before the meal itself...

"... Well, true. Huh, naturally its not fool proof, and there's always a fair likely hood a bunch of sheep could amass a floundering flock and one day try to over-turn it, but until then it is the most beautiful proof against these continued attacks on fundamental equality of... Oh dear, I do think I actuallly pro-nounced that properly, "fundamental equality", I best lay off the booze, 'least I seem slightly too sloshed back in the office..."

* Motions the bar man,

"Matey, bring me a cup of komokian Brew Coffee, don't skimp on the cream, I have my respectable mass to up-keep... All this up and down the stairs when the sheep are in the elevators plays hell on my robust political figure image."

* Motions his only slightly rounded mid section and turns back to John...

"After all, if my people saw a pencil pusher being pencil thin I'd be im-peached, which would be terribile, as I prefer apricots..."

* Moves off to his place by the fire...

"... Oh, bar-man!"

* He calls,

"... Bring me some of those wonderful little savoury things!"

Von Hermannstein, doing the rounds before returning to his offices to consult with the Clerk of Record, drops by the Rep of Komokom's chair and adds his opinion to the discussion of that famous watershed in UN history.

"Well, of course you must be knowing that I was not to personally vote on the resolution. That was an honour befalling my illustrious predecessor, Count Zrinkowski. You can see his picture over there near the fireplace, yes? The old man with the triangular beard? Yes, it is from him that I learned the strings as you say in English."

*Stares at board, scratches head, thinks "Bugger me, I might win this. Hope he doesn't think I was hustling, that would be embarrassing - diplomatic incident in the Stranger's Bar. I'd never hear the end of it from the other Speakers". Surreptitiously looks up Collaboration's nation while in the loo.

"Oh Christ. They're huge"

Starts playing suspiciously badly. Decides against the lobster and orders a salad.*

Another drink? I think a stiff whisky may be in order.

*Comrades Bragg and Guevara, swaying gently and visibly moved by the sentiments expressed in Lubria's song, raise their bottles and take a hearty swig in tribute as the dying notes fade away.*

*Comrade Bragg ambles over to the table where Ecopoeia and Collaboration are playing, pushing aside an elephant's trunk as it grasps optimistically for his rum bottle. He peers over Ecopoeia's shoulder and shakes his head with a despairing expression before returning to the piano in anticipation of another song.*

*Peter Javanis stands up for a moment, and takes off his charcoal duster, revealing a silk and linen periwinkle waistcoat. He uncuffs his sleeves, rolling them up to above his elbows, and sets the cufflinks on the piano.*

“Thank you, you’ve all been so wonderful.

*The baron from Lubria sits down again, and lays his hands gently on the keys.*

“And now, a little change up, a little more refined a piece, from the old gentlemen’s clubs, modified a bit for our situation, titled, “Experience Counts!”


There’s something quite atrocious,
These young nations are quite precocious.
They think just because they’ve got some clout
They can stand up and shout!

I say, sit down, you newborn states,
We’ve been here longer; you’ll have to wait,
You’d almost expect them to bawl into tears,
But instead they open with hisses and jeers!

I’m tired of these newborn nations,
Getting ideas about declarations.
I’m tired of them thinking they’re right,
Just because they’re new to the fight.

We’ve talked it all to death my lad,
We’ve argued it until we’re mad.
So sit right down and think some more,
And later on, maybe you’ll get the floor!

In the meantime, I say we raise our salaries,
For it us who need the more handsome fee.
And one thing that we’ve always got,
Is experience, and that they’ll never top!

Comrade Guevara heaves himself to his feet and weaves his way towards Javanis with a menacing (and somewhat inebriated) look on his face.
"Wossat you're shaying about ush young nationsh... I'll, I'll, I'll teachsh you not to tell Easht Hackney what to do..."

Comrade Bragg shoots him a scathing look. "Sit down, you drunkard. We're older than him, anyway."

Unheeding, Comrade Guevara staggers onward, brandishing his now-empty whisky bottle at a distinctly nervous-looking Javanis.

But the delegate from Lubria's fears of impending doom are abruptly cut short when Comrade Guevara trips on a box of party hats, sending him flying across the room to come to rest, amid crashes and twangs of snapping strings, under the open lid of the grand piano, from which, moments later, can be heard emanating the unmistakable heavy snoring of a deep and drunken sleep.

The room turns as one to glare accusingly at Comrade Bragg, who shrugs expansively and plucks out a mournful little melody on his guitar.

In the Forum of United Nations
Young whelps with little or no patience
Are frequently found
Making far too much sound
Making other nations want to give them a right good slapping.

Hmm. Think the last line needs work.

Blimey, this game of backgammon has taken a surprising turn. *cough*

The bedraggled looking ambassador from _Myopia_ trudges through the door and collapses face-down into an expansively soft couch.

Between particularly loud bouts of snoring, snatches of mutterings can be heard:

...bloody Grande...loopholes and the effing...no, look, see you can't...I told you, you can't repeal it...all you have do to do is let them get married...be glad to see the back of you...oh, here another one...no...thing is you can't ban it...oh that's great, you know where you can stick your "page cannot be displayed"?...

After a few minutes, an aide peeks round the door and spots Ambassador Moleman. With an apologetic look at the other ambassadors, he wakes the sleeping man, sits him upright on the sofa, throws a glass of icy water in his face, and steps back to give the ambassador time to recuperate.

Coming to his senses and glancing around, Ambassador Moleman wipes the water off his face with his sleeve as his aide quietly reprimands him, before standing and addressing the assembled representatives.

"Hi, let me just say how terribly sorry I am about bursting in like that and falling asleep. Quite out of character." The aide coughs, and the ambassador shoots him a dagger-like glance. The aide leaves, shaking his head. "Anyway, most of you probably don't know me personally, although I'm sure you've heard my delegation's statements in the forum, but I'd just like to introduce myself. I'm Ambassador Hans Moleman. Um. Um...that's all. I'll let you get back to your drinks and games. Oh...wait, how about a round on me, and we can start off again on the right foot this time."

* The Rep of Komokom, camped out in his place by the fire, looks up to Von Hermannstein and states,

"Uh, triangular beard you say, ah yes, that distinguished gentlemen, I do think I remember reading up on him once a time ago, while I was some what of a newbie to the U.N. and such... Yes, Indeed..."

* Takes a sip from his coffee cup and pops a savoury thingy into his mouth and munches contemplatively... swallows then speaks...

"...Learn the strings you say? How lucky for you! I was some what less fortunate, (Chuckle), my diplomatic careeer was more by accident then purpose... I met by chance one of my MP's, on a school trip in my final year to the national parliment you see, and asked about why we were not a U.N. member, well, lo and behold he hired me on the spot and once I finished my higher school certificate..."

* Another sip, another savoury thingy,

"... Found myself in a suit and with a government supplied lap-top and sitting in business class, on one of our commercial travel airships..."

* Forgoing the sip of coffee, devours the remaining savoury thingys and motions the bar-man to bring some more,

"... Well, smack bang in this tiny office, newbie staff to boot, both the mixed sex typing pool and office administration/workers, all blathering about the sheep commandeering the elevators, and no way was I going to suffer that horror, told them all to just..."

* Platter arrives, none too soon as the Rep's belly is already rumbling...

"... Nick off to the pub, while I sort out all this trouble, well a few Komokian traveller cheques slipped in that administrators pocket and the next morning we had one of those open plan corner office areas, (Down a few floors to save me from the stairs!), with a delightful view out across the dodgy-proposal burning-center. It was a lovely sight, the soot clouds mixing the most beautiful patterns with the dawn light..."

* Starts on the platter...

"... Sad though, they got rid of it, now they recycle the paper, though in my opinion it just does not match that vista, that and it seems to encourage them to make more dodgy proposals, the clerks must get run off their feet these days trying to cull the crafty critterish things..."

* Gets half way through the platter...

"Although, really I guess that is the cost of good old free speech, still, I must say, I've been thinking of dallying up a proposal myself, you know, for the regulation of chemical substance transport/storage/exposure... kind of a draft really at the moment plus I must really do some research, would not want to bodge up the que with wasted material and time..."

* Looks up again,

"... Sorry old boy, so rude of me, care for a savoury thingy?"

Mike Falk, CEO of UN-MSL Relations Corp. (a division of MSLFA) walks quietly into the bar, wiping rain off his face, taking a seat at the bar, ill luck having him choose the one rickety stool in the bunch. Ordering a dozen shots of tequila, he starts to unwind.

A half hour later, Mr. Falk is seen ranting loudly at the bartender, or what he thought was the bartender (he was actualy talking to a coat rack).

"Well I'll tell you what the problem with the world is... No don't interrupt me, I'm trying to make a point here.. Where was I? Oh yeah thanks, the problem with the world.. It's all the people. Just the other day I had a bunch of animal loving hippies accost me and try to get me to change my governments vote in favour of animal rights! Can you believe it? Yeah me neither. But they gave me an idea, they went on and on and on and on and .. hey are you listening?" Mr.Falk reached over and shook the coat rack, "As I was saying, they wanted to give animals the same rights as humans, but everyone knows that you can't do that without eliminating them as a food source, At least that's what I thought, then I realised.. all we have to do to shut them up is make animals equal to humans, and we all know the easiest way would be to eliminate human rights completely, so what do you think? Hello? hey? Ummm.... are you sleeping?"

Mike Falk turns away from the coat hanger and downs a few more shots of tequila.

Von Hermannstein takes the proffered "svaoury thingy" and explains something of his own career. The free-flowing alcohol has somewhat impaired his otherwise sterling command of the English language.

"Ah yes, you see, in Enodia we are things differently doing. The concept is of continuity, yes. Is that the word I mean? Where something is very the same from year to year?
Well, we are having a sort of "class" of diplomats. Enodia is a classless society but there is a tradition of what you call the 'best and shiniest'...no, 'brightest'. These brightests are all going to a school where they are the importance of diplomacy to learning. By the good fortune, Zrinkowski was to take me under his wing."

* The Rep of Komokom replies to Von Hermannstein,

"Well, my country cannot lay claim to class-less-ness but, eh, we do run things a little more slip-shod at times... or is it slap-stick? I don't know old boy, to be honest, however, It was in my case..."

* Consumes another glass of Komokian Brandy,

"... A matter of coming up with a an idea, and not being told by anyone else who would listen to shut up, then being propelled by the aforementioned... well... something-something form of my government to my current position, oh, well, that and every body else was either too busy or could not be bothered..."

* Tries one of the cheesy flavoured savoury thingys,

"... Mmm, lovely stuff, do try one, anyway, I was, after all, one of the few people in the country who at my young age ( 18 ), who actually paid great interest to national politics... well, that and nano-technology, but I digress, so anyway, I ended up here, and, considering its free room, board, and a susbstanial bar tab credit, not to mention free entertainment, oh, and most importantly governmnet paid-for broad-band, I do think at the end of the day the sheep induced head-aches are almost worth it... Well, that and I am in it all for the good of the people, naturally..."

* Tries another cheesy savour thingy,

"... Simply lovely these ones, do try them, well, (Yawn), I am off to my office fold out cot, need my rest, I am doing an online Cert 4 Lab Tech coarse, just in case the whole politics industry falls through, good night Von Hermannstein old boy! I leave to you the remainder of the savoury thingy platter!"

* And with that, The Rep of Komokom de-camps from his spot by the fire and launches himself through the misted glass revolving doors to destination not-awake!

A rather pale thin man enters the bar wearing an ill-fitting tartan plaid. As he approaches the bar Von Hermannstein belches loudly and the man flinches, as if from a blow. He goes to the bar and orders a large scotch in a de sotto voice. He looks around and finds a seat with his face to the door and his back to the wall. He keeps his bonnet pulled down over his eyes as if trying to hide...

Dang, this server's annoying sometimes.

Frank Chalmers strides into the Strangers' Bar, the usual scowl twisting his craggy features. He is drawn to the bar like a moth to the flame.

"Double shot of whisky - no ice - and a strong black coffee, please. Java if you have it."

The drinks are served, currency changes hands. The whisky disappears all too quickly. Chalmers sups the bitter, oily coffee and sighs as he tries to remember the last time he got any sleep. Being Speaker for International Relations for a bunch of tree hugging hippy types was turning out to be a lot harder than he anticipated. It didn't help that the United Nations seemed to be frequently devoid of the cut and thrust of diplomacy and political debate he so relished. He looks up, scans the bar.

"God damn. Who let that cretin Smith in the bar? And what's he doing with Collaboration's ambassador?"

He stepped towards the table Sam Smith was sitting at...and stopped. Shit, he came here to get away from all the stress and shouting.

"Another whisky, please."

He wolfed down the coffee, grimly savouring its harsh tang. Whisky in hand he wandered around the bar, carefully avoiding the crumpled hats and steaming elephant dung that littered the floor. A distinguished gentleman was sitting at a corner table, eyes slightly glazed - too much alcohol, Chalmers guessed. He took a closer look and recognised the unmistakeable Enodian diplomatic colours.

"Why the hell not?", he muttered. "May I join you, your excellency?".

As if at a pre-arranged signal, the bar tender walks to the table an places a bottle of Chivas Regal on the table in front of the quiet man.

The man doffs his bonnet and gives the bar tender some money and a look of gratitude. He reaches behind his back and draws forth a 4 foot long claymore which he gives to the barkeep.

A little more at ease, or maybe comfortable, he relaxes back into the chair and fills his glass to the brim with the amber liquid.

Frank Chalmers glanced around furtively and pulled a document from his briefcase. He handed it to Von Hermannstein, desperately trying to suppress a rare grin. The document stated the following:

Democratisation of the UN
or, the Keeping East Hackney Amused While At Work Proposal

A resolution to improve human rights

Concerned that the UN is ruled by Enodia, an unelected totalitarian despot with unchallenged powers of life or death over UN proposals, resolutions and, indeed, delegates;
Pleased to discover that Enodia has that rarest of beasts, a sense of humour;
Noting that the ruler of East Hackney is having a particularly boring day at work;
It therefore following that we may as well do this as anything else;

The UN hereby rules that Enodia is stripped of all powers relating to the moderation of the UN.
Furthermore, he shall be made to wear a dunce's hat (green metallic, with pink tassels) and made to stand in the corner while the assembled UN delegates point at him and laugh.
Control of the UN shall pass to a democratically elected People's Soviet as soon as elections are viable. In the interim, control shall pass to the free and not-at-all power-mad peoples of East Hackney, where it shall remain until it is prised from our cold, dead hands.

"So, your excellency, what do you think?"

Chalmers, leant back in his chair and supped his whisky. Well, he thought, you've got to find pleasure in life any way you can.

While Comrade Guevara continues to snore noisily inside the grand piano, Comrade Bragg looks over nervously to the corner where Chalmers and Von Hermannstein are shooting him menacing looks...

* Via the arcane mysteries of time and space in the U.N. The Rep of Komokom has just slipped in through the misty-frosted glass revolving dorrs of the Stranger's Bar, despite having only slipped off to sleep a little while ago, passing the bar he signals the bar-keep,

"Greetings good fellow, one komokian brandy, a plate of those cheesey savoury thingys and a small pot of komokian rich brew coffee, don't skimp on the cream, there's a good lad! You know where I'll be..."

* Makes his way past the Enodian delegate and his, well, guest I think, Frank Chalmers. A quick glance at the document over Frank Chalmers shoulder leads The Rep of Komokom to wonder,

"... Oh great, last person I would wish to risk p*ssing off, so to speak, I do so wonder if Mr Chalmers is about to gain a belly laugh or diplomatic equal of a uber b*tch slap for his troubles..."

* Takes his place over by the fire, withdraws a red card folder from his dinner jacket and gives the contents a scan and thinks to himself,

"... Yes, good, its all going as planned, now all I need to do is sit back and relax, if this lot gets through then I'll finally be able to lock down those damn fire and..."

* His order it placed on the carved wood table beside him, and The Rep of Komokom tucks in, abandoning his line of thought, as the seuctive content of the silver tray makes his belly *grrr* in pleasure-able anticipation, he turns to the waiter and makes a discreet comment,

"... Old chum, do see if you could have all that on the floor removed, its starting to be a bit whiffy, perhaps we should regulate, or better yet dis-allow animals in here..."

(After all, is this not a distinguished club for the finer gentlemen and ladies of the U.N. ? ? ? )

* As he makes a start on the platter, The Rep of Komokom looks about the room,

"... Damn, that Caligator best not slip in, if he's the one I am thinking of, I am in no mood for another ethical/moral/blab blab blab religion this and religion that debate. I bet his country does not even enforce taxes on relgious organisations, pfffrt, I mean its a must! People wonder where the donation money goes, its a damn swiss bank you'll find it in, miracle my portly behind..."

* No more talking, fine food and beverage await!

That "Caligator" happened to be seated at the table across from the representative from Komokom. Hearing the main gist of the Komokom delegate's blather, Todd merely laughed, at the same time, turning towards the man.

"It's actually Caligatioan, and believe me, I'm in no mood to discuss religion either, sir. And no, we don't enforce taxes on religious organizations. But that's another debate, and one I'm sure you don't want to get into."

He rose from his seat and headed towards the table at which the Komokom delegate sat. Grasping one of the chairs at the table, he asked:

"May I join you? Surely there is some topic we can entertain ourselves with."

* Javnis hammers out the last notes of another song, and then, sits back a bit, taking a sip of his fifth ale. Being a man of rather strong constitution, he still seems rather sober. He glances across the room, where his eyes meet with those of a young and attractive page from one of the pacific delegacies. He gives the young associate a nod, and is returned one. Javanis gives a little smile and a nod, and collecting his things, and tossing some money on the bar, he walks out with the young page, tipping his top hat to Graf Von Hermannstein*

"Lovely time, your grace. But you know, tomorrow is another day, to serve the people, of course"

*The Baron of Altrec strides out into the carriageway, the clack of his walking stick on the tile, and ushers his companion of the evening into his waiting car. He walks around, and tipping the valet, hops into the drivers seat of the imported sports car, and drives off into the night, violating several traffic laws on the way, but who cares, he's a diplomat!*

Having emptied the bottle of whisky, the Joccian Ambassador, gets to his feet and makes for the doors.

"Sir, SIR! Your sword sir!"

The Barman runs after him, lugging the enormous claymore.

The thin man turns, smiles in a self-effacing way, takes the proffered weapon and smoothly places the sword in its scabbard, on his back.

"thoggle u ver mch"

Whilst there is no seeming effect on his bearing or gait, the whisky has certainly gone to his voicebox!

He gives the barman a few gold coins, and leaves the bar.

* The Rep of Komokom gladly welcomes the Caligatioan delegate to join him, and offers a share of the cheesey savoury thingy platter, All the while realising he's been talking to himself again, and is for once unable to place the cause for this indescrete action to either the fine booze, or the fine, well, not being boozed,

"Join me? Certainly chum, be glad to have another intelligent mind about the fire, more the merrier, or is it perrier, and all that..."

* Thinks to himself,

"... Oh dear selected portions of pong-ish sh*te, I've gone and bollocks'd up this fellow's identity with one of the sheep, oh dear, now I am going to look like a total prat in front of him, not to mention half the bar should they partake of conversation, hope he'll be civil enough to ignore my incorrective..."

* Realises this slight moment of un-expected stress has caused a slight bead of persperation on his hair line, and casually sweeps it aside like there was a lose hair hanging out from his darkish locks,

"...Well, hmmm, the food is fine, and so is the drink, anything I can order for you, on my tab, naturally..."

* A signal to the man behind the now distant bar,

"... Well, what to talk of, ahem, well, my-oh-my, ah, well then, what is your opinion on U.N. resolutions that cover topics in regular N.S. issues of the day? Should the N.S. issues be given the right of precedent? Should the possible infringing on the N.S. issues be a valid reason to remove an U.N. proposal from the que? ..."

* Awaits the Caligatioan delegates reply on this comment, while sipping in a slightly less nerve-racked fashion from his Komokian brandy (In its cut crystal tumbler naturally)

Taking a seat across the table from the Komokom delegate, Todd merely watches as the other curiously eats his meal all the while talking to himself.

"Ah...I've had quite enough to drink tonight. The food here, though exquisite in its own way, does not sit well with me. It's rather sad, much like the state of the U.N."

"Well, since your bring it up, I must say that I joined the U.N. knowing I would have to cooperate with their resolutions. And, as such, U.N. resolutions should take precedent over N.S. issues. I oppose certain resolutions that violate my country's 'moral' standards, which is why I often, and sometimes incessantly, speak out about 'national sovereignty.' But, on the whole, I support the U.N. despite its left-leanings."

* The Rep of Komokom looks up from his cheesy savoury thingy platter, now almost barren, and replies to Todd,

"Well, I must say, I too hold high the idea of national sovereignty, which we must remember is at the end of the day what a country must have to be just that. Now, though I seem to contradict myself in saying this..."

* Stokes the fire slightly with the cast iron poker, a burst of sparks heralds its rise of flame-e-ness,

"... I feel that when we already have the issues of the day to allow us to choose a course of action on an issue, then we should not have an international law passed to cover that topic, while simultaneously enforcing one choice on us. Okay, perhaps I am wrong, but it seems silly that while a country, and, in fact, many, may have a precedent for tackling an issue, and so when it re-arises they take the same steady coarse in dealing with it, only to have this precedent ignored completely becuase some glorified pencil pusher want's their 15 minutes of fame by penning up some silly proposition while ignoring that countries have for simply ages been able to handle the issue by them-selves..."

* Takes a breath,

"... for example, that one a while back on being allowed to top one's-self, euthanasia isn't it? That was damn stupid having that as a U.N. bill, for ages countries have quite capably handled the topic by themselves, only now it seems some fool decided we could not, and has forced their opinion on the matter down our throats with some badly written junk that seemed to slip past the clerks up in records..."

* Imbibs a little brandy,

"... Now, I am all for the U.N. as its proved its a good idea in the past and I am thinking its good for the future, but I don't see how it can continue to act with its members good will, when its members seem to become nothing more then "yes to all" sheep who spend five seconds reading the first line of a proposal before automatically penning a "pro" ballot sheet and popping it in the ballot box much to all our detriment..."

* Imbibs a little more brandy,

"... I tell you, mark my words, if measures are not taken to limit the U.N. proposal passing power then its going to end up being a one world government over all its members, becuase when we start locking down a countries ability to decide on moral issues then we may as well not turn up here to work, just leaving it all to the sheep..."

* Realises the time,

"... Well, its gettting on old man, I must dash shortly, must pop up to the office to do some actual work, can't spend all day in the bar, may get to comfy and set up shop down here, what! (Chuckle), I say, at the end of the day, we may need to slap some limits on this diplomatically induced beast 'lest it turns to bite us on our, well, bar tab bill? I do so hope there are no damn sheep in the elevator, last thing I want to hear is their misguided bleating..."

* Makes to leave, but waits for the Caligatioan delegates reply, to be civil and all that.

The Enodian delegate completed his peculiarly graceful slump to the table, face buried in the liquiescing mess of his dinner. Frank Chalmers sighed. His attempts at fomenting a major diplomatic incident had failed in inglorious fashion. The incriminating document detailing East Hackney's drunken bid for power had indeed been noted by von Hermannstein. However, Chalmers had watched in dismay as the Enodian vomited noisily onto his meal and then proceeded to use the document as a napkin.

Chalmers quietly slipped away from the table, put on his coat and hat and made for the exit. The ground sqelched underfoot. Heart sinking, he slowly gaxed down. Elephant dung enveloped his left shoe.

"OK. Someone needs to die."

Blood boiling, he scanned the bar. It was pretty quiet now, most delegates who had availed themselves of its fresh bounty had either left or were draped over chairs and tables in drunken torpor. Even his fellow Speaker Sam Smith had departed, no doubt further soiling Ecopoeia's reputation by dragging the poor Collaboration delegate to some unseemly skin joint.

"Damn, I need a smoke."

Just as he thought there was no possibility of finding a vent for his rage, an opportunity presented itself. East Hackney's permanently pickled delegate, Guevara, had managed to get himself lodged in the piano. His lumpen behind protruded in an inviting fashion. Chalmers started searching around for something sharp...

"Hey, You, Bigjob!!"

The six-inch high Blue tattooed figure, kicked the Ecopoeian delegates foot in peremptory fashion. He was waving a very sharp 5 inch long sword in the air.

"You lookin' fer a fight Bigjob"

Rubbing his eyes and clutching a head which seemed to be playing host to a herd of hippos dancing the rhumba, Comrade Guevara hauls himself out of the battered grand piano, cursing under his breath and vowing not to touch another drop for at least a couple of hours.

His bloodshot eyes cross, recross, gyrate gently and eventually focus on some sort of small blue fairy capering across the floor and waving something resembling a knitting needle. Comrade Guevara pinches himself, waves a hand in front of his eyes, smiles in a faintly puzzled fashion and collapses back into the piano, fast asleep.

The revolving doors rotate to reveal the pale Joccian delegate, still in an ill-fitting plaid, still with the worn, hung-over look. He stands just to one side of the doors and surveys the room.

Chalmers peered down at the bolshie little imp that was kicking his foot. His first thought was to kick the little blighter into some elephant shit. And then a distant memory started prodded at his mind, demanding attention.

"Hey, You, Bigjob!". The battle cry of the notorious Nac Mac Feigle. Chalmers' mind raced. He was twelve times the wee guy's height, strong and well built, if a touch portly. He'd survived three revolutions, two of them tainted by appalling bloodshed. Thanks to Ursula Kohl's pioneering gerontological treatment, he could expect a vibrant, healthy life for at least another century. Hell, he'd shat bigger logs than this little squit.

But the little squit was a Nac Mac Feigle. Chalmers came to a decision.

"A fight? Ha, ha, ha. Ha. No. Just leaving, actually. Love to stop and chat but I've got to, um, got to...bye."

Chalmers made a bolt for the door. And collided with the spectacularly inebriated form of Samuel Smith, Speaker for t'Pub.

The Joccian delegate spots the Nac Mac Feigle causing trouble, as usual.

He walks over to the Pictsie and bows.

"I am Angus McPeawhistle o' Joccia, will ye tak a dram wi' me Wee Free Man?"

Chalmers made a bolt for the door. And collided with the spectacularly inebriated form of Samuel Smith, Speaker for t'Pub.

Chalmers staggers backwards, crashing into the lurking form of Comrade Bragg and spilling Bragg's pint of Seductively Smooth all down his Woody Guthrie t-shirt.

Bragg glares at the Ecopoeian delegate with daggers drawn. "I don't know who you think you are, stranger, but where I come from a man doesn't do that if he wants to keep all his fingers..."

Nusku Capleton, Minister of Defensive Incapacitation, Aikido and Productive Dialogue for Rehochipe, blinks in evident confusion at the room's inhabitants.

Her accent is betrays both provincial origins and the unmistakeable mannerisms of Lubrian further education. "Er... I was given to understand that... the, ah, proposition regarding... networking opportunity..."

She gives up, and approaches the bar. "Do you have anything with lemongrass?"

The Joccian delegate spots the Nac Mac Feigle causing trouble, as usual.

He walks over to the Pictsie and bows.

"I am Angus McPeawhistle o' Joccia, will ye tak a dram wi' me Wee Free Man?"

"One side ya Bigjob loon!"

"Ye're blockin' ma view o' the scrap"

The Feigle with seemingly little effort lifted the Joccian bodily to one side.

Chalmers allowed himself a quiet groan. This was all getting very messy. Before he had a chance to respond, he became aware of a pitiful sobbing. Sam Smith was unsteadily picking himself up off the floor.

"A whole pint of Ecopoeia's finest Seductively Smooth Malt Stout. A whole pint! My God, the humanity!"

It appeared that witnessing the tragic loss of a pint of Ecopoeia's legendary black gold had had the twin effect of a), reducing Smith to a gibbering wretch and b), sobering him enough to enable him to articulate his woes. Chalmers wasn't sure that the latter was a welcome effect. He looked about him: an angry, red-faced Hackneyite (East) ready to take a swing at him, a confused looking Joccian, comrade Guevara's fundament, a terrifying six inch high wee free man and a country man beside himself with woe.

"Ah, couldn't we settle this over a drink?" He gulped and added the painful words he'd been dreading all night:

"My round?"

The thin Joccian brightened perceptably.

"I'll have my usual Justin!" He called to the Barman.

The Barman placed a glass over the top of a fresh bottle of Chivas Regal and slid it along the bar.

"My thanks to you, er, er,..."

Comrade Bragg, shaking with rage and dripping with beer, leans over until his nose is almost touching Chalmers' and bellows in his face.

"You steal state secrets from us!"

Comrade Guevara - whose subconscious, at Chalmers' mention of buying a round, had roused him from a very pleasant dream of seizing and nationalising a particularly fine rum factory from under the noses of its capitalist running-dog bosses - pricks up his ears at the suggestion of free alcohol.

Leaning out from under the piano lid, he calls across the room: "Mine's a pint, please, comrades."

But Chalmers, transfixed by Bragg's incandescent fury, fails to hear.

"You try to sell us out to the UN enforcers!"

Guevara feebly waves an arm in Chalmers' direction. "A pint...please?"

"You spill my pint all over my favourite t-shirt and you think you can buy us off with beer?"

Guevara's desperation is visible to all except the terrified Chalmers as the somewhat below-par Delegate for Rum tries and fails to haul himself out of the piano. "You can buy me off with beer, comrade. Comrade? Comrade?"

Seeing that his cause is lost, he shrugs and turns to the delegate of the Nac Mac Feigle. "Pardon me, little fairy, but are you a figment of my imagination? And would you like to buy me a drink?"

Rory Bigger than Big Rory and much Bigger than Wee Rory, stands with his back to the piano.

"Ho Bigjob!" he shouts to the Comrade from East Hackney.

"That fine mon just offer'd tae buy a roond."

"That mak's him a frien' till the drink is supped"

"Are ye makin' trouble wi ma frien' ?"

He turns to the barman very quickly "A'll have a Laphroaig, quick mon afore the other bigjob does him in!"

McPeawhistle shoots a stunned look towards Guevara and, giving the piano a wide berth goes to get his drink. He pours a full glass of the whisky and leans back against the bar watching Guevara with a now pitying expression on his face.

In a blur of blue and red the wee free pictsie launches toward Guevara, he runs up the piano leg, up Guevara's body grabs each of Guevara's ears anfd looks him in the eye.

"Nae a Faerie, niver a Faerie, A'm a Pictsie! Y'gettit!"

He lovingly headbuts the comrade between the eyes.

In another multi-coloured blur he returns to glare at Comrade Bragg.

Frank Chalmers, The Community of Ecopoeia's elected Speaker for International Relations, felt that now was the time for him to make the most of his prodigious talent for diplomacy. He knew that such a volatile situation called for a level head, wise words and a great deal of empathy.

He composed himself and met Bragg's crazed stare. And diplomatically thumped him.

God, it felt good.

"Weeel, that's settled peacful like then"

The Wee Free Man turned his attention to higher things and the Bar.

"Ho Landlord, wheeres ma dram?"

The barman indicated the glass on the counter.

The Pictsie ran up the leg of a barstool, leaped onto the counter, and shinned up a pump-handle until he was eye-to-eye with the poor chap.

He looked pointedly at the glass with its 25ml of whisky in it, then at the Joccian's Bottle of Chivas Regal, then at the slumped figure in the piano. Then he looked back at the barman...

"J-Just a t-taster for you to ssssample sir." said the barman reaching down and magically producing a bottle of the rare malt.

"Aye just as weell for yez!"

"Yer health wee fella, Chalmers if that's yer name!"

The pictsie lifted the bottle to his lips.

Comrade Guevara, his skull thickened and brain softened by years of rum and revolutionary brawling, reels back into the piano dazed but unbowed at exactly the same moment that Comrade Bragg flies backwards into the wall, coming to rest propped up against the imposing double doors of the exit.

Puzzled, Guevara rubs the growing lump on his brow. Did that figment of my imagination really just headbutt me? he asks himself, unable to separate the dull ache in his forehead from the insistent throbbing that was telling him to help himself to a hair of the dog. Best sort it out, no telling where it'll lead if I let my imagination kick me around.

Spurred to action, he clambers down from the piano, his hobnailed army boots crashing out a series of dischords on the instrument's antique ivory keys. Grasping the neck of an empty bottle firmly in one hand, he turns towards the tiny blue figure on the bar, now draining the very last drops from a bottle somewhat larger than itself...

His progress goes unnoticed, however, thanks to a knocking at the door that quickly rises to an insistent hammering. All present spin round just in time to see the massive, ancient oak doors fly inwards. One crashes into the prone and weeping Samuel Smith, sending him skidding across the polished floor and under the piano; the other lifts Bragg and hurls him over the bar, smashing the pump off the Seductively Smooth en route.

The much-abused body of the Delegate for Rock comes to rest under a fountaining spray of the precious beer, which is quickly forming a lake behind the bar.

In the doorway stands a gigantic figure that's not so much been grown as constructed from slabs of muscle. It's probably a man, but that's only because gorillas don't wear suits. In one gigantic hand it's holding the door handle.

"Sorry. Der fing came off in my 'and."

Its beady eyes scan the room, quickly taking in the situation, and come to rest on the startled figure of Chalmers with a look of distinct menace.

"Permit me ter intradoos myself. I am Comrade Mercader, der delly-gait fer reg...fer regrett...fer regrettable violence. Dat means dey pay me ter 'it people dead 'ard, but only so long as I feel real sorry after."

He shambles up to the trembling Chalmers, his knuckles dragging along the floor as he goes.

"Looks like dere 'as been a bit of dip...of diplo...of diploma..." He pauses, then tries again: "Of der cut and frust of heated debate going on 'ere."

Meanwhile, with attention firmly fixed on the unfolding spectacle by the door, Guevara seizes his chance. He sidles up behind the six-inch-high blue psychopath who has vexed him so sorely and, raising the bottle high above his head, brings it down towards the pictsie's tam o'shanter with a cry of "Tak this, ye wee free menace! And yer big-arsed kelda, tae!"

Momentarily distracted by Guevara's wild yell, Chalmers turns back to Mercader just in time to hear him continue: "...so you will ap...appre...appreshiate dat I am very sorry indeed fer dis and it nuffing personal, like."

The giant figure, with an apologetic look furrowed into his simian brow, swings a right fist the size of a cinderblock round in a fizzing arc that terminates in the point of Chalmers' chin.

Nodding in satisfaction, he leans down and mutters into his lapel microphone: "Boss? Boss? Hello boss. Looks like we got one of dose...dose...erm, dip...diplo...diplomat...erm, lotsa bad stuff happenin' wiv countries fings. Yeah, real bad. Tell der army ter go to Defcon, erm..." - he breaks off to inspect his fingers - "erm, Defcon Many. Dis is serious."

*quietly sidles toward a side door*

Maybe that Ecotopian feller will just forget about that dinner I owe him...

* About to leave, but naturally waiting for Todd M's reply, The Rep of Komokom is distracted by events occuring through-out the Bar,

"The Hell?"

* With things looking dire, The Rep of Komokom looks for a safe place, and comes up with two of them,

"Looks like its all for the door, but then sgain if I move they may see me and I'll be in it too, Then again, I could push a few of these big chairs by the fire together into a not to obvious fort like structure and hope the fight does not slip my way... No, still to chance-ish for my liking...

* Looks about,

"Dammit all to heck, I have debates to get too..."

* Drains the last of his Komokian brandy from the cut crystal tumbler...

:idea:

"Oh, I know!"

* Snaps fingers, and space - time bends in a fashion similar to the fire place creation, The Rep of Komokom, slips through a new-ly made hidden door in the wood pannelling, which seals itself behind him, and a voice can be heard slipping away into the distance,

"Jolly good show, What ! "

The Joccian delegate looks around at the escalating carnage with an indulgent look on his visage. Quite like the Joccian Parliament he thinks, quite like home, Home, HOME! A tear trickles down his cheek and falls with unerring accuracy 1mm away from the rim of his glass. He is so absorbed in his home-sickness that he doesn't even notice the bulk of Guevara as he pushes greasily past.

The Feigle are not invulnerable, they are not omniscent, you can creep up on them and do them deadly damage...but...it's always best to keep your mouth shut until after you've flattened them!

Guevara's bottle smashed down on the bar, disturbing the blue/red wake where the Feigle had stood. Once more Rory Bigger than Big Rory and much Bigger than Wee Rory ascended the bulk of the diplomat and again, looked him between the eyes.

"Ma thanks fer the compliments to the Kelda, ye bigjob pussy!"

"Now, how does it go? Oh yes. Once mair wi' feelin'"

The shock waves broke bottles at the back of the bar as the wee diamond head connected with the battle-hardened skull of Guevara...

Chalmers was dimly aware of the ceiling passing by...beneath him? There was a strange beauty to this unsettling view, like he was flying on his back in a position of supreme relaxation. Suddenly everything seemed so serene, so-

Chalmers landed on the table previously occupied by Sam Smith and the Collaboration delegate, scattering backgammon pieces, dirty plates and empty glasses. Just before losing consciousness, he noticed fuzzily that the Collaboration delegate was standing at a side door looking at him in horror. Chalmers last thoughts before blissful peace were mostly concerned with the appalling revenge he would take on the Speaker for t'Pub.

Meanwhile, the Speaker for t'Pub, Sam Smith, was stunned to find himself suddenly lying underneath a grand piano on the point of collapse. His hysterical sobbing abruptly stopped. A bottle of whisky rolled towards him and stopped at his foot.

"Ochayepoeian 12 year old Single Malt!", he exclaimed, joyfully. Hedrank deep from the bottle, relishing the smoothness of arguably his homeland's finest creation. The restorative power of alcohol flowed through him, giving him strength, courage, intelligence, unrivalled singing ability and astonishing sexual magnetism and prowess. He'd show these bastards who's boss! Now was the time!

Sadly, he'd completely forgotten he was still under the piano. His head crashed against the underside, knocking him out cold.

The Ecopoeian delegates weren't exactly bringing their nation glory on the field of battle...

Angus McPeawhistle flinched twice; the first time was when Comrade Bragg flew past him, the second from the wave of concussion created by the Pictsie's heid-job on Guevara.

The thin Joccian still managed to maintain an almost carefree image as he leant against the bar. He watched the Wee Free Man, all the while counting down under his breath...

Sir Albert of Bahgum, tucks merrily into his pie, vaguely area of a somewhat noisy altercation in the room, but that's on the other side of the cart-horse he brought in with him.
Sighs, and settles back to enjoy the fine bottle of Hermitage which should complement his pie perfectly.

Sir Albert of Bahgum, tucks merrily into his pie, vaguely area of a somewhat noisy altercation in the room, but that's on the other side of the cart-horse he brought in with him.
Sighs, and settles back to enjoy the fine bottle of Hermitage which should complement his pie perfectly.

Comrade Guevara rouses himself from oblivion for just long enough to cheer East Hackney's 100th post on these forums before slumping back into blissful unconsciousness deep in the bowels of the piano...

-DP-

The Joccian ambassador flinches for the third time as Guevara is propelled past him, and back into the jaws of the Steinway by the power of the Pictsies Heid-butt.

The Bahgum delegation feels that the 100th post of our esteemed comrades from East Hackney deserves a celebration. A special detachment of fearsome mothers in law has swept the room to stop the fighting and the Bahgum delegation has bought in a round, which they sincerely hope will be enjoyed in a civilised fashion. A trained rescue camel has been put to use in extracting Comrade Guevara from the piano, and drinking will recommence once we have him strapped upright at the bar.

* At the mention of a free round, The Rep of Komokom comes straight through the misty-frosted front doors of the club, pays a courteos tip of his bowler hat to the esteemed Fearsome Mothers In Law detachment, moves carfully past the busy rescue camel, and after some speedy movement through the remaining con-fuffle, pops up across at his usual seat by the fire,

"Jolly good show old boy, Mines a Komokian Brandy, in a cut crystal tumbler, naturally! And a Hurrah for the hundredth post of East Hackney, Hip - Hip - - - Hurrah!"

The wee blue fellah on the bar-top, eyed the incoming MIL's with respect and something verging on fear. He started to move to the cover of the peanut bowl when he suddenly went rigid, his eyes unfocussed and the word "Flibble" escaped his lips.

"two...one...zero"

McPeawhistle moves along the bar, oblivious of the flurry of maternal dominatrixs (OOC or is it dominatri?, and is it a 'flurry' or a herd or a coven or maybe an interruption of mother-in-laws) until he reaches the tiny blue man.

He extends a fore-finger, and gently prods the Nac Mac Feigle in the chest. The Wee Free Man gracefully collapses like a stunned ferret.

He turns around to one of the Harbingers of Nag who is looking angrily concerned at the comatose pictsie.

"Don't worry, he'll come round in about ten minutes, and he won't make a mess if you make sure there's a large bucket handy."

"Oh, and may I add my congratulations to East Hackney, and thank the kind emissary for his offer of a drink, I'll have the same again."

"Oh, and Bernard, you'd better look after this for me" he says as he hands his claymore to the barman.

* The Rep of Komokom picks up his cut crystal tumbler from the bar, takes a sip, and says,

"Damn fine, Komokian Brandy, one of our best exports, that and the defence of gay marriage..." :D

* Looks about the slightly less chaotic bar, and says VERY quietly,

"Jolly good show, my word, those Mothers in Law are great brutes, I'd not wish to share a cab with one of them..." :shock:

* Feels in pockets for keys for his matte black Hummer (With diplomatic plates, naturally!) to no avail,

"Oh... bollocks." :cry:

* Moves off to his spot by the warm fire place,

"Best wait till the place calms a little more before engaging in, well, anything other then imbibing a little boozle..." :wink:

The sound of liquid poured into glass followed by satisfied slurps and quaffs reached Sam Smith's ears. The power of alcohol as a restorative healing force were once again proven in spectacular fashion. He carefully slipped out from beneath the piano and looked around. Mothers-in-law. Dozens of them. Courage fled from his scrawny frame. He gulped nervously and prepared to flee. Comrade Guevara staggered over to him, his forehead heavily bruised. Smith flinched, fully expecting a beating. Instead, Guevara handed him a freshly poured pint of Seductively Smooth and belched in comradely fashion. Smith took the drink gratefully and sank half in one draught. He smacked his lips in satisfied fashion and addressed his swaying benefactor.

"Thank you. What the hell was all that about? Anyone would think we'd done something to offend you guys. Ah, well. Cheers." They chinked glasses. Smith frowned.

"Don't suppose you've seen the guy from Collaboration, have you? He owes me for lunch."

Utterly oblivious to the peace breaking out across the rest of the bar, Comrade Mercader continues jabbering into his lapel mike: "state of war...get der army out, der air force...and prime dem nukes too..."

Back in East Hackney, two radio operators look at each other in utter confusion. "What on earth is the ghastly tit wittering on about? We don't have an army. Or an air force. Or any nukes. There isn't a single firearm of any sort in the entire country..."
"Who knows? Let him ramble, he seems happy. Fancy a pint?"

Seeing that the purpose of the dreaded Bahgum mother in law squad has been accomplished, the minister for deadly threats, interference and fussiness (Sergeant level mother in law) reminds her squad that a repeat of 'Murder She Wrote' is on. The bar quickly clears of the evil ones and the pleasant environment is restored.

Sir Albert looks up over the froth of his pint and camly says "Na' then lads n lasses, I 'ope wi don't ave t'call em back, as it fair teks sparkle outta tha pint. Anyroad, raise tha's glass t'reet gradely lad fray East Hackney, 100 mails, bobby dazzler..!"

Lord Geoffrey of Merwell pokes his head through the door after seeing alcohol being served he walks over to the bar.

“Barkeep, a pint if you please.”

With his drink in hand he wonders over to where Komokom’s rep is sitting.

“Defending gay marriages, eh? Unfortunately I am already married but, well you know,” he says raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam Smith glanced at the free beer surrounding him and the number of posts East Hackney made to achieve such bountiful reward and came to a decision.

"Erm, delegates - it appears that Ecopoeia has now made its 150th post. Any chance of some more free booze?"

"Any at all?"

An eerie silence descends upon the room.

"Damn. Wonder if Frank's got any loose change..." With this opportunistic thought, Sam Smith wandered over to the prone body of his beleaguered compatriot.

"By Eck Eco old lad, 150 too eh? Another round over ere", shouts Sir Albert..."after all it's not everyday tha nation is rated as an economic powerhouse, and Bahgums position is: what is the point in being a large economically powerful nation if tha can't spend t'combined GDP of all of this months newly formed nations, in a couple of days, down t'pub?".

Again, Sam Smith gets tearful.

"Dear sir, your generosity is most humbling. Many, many thanks!" With that, Smith moves away from Chalmers' body, his pockets jangling.

the sound of quaffing, followed by a satisfied "aaahhh"

"You're a fine feller, Sir Albert. Long may your cart horses travel in good health."

Economic powerhouse, eh? thinks Guevara. He straightens himself up and, pulling his khaki forage cap down over the lumps and bruises on his much-abused forehead, strides purposefully over to the delegate from Bahgum with a broad smile on his face.

"Sir Albert! Could I possibly interest your gloriously unpredictable nation in signing an import deal on some of our famed People's Revolutionary Rum? Obviously, a nation so respected as yours would receive very favourable trading terms..."

-DP-

Hmm, last time he brought an alcohol deal back home, the glorious leader knighted him.

"Well eeh Bah Gumm me owd mucker, tha's on, we'll ave 5 cart horse loads fer weekend to start wi", "can we interest thee in hiring a mother in law or two fer protection purposes (eyeing those bruises), i'm sure that our magnificent leader can arrange fer 'is own MIL to be seconded, 'e might even buy more rum if tha wants her!!"

"Done and done, Sir Albert, on both counts! The righteous fury of Bahgum's mothers-in-law is feared worldwide, and no true insurgent would turn down the offer of a strong pair of arms, well-honed from years of administering clouts round the ear, to aid in the revolutionary struggle!

"Now, perhaps we could discuss reciprocal terms? Those pies of yours do look particularly tempting..."

I'll be back to pay my debts on...Tuesday, yeh, that's the ticket, Tuesday.

With luck that Ecotopian feller will be in physical rehab somewhere...

Graf von Hermannstein, absent from the bar for a series of domestic policy debates, slips in through a side door.

The Feigle stirs...

Looks around for a bucket...

Frank Chalmers eventually regained consciousness and, muttering dark imprecations against members of a certain orientally located slum nation, departed the bar for his homeland.

Sam Smith, sensing that he was onto a good thing, remained in the bar. A dimly innocent chap, he took Collaboration's word regarding payment and addressed the delegate:

"Another game? How about pool?"

Meanwhile, rumours of the Strangers' Bar and the peculiar goings-on within its walls reached other Ecopoeians. Zo Boone, Speaker for Leisure, was not one to miss an opportunity for grand-scale debauchery. Also heading barwards with a very different agenda was Camille Desmoulins, Chief Editor of the daily Ecopoeian Observer...

Ahh we like pool in Bahgum, where all pub games are national sports. A game or two would be grand.
Now then, Bahgum is considering leaving the East Pacific to find a home more to its individual taste, anyone know of any inviting locations where a glorious nation such as Bahgum can flourish yet more?

Sir Albert puts on his blindfold and takes aim at the table. After all for a Bahgumian to play pool against any other nationality without a blindfold, would be...well....just plain unsportsmanlike.

"Bucket! For crying out loud!"

Buoyed by the wave of support from its glorious comrades-in-alcohol, East Hackney races past 150 posts in world-record time...

Thinking quickly, Comrade Guevara drains his pint, snatches up the beleagured Wee Free Man between thumb and forefinger and dumps the little blue menace into the empty glass.

The glass exploded around the Wee Free Man, the force of his head-butt embedding shards in the far wall.

“Crivens Mon, are ye tryin’tae droon me?”

In a blue and red blur, the Pictsie disappeared from the bar and reappeared in front of the fire.

“Yer pardon ambassador” he nodded to the Envoy of Komokom

Next moment he turned to face the fire, lifted his kilt and proceeded to extinguish the fire. Clouds of evil-smelling steam enveloped the room. After about ten minutes the Feigle heaved an enormous sigh.

“Ahhhhhhhhh! Ah may be able to sup mair than my wee bodie’s capacitae, but Ah cannae hold it fer lang!”

“Noo, which of youse Bigjobs poot me in the beaker?”

Comrade Guevara rearranges his face into what he hopes is an expression of open innocence and honesty, before pointing a firm finger in the direction of Sam Smith. "It was him, your blueness!"

A nameless Ecopoeian with no explicit connections to the Speakers or any news agency strides in and makes straight for the bar. A pint of Seductively Smooth and a large Revolutionary Rum are ordered. Half the pint is downed in one. All of the rum swiftly follows. The remaining stout lasts little more than a couple of minutes. The Ecopoeian then leaves as abruptly as they arrived.

As they left, the Ecopoeian was heard muttering by Zo Boone as she came through the doors. She couldn't make out everything but was certain she heard the words "schizophrenia and homosexuality", "ignorant", "Alex II" and "offensive little runt". She frowned and headed to the bar, determined to settle in for a long session.

the represinative from NLW to the UN finishes his scotch....then in a very pensive manner says...

" Lads, I am begining to feel that I am the only one that thinks that this United Nations Space Consortium thing is a bad idea. This has got to be a breech of the U.N. charters. Wait...are there even any charters?"

After a moment in thought he looks up again to his general addience of other deligates un-winding...

" The UN has gone to far...we have given this deligation to much power...we should be....less hands on and more oversight. We should use our power to bring peace and bring down those who threaten it, not crowd and bully the legislaters of our deligates countries. Those resolution that we do pass should be those that deal internationally: Trade Laws, the Rules of War, not this Space Consortium trash...oh me...

before he retires he, raises his glass and says"

"we raise up our glasses against evil forces singing, wisky for my men and beer from my horses"

Diverted from his course toward the permanently pickled envoy from Ecopoeia by the Grenholmians out-pouring, Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger Than Wee Rory, turns to the whisky slugging envoy.

"Hey Bigjob, tha's Lawyer talk!"

He shinned up the delegate and looked him between the eyes.

"An' as fer 'beer frae yr horses', that'll be PISH! yer heathen! If y'r drinkin' yer horses pish it's nae wunner y'talk sich crap!!!!

In time-honoured Feigle tradition he then administered serious GBH to the offenders forehead, and descended in time to catch the falling glass of whisky.

* The Rep of Komokom, sitting in his chair still, and with a some-what green tinge to his face, puts down his cut crystal tumbler and issues a remark on the previously expressed, and still some what lingering, clouds from a certain wee man's disposal of matter into the fire. Funnily enough, sounds like the phrase most note-worthy in the Real World country of Australia...

" Well, Bugger me ! "

* With that, he clicks his finger's and the fire re-lights, thus eliminating most of the remain clouds of gas... with delightful blue flames... and a cinder floats into the dregs of the brandy... The Rep of Komokom notes the sudden whump ! and turns, mentioning a phrase more likely to be found in Real World Britain,

" Oh... bollocks ! "

* Now suitably blackened, The Rep of Komokom makes the best of things...

" Bar-tend, another glass of Komokian Brandy, on the double if you please ! "

The new delegate for Enn, Hannah Elarian, staggered through the door.

"I never new what went on here! My predecessor left me with such a bad briefing of what was going on! I really need a drink."

* Ears perking up at the entry of the "newbie", The Rep of Komokom, still by the fire, thinks back to his first days in the grand-, well, grand-ish chambers of the U.N. and pity makes him raise his voice,

"Bar-tend, while your about it, one for Hannah of Enn, on my tab, and, why not, a round for the lot of you, I am feeling perversely proud of myself tonight!"

* Although, less quietly, The (Slightly burnt and blackened) Rep of Komokom mutters to himself some almost caught words...

"Ha, send me a bloody telegram of rubbish will he... Too afraid to bitch on at me civil-y in a forum, was he... Ha, hope he likes the same telegram back but re-worded some-what, I say... damned Urk-nation, Ukroation, what-ever, almost as bad as that strange "Alex II" chap in the forums, glad he was shut down quickly, such people now-days, maybe Winston Churh-Hill was right, a 5 minute convosation with the average voter really is an argument against democracy... I bet their both yes clickers, sheep the lot of the, Hic! Where was I ? ... Hope that Hannah likes the bar... Hic... Damn sheep better be not in the elevator... Damn it al to heck, I'd rather not face the stairs tonight..."

* Slowly begins to nod off over his cut crystal tumbler of Komokian Brandy.

hey let me buy you a drink, and by the way i went to sleep for awhile.

Desdemona walks into the bar wearing her newly printed ‘what is gay science?’ shirt and sits at the bar.

“Red wine please... oh and did you know I used to have power over my region. Yes we used to be the delegate, now look at us the only UN nation left in an increasingly small region.”

The barman walks away looking worried.

“Nobody loves me.”

Sir Albert hears that Komokon has bought a round and hurries from the pool table to the bar.He notices the small amount of GBH being inflicted in the bar, but decides against recalling the mothers in law....for now.
He sits next to comrade Guevara and begins to barter on pie quotas for revolutionary rum, and also drunkenly explains about Bahgums new secret weapon...the dreaded sulking teenager...capable of causing the evacuation of any building or area in which they are used.

"Sulking teenagers, Sir Albert? Splendid. One of our ideal target markets for posters of revolutionary insurgents in psychedelic colours, don't you know. Perhaps we could offer you a job lot?"

Hmmm, revolutionary sulking teenagers, this has possibilities. An expendable, but mentally pliable proletariat......

First we sell Sir Albert a batch of People's Revolutionary Rum, famed worldwide for its ability to inspire insurrectionary fervour and proper Marxist thought, then we get him to agree to import a boatload of propaganda that'll cause the nation's teenagers to rise up in open rebellion. This is too easy... Comrade Guevara chuckles aloud at the success of his somewhat transparent plan to provoke socialist revolution in the nation of Bahgum.

....of course all Bahgumian teenagers are banished to an offshore island at 13 until they are 18 and must pass a 'fit to call tha'sel a proper Northerner' test before we have them back.
We dip into the island and let the odd one back for a few days to keep our mother in law squads at full fearsome anger potential. Having some revolutionary types woud be an interesting variation on the mothers in law training, and should give an extra full rage edge. Obviously we would wear your teenagers out quite quickly and would need a steady supply. Would you be interested in buying the jelly like pulp which results as pet food?

Oh, by the way, I hope you weren't thinking that we'd like a revolution?

Why are teenagers expendable? And for that matter why are we mentally pliable?

Why are teenagers expendable? And for that matter why are we mentally pliable?
"Every time someone says something stupid is some one accuses them of being a teenager. Strange that, people can (and will) be stupid at any age. Fancy a drink?"

Hannah woke up several hours later, not entirely sure where she was. After getting her bearings, she realised that she had to be in one of the back rooms of the Bar.

She could only vaguely remember what happened before she fell unconcious - she had staggered into the bar, bemoaning her position. She'd ordered a drink, when all of a sudden everyone was shouting her drinks. Not good. The Council wouldn't be happy with her drinking herself into a stupor.

Oh well. If she was going to be sacked, then she may as well have fun while she was still here.

"Bartender, another drink!"

* The Rep of Komokom heres Desdemona make her claim to being un-loved,

"Fear not, Desdemona, I love you, if only because of your snazzy shirt, and, well, the fact you tore that Nimbus-Sun fellow a new one in my forum thread..."

* And with a smile, The Rep of Komokom raises his cut crystal tumbler in salute, clicks his fingers, and the ash and black-burnt bits fall away to reveal his usual dapper form...

"Much better, bless the restorative powers of Komokian Brandy..."

”Aww... I’ll do anything to help. Especially yell at people who use random characters, an unhealthy number of swear words, and scientifically as an adjective.”

She calls over her assistant.

“Here I had this made for you,” she gives The Rep of Komokom a matching ‘gay science’ t-shirt, “I hope it fits. And I hope it isn’t like the gay agenda.”

* Removes jacket, slips on the t-shirt, and with a laugh,

"Love it, dear, fits like a glove, except its for your... upper body, hmmm, maybe Komokian brandy is not so restorative... Actually dear, what scared me so much, was the fact he called me *dump* which is... exactly... Please, have a glass of something, one for your assistant and you, on my tab, I insist!"

* Signals this to the bar-tend, while admiring the new t-shirt.

“Quite. I’m not one to complain I was the rep for ‘The Back New World’. I’ll have a red wine please.”

The Joccian wanders over to the fire.

"Sorry aboot the Wee Man, Mr Rep"

"Ah did suggest that he'd need a bucket"

He bows politely to Desdemona

"Your servant ma'am"

"I've been thinking aboot all this Gay Union or Marriage argument. It seems to me tha' onny Government wi' its head screwed on right, wid jump at the chance to set up a formal bond between it's gay citizens."

He waved his glass in the air

"Look, currently, in Social Security payments and National Pension payments, we kin discriminate agin married couples by payin' them less. We kin even do that if a Mon and Lassie cohabit, as friends, or whatever, whether they like it or no'."

He looked at the matching gay science tee shirts, perplexed.

"But, wi'out accepting Gay relationships on a formal basis, we cannae dee that wi' same sex couples. With the right legislation we could cut millions from oor social security budget, jus' by declaring any people sharing a hoose or flat as a co-habiting couple! The possibilities are endless!"

"Here's tae gay marriage!"

"Barman fill these glasses, I believe Bahgum is in the chair!"

* Has Bar-tender bring two glasses of the fine Komokian Vintage Red, taken from our "Work-hard-manual-labor-or-be-sent-down-for-horrendus-crimes-, never-to-see-light-of-day-again" criminal rehabilitation program run by the government initiative and private corporations decades ago,

"Now, that, dear, one of our best you might agree, finest grapes, equipment, and back breaking labor went into that fine red, all with the lowering of crime and excellent value for the komokian public, you'll rarely find a bottle out of the country or not locked in a private collection, if you fancy, I'll have a case shipped here to your office!"

* Continues to sup his Komokian brandy, mysteriously re-flilled, and speaks,

"I've heard there is a country which exports some kind of "Revolutionary Rum" or such, which sounds a tad trippy to me, after all, won't find any chink in my nation wide liberal democratic brothers and sisters at home, but its said to be darn'd de-lish, must try some one of these days, fellows who Rep for that nation are said to be good for a brawl too, not that I usually par-take in such matters, I say leave it up to security, but I carry my pocket I.G.N.O.R.E. gun where-ever I go still, must remember, I am supposed to be marketing them to diplomats too! Say, would you be interested in..."

* Looks up when a man with an accent interupts in quite a civil and corteous fashion, and after listening for a sec, is dumb-founded by the pure sense and validity of his statement, and begins to plot draft cuts to his own national social budget, trim as it is already,

"In the honor of particular "Australian" beer adds, Give that man a drink!"

Sensing an engaging discussion nearby, Zo Boone downed her chaser and took her pint of Smooth over to the group centred around the Rep of Komokom. As she made her way over, she noticed the intriguing body language of the delegates from East Hackney and Bahgum as they chatted over their umpteenth drinks. Could be another diplomatic incident if they're not careful, she thought.

"Mind if I pull up a pew?", she inquired of the fire-warmed crowd. "Cheers. Couldn't help overhearing your discussion of gay rights. Did you know some people try and link it with mental illness? Unbelievable. Nice t-shirts, by the way. Now, in Ecopoeia, the governing Speakers have a long tradition of adopting the 'do what ever you like, we're trying to sort out the bloody economy/environment' approach to sexual rights. Although, such a laissez-faire approach has led to an unfortunate legal oversight with regards to bestiality. We're in the process of closing that loop hole now. Terrible, really. No one really knows how long that farmer had been, uh, going. The butchers were all intrigued by the 'special diet' he told than he'd put his animals on. I bet they wished they'd never found out..."

Zo's eyes glazed. When she was able to focus again she was uncomfortably aware of several pairs of eyes staring at her, accompanied by a number of slack jaws. She coughed awkwardly and adopted the standard Ecopoeian response to such moments.

"Um. Is it my round?"

If only the standard response were not so ruinously expensive...

Nusku Capleton, reeking of lemongrass and gin and ever so slightly unsteady on her feet, collides into Zo Boone and the bar simeltaeneously and with equal force.

"Sorry. Fault entirely mine. Clearly need more drink. Networking my ... yeah. Y'know this stuff is all tax-free? 'Sright. 'S a diplomatic prevevlidge."

She waves her empty glass expansively at the bartender.

"You know what the mil'ry budget in Retchypay is? You know? 'S crazy. We don' let inf'ry carry guns til they're like third kyu. Third. You know how long tha, tha... you know how many years I had to... I'm a strategiss, I shouldn' have to be a fuckin... sorry. Sorry. Oh, you're... right, the drinks. See you, then."

* The Rep of Komokom, seeing yet another face by the fire, signals the bar-tend to bring a tray loaded up with every-ones again, And opens his mouth to speak,

"My word dear, I can imagine the con-fuffle when that load hit the tabloids, bad enough when my governmnet extended our recognition of the sexual freedoms resolution and allowed particular activities involving chains, leath and other equipment to spice up the, errr, bed-room. But, after all its what the people wanted, mostly..."

* Feels a few open jaws swivel over to him,

"Ahem, anyway, say what, well, (Chuckle), No, my friend, I insist its my round, ah, here it arrives now..."

* And with that, both The Rep of Komokom and Ecopoeia delve into their distractive drinks, in hope others follow their example... :wink:

"Aye, well, we have a saying in Joccia - "Ne'er a muckle wi' yer mackle mix, in the bowfin' time'. Tis a weeell kenned sayin' frae oor greatest poet - The Rabbi Burnstein, o' the Wee Synagogue o' the Covenant. He also said that 'Dee what thou wilt shall be the whole o' the law an' embrace the consequences', or was tha' Alisdair McCrowley?"

Angus looked around at the down-turned faces, busily interested in the contents of their glasses and thought 'Och, jus' like home'.

"The Feigle ha' some interesting ideas on the subject o' chains an' a' that, would you like me to call the Wee Free Man o'er?"

By eck, that gay marriage issue has made it's way in t'bar. Is there no escape? In Bahgum we don't think it's an issue for the government to interfere with, couples of any persuauion may marry/cohabit/hold hands with anybugger they like, who cares as long as they are 'appy?

I hear of a resolution to allow children to take days off...what a preposterous idea, who are we going to get to crawl down tight spaces in coal mines at the weekends? Bloomin wet nations ere and there, what is the world coming to?

Anyway, as we are still a powerhouse.....more beer folks?

Suddony the doors bang open and a cold wind blows in over the bar playing saductivly with the flames of the fire (curios as the bars entrance is no where near the outside)
Standing at the door is a six foot punk with a blue mohawk and piercings with chains and spikes dressed in an improve suit (vivian westwood would be proud) a distinctive groan goes around the room
"Bugger!!!" someone mutters "Its the deligate from Anarchist dole scum"

Sydney Rotten the minister of sinister and UN deligate makes his way to the bar pushes someone of a seat orders a pint of vodka with an umbrella in it and says "Oright wos appning thenHIC BUUUUURRRRRRP!!!!! SNIFFFF"

Rory Bigger than Big Rory an Much Bigger than Wee Rory, looks at the safety pin embellished semi-literate creature that has just dumped itself at the Bar with something approaching admiration.

Disappearing in a blue and red streak he re-appears on Comrade Guevara's shoulder. He firmly grasps and earlobe and re-directs Guevara's eyes toward the apparition at the Bar.

"Noo Bigjob! Tha' there's a Fairy, y'ken. Tak a long look an see if it looks onything like a Feigle!"

Still carrying the two full bottles of Laphroaig from the previous rounds, courtesy of Bahgum and Komokom the Wee Pictsie saunters over to the fire to see what's going on there.

Boone was somewhat taken aback by the multitude of drinks finding their way to her but rallied courageously and set to reducing the load. She grinned at the charmingly unsteady Rehochipean and glugged expansively from her pint. She could already feel a pleasant fuzzy sensation travelling through her body as the alcohol took effect.

She hicced. The thought crossed her mind that the Rehochipean really was rather lovely. And the Joccian wasn't bad, either. She looked around and saw Sam Smith trying to chat up a hat stand. Oh, dear. Better take it easy with the booze. Don't want to end up like him...

Sir Albert looks around and watches the MacFeigle and the safety pinned one carefully, after all now we have ladies present we wouldn't like any unsavoury actions would we?
He nods slightly to the Bahgumian mother in law security detail waiting outside the bar, not wishing to bring them in just yet.....but to remind the drinkers that they are there, only a nod away.
Gives Miss Boone one of his world famous charming smiles and returns to his pint of best and single malt chaser.

An elegantly liveried flunky strides across to Comrade Guevara bearing a telegram on an ornate silver salver. After a couple of false starts, Guevara manages to clutch it in two unsteady hands long enough to focus his gently rotating pupils on the message.

"Sorry chaps... it seems that as a result of our Glorious Leader's indisposition I've been called away to take charge of affairs back in the Democratic Republic of East Hackney... [OOC: Aaargh CRAP! A whole load of work has just hit me like a runaway train and I'm not likely to be on the forums much for a couple of weeks].
"In the meantime... well, we wouldn't like to see this party die. Until we return... the drinks are on us!"

He brandishes the official East Hackney Diplomatic Credit Card extravagantly, laying it on the bar with a flourish before staggering out of the door, pausing only to scoop up a couple of bottles of Ochayeopeian and someone else's half-finished pint along the way.

*sneaks in for the free drinks*

Place was well named, it keeps getting Stranger and Stranger...

"Ho, Rep frae Collaboration, ma man!!"

The Joccian's voice boomed out over the general hubbub in the room. All eyes followed the Joccians pointing finger.

"Are ye here tae settle y'r debts then?"

More than one other person in the room began to move to cut off the unhappy Emmissary's escape.

* As people raise from their drinks for air, for but just a sec, The Rep of Komokom risks a quick look about the bar, and risks a comment,

"So I said, Quetzalcoatl ? , the Feathered Serpent, right? Always sounds like some kind of cock-tail or other alchoholic beverage to me... Then again, so does French Tickler, but I am not at this time able to remember exatly what that is, and like, they all just ignored me, so I figure its time to test my theory..."

* Ignoring one or two more dropped jaws, The Rep of Komokom raises his hand to the bar-tend, and speaks again,

"Hey, my good-man, fetch me a Quetzalcoatl ? Or is it a French Snake ? , or a Feathered Tickler... I am not sure, Is it one of those whith three knds of rum? Anyway, if you know it, fetch us over a few!"

* Looks about the bar, then at those who made up the close company... and realised yet again more dropped jaws littered the floor,

"I said something again, didn't I, Hmm, yes, well, Oh ! Look, what an... interesting hair style that man has... I think, it is a chap is it not, any way, yes, I think it is, Hmmm All blue... , I wonder if the Mothers In Law are still about, never mind, I am sure my pocket I.G.N.O.R.E. cannon will deal with any trouble, did I mention we perfected it recently? Rather nifty, though it still has an occasional..."

Buys a double of Jack after a long hard day of proposal writing and editing.

Hannah suddenly stiffened, and slid down under her table, as another woman entered the bar.

"Uh, hello, everyone, my name is Stephanie Fulton, I'm the acting UN delegate for the Council of Enn. Has anyone seen our delegate, she normally goes by the name of Hannah. We thought she might have come in here."

Hannah silently cursed Stephanie, and decided to just bite the bullet.

"Here I am. What are you going to do, sack me here on the spot?"

"For crying out loud, Hannah, lighten up. I just came to tell you that we've managed to clear up all the mess that the previous delegation left, and that it's high time for a celebratory drink. Care to join me?"

"Well, uh, Ok. But you have to try this brandy from Komokom, it's the best I've ever tasted..." And with that, the two ladies moved off to the bar, leaving many onlookers wondering just how Ennish minds worked.

Lieutenant-Colonel Reckhardt Sharke walks in through the damaged doorway, squeezing past a hulk of a man who keeps talking to his jacket lapel.

The newly promoted envoy for The Jingoistic States of Albione wears the uniform of a Major in the Albione 95th Rifles; the uniform has certainly seen better days and shows some rather dark and sinister stains on its bottle-green Melton cloth.

His features are striking to say the least, high, prominent cheekbones, and a square, very solid looking jaw, which juts, just slightly. His eyes are almond-shaped and very slightly slanted with deep, reddish purple irises. A white scar stands out against his brown skin, running from his left temple to the jaw-line. His broad shouldered, six foot two frame looks as though it was designed for fighting, yet his hands are long-fingered and delicate, the hands of an artist.

He is obviously uncomfortable in the plush surroundings of the Strangers’ Bar, and keeps his eyes fixed on the bar ahead.

At the bar he orders ale, and uncomfortable searches for the few coins in his purse.
When the barman informs him that the drinks are paid for, he brightens considerably and adds a large Komokomian Brandy to the order.

Tha won't be needing that ignore wotsit, Komokon, we've got our mothers in law on standby just outside t'door. Na then, did that Comrade guevara say something about free drinks? I'll have a Bahgumian ale bartender...and give a shot of our presidential blue Bahgumian brandy to that wee MacFeigle chappie....in fact blue Bahgumian brandy all round seeing as East hackney is paying....

* Looking startled at the Bahgum representative, The Rep of Komokom turns to him and says,

"Hmmm, that is good then old boy, after all, its all well and good technology is this, but you cannot beat the cold hard fear that jiggles in your gut at the words of Mother In Law, especially when there is, so, well, many of them... by the by, is it a "coven", "herd", or "murder" of M.I.L's? I'm always prone to forget such things,"

* The Rep of Komokom forgets for now about the curious pocket I.G.N.O.R.E. cannon (tm) in his, well, errr, pocket, and decides to use the plot device later,

"You know, now I think of it, this bar, is quite, well, possibly, may, then.. Hmmm, you know, to put it simply, I imagine in a few years, we'll sit by this hypothetical fire, look back, and say to our guests and long time friends, this place, here it started, people in a bar, playing at pool, or losing, if your anything like me what! (Chuckles), imbibing fine fluids about a roaring set of flames (Or flamers, ayyy?), talking about the intricate components of politics, religion, and pressing issues..."

(Takes breath)

"... And I pledge to you all, on that day, a round of Komokian Brandy for all present, and for now, three Cheers to the Mods for keeping it a little regular! To Enodia for this Bar, And for the U.N. , And Us too! As we beat it with text based sticks to keep the old girl running ! ! ! "

* And with that, he raises his glass to all, completely forgetting he's still wearing his "What is Gay Science" gift T-Shirt, formal black leather shoes and pants, and a silver Super Hero-esque cape !

" Hip hip - "

"Hurray!" shouted Hannah and Stephanie in unison, who then each quaffed their Komokomian brandies.

"You were right, Hannah, this really is the best stuff!"

"I told you so! Anyway, I want to meet the guy from Komokom, tell him personally. Which one is he?"

"I think it's the guy wearing the 'What is Gay Science' t-shirt, who just gave everyone in the bar more brandies."

"Oh, ok."

"Aye, a blooo dram, fer a blooo mon!"

The Wee Free Man lifted the heavy tumbler to his lips and swallowed the contents.

"Ae, nae a bad wee swally. Y'know yrr nae sae bad fer a saft southern poufta, Sir Albert! Could we mebbe set up a re-cip-ro-cal trade agreement fer this stuff and oor Special Sheep Linament?".

Sharke moved aside to allow the two giggling ladies more room at the bar. He nodded appreciation to Sir Albert for the blue brandy.

* His ears... click? at his name, or partially there of...

"Actually my dears, its the Bahgum delegate and East Hackney suppling more brandy, credit where credit is due, good for them too! And might I add, quite de-lish, if not as, well, Komokian as mine... :wink: , you see, theirs is a blue colour, while ours is a dark rich red-brown, like honey, you see. Comes from the Red Komokian Cedar wood used in the casks... Where was I, oh, yes, thats right, the wood, you see, unique microscopic molecule things, or some such, found in the wood have a unique reaction o the alchohol and as such impart that delightful, not quite fine fine fine brandy, not quite a refreshing red cedar aromatic burst upon the tongue, and I tell you, we make a killing in the export!"

* Takes back to his seat by the fire,

"Ah, a hard day it was today, had to spring up those damn stairs, Sheep in the elevators again, up to Admin, to the Records, all about, my office, damn pager would not stop buzzing till I threw it out an open window, I am seriously starting to think about setting up two or three staff down here with linked lap-top's and web cams, so I need not dash about so..."

* Suddenly, his eyes light up,

"BAR-TEND, BAR-TEND, I DO SAY OLD BOY, *DO* SO BRING A GREAT PLATE OF THOSE LOVELY SAVOURY CHEESEY THINGS ! ON THE DOUBLE MAN ! ! ! "

Nusku brightens considerably at the mention of free drinks, and vaults over the bar in order to mix up something toxic involving kahlua, guava juice, and Grand Old Hackney 150 Proof Rum, which she then adorns liberally with citrus fruit. Fortified by this, she makes the return leap over the bar, slings an arm around the shoulders of Sir Albert and one of the Ennish, and holds forth.

"You really should support this In'nashernul Narcotics thingummy. 'S a good, good idea. You know I can throw a guy over my shoulder and break his arm in five places? Wha' use that f'r a CinC? My poin' being," she adds, disentangling one arm in order to prod Sir someone's ribs emphatically, "is that I'm should being a gen'ral, tactics and strategy and," the arm waves vaguely, "buyin' big guns and such. Not a frickin' sensei."

Disentangling entirely, she slumps back against the bar, discovers her drink residing thereon, and brightens again.

* The Rep of Komokom brightens suddenly,

" Ah, yes, forgot you see, all this tipple, I started a new forum thread, asking people about their opinions on religion in the U.N. and all that, do drop in and drop a line of text if you'all would, I'd love to see some lively interllectual debate, so you all *must* pop in dears!"

* And with that, he gets up in quite a slightly-sloshed-but-still-some-what-stable fashion, and toddles away to the exit, with a fond wave of the hand to all, and a,

"Cheerio all, to all a good... time zone ! " :D

* And is last seen that "night" being pulled away by his staff in a horse drawn giant gilt bottle of komokian brandy! Leaving some bar visitors to rub their eyes and look doubtfully into their glasses, only to shrug and get more merrier by the perrier !

Zo Boone was most surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy on seeing Nusku drape herself over the other delegates. She attempted to drown this rogue emotion with another hefty quaff of Smooth, took a glass of Bahgum's bewilderingly blue brandy, bid farewell to Komokom and decided to treat the remaining diplomats to her views.

"You know, the problem we have in so many of our societies is that we're so worried about providing economic stability and security, we forget what life is really all about. Fun. What's the point of toiling in an office or summat when you could be out sampling the joys of your fellow humans, communing with nature, jumping off mountains or just sitting around a fire with enough booze to float a battleship and fine company from all corners of the globe and beyond?"

She became aware that she was rambling.

"You know, we do have safety equipment for the mountain jumping and such like. Not much point having fun if you can only do it once."

She was finding it very hard to focus. Strange.

"Tell you what really pisses me off - all those sanctimonious men - hah! probably boys - deciding what I can and can't do with my own body. Telling me who I can and can't marry. Good job I'm not the Speaker who has to deal with that kind of stuff, I'd have flayed the buggers alive."

Another swig of brandy. She winced as it made its fiery path down her throat. She looked with interest at Nusku.

"D'you think you could show me some of those, um, death moves of yours? Bloody fluffy liberal paradise in Ecopoeia, we don't have weapons or violence or anything. Good job no one wants to invade us, really..."

Rekhardt Sharke deftly caught Zo Boone as she toppled backwards toward him.

"Pardon me Ma'am, but I think this blue brandy tends t' tilt the floor a bit."

He gently deposited her in the still-warm seat so recently vacated by Sir Albert

Couldn't agree more Miss Boone, Bahgum has so far singularly failed to put in any serious mainstream economic stability or security resolutions. All our proposals, by order of the glorious leader, must contain a strange or humourous or the downright off the wall slants on everyday issues. They don't seem to get voted in, due to inherent conservatism, but that doesn't stop us!

We are considering rewriting a proposal on establishing the pub as a bastion of non PC magnificence.....

Now where is that bottle of blue brandy.....

"Whoa! Didn't realize I was still in here!" Calvin wonders if someone slipped something in his drink or if he did it himself.

Nusku perches unsteadily on the table by Zo Boone. "Nonono. You are completely missin' the point. "See, we're all fluffy an' librel too, and it's like 'hey! army people! until you've mastered the understanding of ethics and unarmed combat and thus realised the essential vuln'rability of aggression, no guns for you!', and yeah, well, if we ever get invaded we're so screwed 'cause of two-thirds the army jus' use bo sticks and stuff. And then Jeanne says, Nusku, chill, nobody's gonna invade us, but that's not the point, 's my responsibility."

The level of the guava cocktail descends abruptly.

"An' I can't show you any death moves on account of how you don't know how to fall prop'ly and I'm drunk and if you break somethin' it'd cause an In'national Ins'dent, but yeah, sure, drop in the Embassy sometime... we've got murals displayin' our rich cultural heritage an' everything..."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You're not as drunk as me, are you? Barkeep! Gin for the Ecopocipan!"

Zo's eyes lit up as the very large gin was brought to the table. She turned to belatedly thank the gentleman from Albione, thinking hey, he's cute and treating him to a seductive wink. Well, had she been sober it would have been seductive; in her current state it came across like a nervous tic.

"Like your thinking, Bahhhhgum, good luck with that." She giggled, not entirely sure why. Another gulp of brandy and a sup of the gin.

"Nusku, sweetie," - another giggle - "I am trying to catch up. Cheers!" The two chinked glasses in a manner that had the surrounding delegates diving for cover.

"Knowhaya mean bout the fluffies pissin off the mil'try. Our Speaker for Home, uh, wotsits, Maya Toitovonovonovona, she's always moanin bout it. It'd be a'right if there weren't so many rogue nations out there. I mean, wharrabout the ones wiv drunken maniacs runnin the show, hmm? Startin diplomatic incidencences n stuff. Problem f'rus is that all the Speakers are old revolution'ries that won through peaceful means. But, but it's not the same when your enemies only have tropical fruit for weapons, is it? It'd be cool to see your place tho. Maybe we cud start up a culchral exchange or summat, hmm?"

She giggled again.

"Ecopocipan. Reh-Reh-Rehochipochipochipan!"

She belched.

"Nuvver drink?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but do you have somethin' in your eye?" asked Sharke, offering a threadbare but clean handkerchief to Zo.

He also nodded to the bartender.

"Fresh drinks for the ladies, chap, and quick about it if you please!"

He turned back to the group by the fire.

"My name is Rekhardt Sharke, I have the honour to be a Lieutenant Colonel in His Majesty's 95th regiment of Foot - The Rifles. I have been sent to this *place* as a diplomatic envoy though I must confess to you all, I know bugger-all about diplomacy and even less about sheep.

Sid saw it...... well he thought he saw it "that bird over there jush winked at me" he thought draining his eight pint of vodka if only he could remember her name..... he was sure it was somthing like farm or somthing to do with animals HIC BUUUURRPPPPP!!!!


Grabbing anouther pint he strattend his mohawk pulled the nac mac fiegale out off his pint and stumbled across the room towards her when some .... well what sid could only discribe as a togh nosed git stepped infront of him and started talking

"My name is Rekhardt Sharke, I have the honour to be a Lieutenant Colonel in His Majesty's 95th regiment of Foot - The Rifles. I have been sent to this *place* as a diplomatic envoy though I must confess to you all, I know bugger-all about diplomacy and even less about sheep.

at whitch point sid tapped him on the shoulder and kicked him in the round ones and dropped him like a sack of potatoes


"oright darling" said sid to the lady zo
"that git bothering HIC BUUURRPPPP you snIFFF???"

Sid saw it...... well he thought he saw it "that bird over there jush winked at me" he thought draining his eight pint of vodka if only he could remember her name..... he was sure it was somthing like farm or somthing to do with animals HIC BUUUURRPPPPP!!!!


Grabbing anouther pint he strattend his mohawk pulled the nac mac fiegale out off his pint and stumbled across the room towards her when some .... well what sid could only discribe as a togh nosed git stepped infront of him and started talking

"My name is Rekhardt Sharke, I have the honour to be a Lieutenant Colonel in His Majesty's 95th regiment of Foot - The Rifles. I have been sent to this *place* as a diplomatic envoy though I must confess to you all, I know bugger-all about diplomacy and even less about sheep.

at whitch point sid tapped him on the shoulder and kicked him in the round ones and dropped him like a sack of potatoes


"oright darling" said sid to the lady zo
"that git bothering HIC BUUURRPPPP you snIFFF???"

"Hey, Nusku - prepared to demonstrate one of those death move thingies on this guy?"

*A non-descript figure entered the hallowed rooms of the world's best known watering hole. A quick search revealed a small table that was un-occupied. Waving a waitress over he says... *

"Young lady, I would like an ice-cold pilsner. I'm the Laioian envoy... does this establishment accept bongs?"

Unfortunately for our Sid, the Vodka seems to have interferred with his eyesight, and his range-finding ability.

When he pulled the attractive blue umberella out of his glass and dropped it on the Wee Free Menace, he made his first mistake. His second mistake was to turn his back on the Feigle.

As he rammed his knee, neatly into the Sharke's sword scabbard, Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory shot from the bar, found a handhold in the stiff and brittle ridge that passed for a hairstyle, and moved along it, much like a combine harvester in a corn field.

"Aye this heid ha' mair handholds than a ladder" he thought as he swung from piercing to piercing.

Finally reaching his favourite place between the punk's eyes, Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory hung from the stud encrusted eyebrows and smiled a nasty smile.

"Noo can ye Mutha stitch, Laddie?"

The Feigle delivered the coup de gras - wi' feelin'.

"Oh. Skip the death moves, let's get another drinkie in."

The impact of the Nac mac Feigles head done one of two things for Sid...
first it sobberd him up....
Second it dropped him to thew floor like the envoy from Albione

"Bugger me" thought sid "that hurt:"

Thinking that he might need a tatical retreat Sid dragged himself over to the envoy from Laio

"Dont worry about the price ill pay with handouts" he said dragging himself on to the chair next to the envoy

"Do us a faver mate and get this bloody PIXIE of my face will ya"

The impact of the Nac mac Feigles head done one of two things for Sid...
first it sobberd him up....
Second it dropped him to thew floor like the envoy from Albione

"Bugger me" thought sid "that hurt:"

Thinking that he might need a tatical retreat Sid dragged himself over to the envoy from Laio

"Dont worry about the price ill pay with handouts" he said dragging himself on to the chair next to the envoy

"Do us a faver mate and get this bloody PIXIE of my face will ya"

Sharke had been born a bastard, ill-bred son of an Orcish father and an Elven mother. His disgraced mother had been ostracised by society and had died whilst he was still a baby. He had been put in a Foundling Home where he hadstayed until he was big enough to escape. His training ground had been the gutters and slums of Londinium, until the Army had found him, that is. Sheer drive, and a bit of a brown nose, had driven him up through the ranks.

He now rose from a crouch and sheathed the wicked looking six inch blade he had drawn.

He looked down at the comatose form of the, now bald, punk and smiled a wry smile.

"Yer some fighter Wee Man, by 'eck!"

"Ladies, may I offer my apologies for what you've had to witness here?"

"Barkeeper, do you allow your floors to become cess-pits, get this rubbish out of here NOW!"

He threw the remainder of his unspilt Bahgumm brandy down his throat and winced.

Sir Albert nods to the dreaded Mother in Law squad. They rush in and soon are fussing over the punk, the mac feigle and sharke in truly horrifying fashion. Within seconds the three lads are spruced up and looking like very nice boys indeed. With an evil MIL at their shoulders calm is restored.
"Nah then, ah didn't want to 'ave to do that, but tha's geet t'ladies t'think of", says Sir Albert calmly and passes a pint of best to the three now well behaved ones.
Sir Albert was going to mention Bahgums draft international language day (which the MacFeigle may like, as it includes a Scotas day), but decides he ought to order a slow MIL withdrawal first.

Nusku observes the crude brawling with indifference, and arches an eyebrow at the unfortunate Albionean.

"Well, there's two nations at least we won' be worrying about an invasion from," she observed. "Can't vouch for the little blue guy, though. Kinda hard to find a grip."

"Hmm. Kinda working on the basis that we're keeping them onside at all costs. I dread to think what would happen if armies of the little mites started climbing up your legs..."

Zo's voice tailed off as her mind wandered into territory it really shouldn't have. She necked some more gin and encouraged the foolish thing to scurry along to more beguiling places.

"These MILs really are fearsome. Makes you wonder why people are arguing over who gets the right to marry..."

Why thank you... uh, Mr. Sid. I'm Diego MacBernstein, a much bewildered envoy, here at the UN. I must say, this is a most unique and interesting place.

Most Laioians brew or distill their own spirts... we have few of these types of drinking businesses. I brought some good turnip brandy with me... but, left it at the consulate.

* Having given the driver some incorrect instructives regarding speed, direction, and, no your other left you fool, The Rep of Komokom gve up on getting to his diplomatic residence an instead returned to the bar, having at least sobered slightly from his usual pickled state, due to the cold wind in the face, while shouting at the driver. He steps out of the gold gilt komokian brandy bottle shaped carriage and toddles in,

"Back again all ! Bar-Person, fetch me a komokian Vodka and Orange, then a Brandy, A Komokian then, A Blue Bahgum one, and then... one of those Feathered Serpents, if you don't mind, oh, and a plate of those savoury cheesey things too!"

* Actually looking about he bar, he notices a slightly higher presence of MIL's then before, some very intoxicated people by the fire, and figures,

"Eh, better then several flights of stairs up to the office..."

* Walks over and plonks himself down in his usual chair, and begins to talk amicably amoung his peers,

"Greetings all, Thought I'd pop back in, have another chat and all that, oh, did I mention, I am planning a proposal, yes, me! Its all about how future U.N. proposals must not conflict with N.S. issues, like, we could not have one saying no fire-arms for any-one, as thats along running N.S. issue, you know, power of precedent and all that, what did you think to that eh? I figure it would stop things like that euthanasia bill happening again, damn annoying that, we were all capable of deciding ourselves when PING ! Someone wanted a moment of ethical glory it seems, or was it personal glory... pethical? Epersanol? E'spaniola?"

* Shakes head to clear it,

"Bar-Person, my order, chop-chop now!"

Somewhat bewildered by what was going on, Hannah and Stephanie decided it was time to liven everyone up by singing, hoping that everyone else would know the words, and join in. Unfortunatly, they chose one which was in Old Ennial, the ancient tongue of Enn.

"Alexhara oas, l'Ikale te'arrim, zoh swaws jhehehik foromoous..."

They continued for some time, before finally realising that everyone else in the bar was staring at them like they were mad. Shrugging, they decided to get everyone on side again in the quickest way possible.

"Bartender, Ennish shandies for everyone!"

* In order to distract people still staring at the Ennish delegates, the shandies not yet taking effect, The Rep of Komokom does the gentlemanly thing, though the low level of blood in his alchohol stream means his probably going to embarass himself too...

He clicks his fingers, making a band appear, and with a last throw back of the dregs of his drink, walks over to the shiny new mike, and says,

"Here's and oldie, which I'd like to dedicate to the U.N. In Spce or some such passed proposal!"

* Bands starts playing opening notes to,

(Ahem)

" Flyyyyy Me tooooo the - Mooon,

Sooo I cannn..."



* While a roaring time ensures, its need-less to say, enough stares are directed at the The Rep of Komokom in his intoxicated state, with his black formal pants, leather (black) patent formal dinner shoes and silver cape, not to mention "What is Gay Science" T-Shirt, that the Ennish pair are soon forgotten... :wink:

Though might I add he was almost completely in key though! :wink:

Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory, flinched as his attendant MIL moved suddenly.

He watched her stride over to Zo Boone and deliver a stinging slap to the back of her legs. Obviously these Bahgummeran MILs had the same sort of telepathic qualities as MILs the world over, only more highly developed.

This was a shame, because he had been quite enjoying Zo's fantasy.

'Oops too late!' he thought as the MIL bore back down toward him, a look of retribution on her face.

Zo squealed. In pain and consequently suffering the effects of returning sobriety, she glared vengefully at the MIL and mentally plotted retribution. Another MIL turned and gave her a sharp stare. Zo's blood ran cold. She turned to Nusku.

"I think we might get more than we bargained for with these...women. Oh, God - what is she doing to that poor wee fella?"

Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory's screams echoed around the bar...

The MIL drew closer to Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory, and he watched, petrified, as her hand dipped into her apron pocket and brought out...

*'EEEH BAHGUMM' AN ANTHOLOGY OF BAHGUMMERAN POETRY*

With sadistic delight she commenced to read quietly to him.

"Och Crivens Noooo! Ye Hag! no' the powtry. Please!"

Sid stood up clean shaven and sober in a suit.... he still had his piercings but othert than that he looked.... well dashing he thought
Spying the nac mac fiegal and realizing this might be his only allie decided to go and save him from a fate worse than death

Ok sid thought grace is what you need

"excuse me my lady" with a low sweep"may i interupt your rendition of old scotts faverouts and wisk away our mutaul miniture to meet our new envoy Diego MacBernstein from Laion"

"Dont worry mate ill get you out of hear" he wisperd to Rory Bigger than Big Rory an' Much Bigger than Wee Rory "theres a pouch of old sailer in my right pocket.."

Then turning to the lady Zo "I do apolagize for my earlyer rudeness but i was not quit myself please forgive me" bowing again sid kisses her hand and is off with rory in his pocket faster than a rat out off an aque duct to the table with the Laion envoy

"Smoooooothhhhh" thought Sid "very Smoooth" :wink:

"Och, ye'er nae sich a scunner efter a'"

"Jolly Sailor eh?"

"Ye'll no' be hevvin a wee drop o' Special Sheep Linament aboot you as weeel, will ye?"

The Feigle looked up hopefully from the depths of Sid's pocket.

Sir Albert loudly announces that an unnamed Bahgum youngman may have whisked his young lady away to one of those drive through wedding chapels. The desired effect is immediately seen, as the MILs shriek a battle cry and rush of to the airport. By the time they realise it's not true, they'll have found some poor soul to fuss over and have forgotten about Sir Alberts little misdirection.
Calm restored again, Sir Albert decides that maybe the university of Bahgum may neeed some more funding to research how to fine control an MIL....though that may take a lot of funds....maybe the beer is more important.
That punk bloke looks rather dapper though doesn't he?
Another round??

*the door busts open, and the national Roprotiasm deligate stubles in looking around blanckly then staggers into a booth in the corner, calling for a brandy*

Lord Derren Orden walked in to the bar, dismissing his bodyguards behind as he walks in. The gloom, middle-aged man with a full beard in flaming red sat down at the bar, sighed heavily

"Bartender, give me a bloody Whiskey.. damn fools.. Can't understand His Majesty's ever-lasting wisdom"

He muttered as he sat, looking at the dress-clothed snobs with a hint of disgust in his face.

"Sir Albert, do you see the latest *'designed to appeal to the sheep, so we don't need to think about what we're writing'* proposal that will pass. I should imagine that it may hit your country quite hard??"

Angus leant forward, gesturing with his glass.

"Set up a wee dram for the aye supping but totally abstinent representative of Berkylvania on East Hackney's tab will ye barmon"

The Pictsie shouted from the depths of Sidney's pocket.

"A've a feelin' in ma water that' he's boond fer here!"

Zo tore herself away from drunken contemplation of her Rehochipean companion.

"Angus, my friend - I personally feel the latest resolution is a decent one. What are your objections to it?"

Noting Joccias comment, Sir Albert has a quick look at the latest proposal, another cloned superworthy, look how moral I am effort, with no humour and copied straight from issues in RT news.
Hmmph, don't get anymore original do they. Won't affect Bahgum too much, we'll just drop the sulking teenager brigade and hire more mothers in law to the army. Besides we need more healthy young 'uns to go down t'coal pit....no ban on that...yet....
More Blue brandy

"My Lady Zo, for you seem to have been granted the title whether you like it or not, do you not see that although the title of it is altruistic and designed to guarantee a liberal vote in favour of it, it has no meat?"

Angus turned to face Zo, pulling his kilt down over his knees a little.

"An ill favoured country could take the wording of the resolution and use it to enslave children. It contains a clause which could either ban families from living on military bases, or deny the children of forces personnel an education, and that's just for starters! It just looks good on the surface, and ensures the proposer a good deal of back-slapping!"

He crossed his legs.

"There is no thought to how the objectives are to be achieved, or even how they are to be policed. It's wooly, just like the sheep who'll vote it through."

He uncomfortably rearranged his sporran.

"In a country like Bahgum, they'll probably use it to ensure a better supply of children to go down the mines..."

He shot Zo a brilliant smile.

"But, yer glass looks a wee bit empty. Bartender, a fresh round over here, mak yersel' stir man!!!"

I'll have a double (post) :oops:

* The Rep of Komokom, having been feeling a little ill of late, decide to for now drop the constant imbibing of Komokian brandy, and instead orders some chicken soup and a glass of vitamin enriched orange juice from the bar, returns to his seat by the fire, and tucks in, while elements of his proposal orbit arond inside his head...

"Slurp, slurp... glug, glug, glug."

* And that done, begins to dose off.

After commenting on the latest travesty of boredom to hit the UN voting floor, Sir Albert announces that Bahgum have submitted a proposal on International Language weeks.
The details can be found under a topic entitled 'gay rights, religion, marriage', (as Bahgum could not resist the sarcasm). Some well intentioned in the spirit of things comments would be welcome over there, as the arse clenchingly serious squad seem to have got there already!!
Goes back to planning the child mining team quotas (hey it keeps them out of trouble!).....

<tag>

Zo's brow furrowed in thought. Damn the booze - I can't think straight..

"As I remember, the proposer went through the right channels and posted this as a draft in the forum. The original proposal underwent a few amendents in response to some issues nations had with it. However, the nations with the issues tended to be of the warmongering variety."

She supped her drink thoughtfully and tried not to stare at the Joccian's furtive adjustments to his kilt.

"Hmm...as I see it, the only article which is weak is number 8. I think you have a point here. If this was an ideal UN where all laws are rigorously scrutinised, then I'd insist on a re-write. However, the sad fact is that this isn't an ideal UN. As proposals go, this is one of the better ones (which says little for the rest) and although the above mentioned clause is weak, I suspect our government will support it for the overall good that it will bring. I understand your concerns about its woolliness but I suspect that any resolution that addressed enforcement appropriately would take up about fifteen screens..."

She gave Angus a wry smile.

"I believe that the Speakers of my nation take the approach that a resolution that hits the floor is in essence a cover page. The legal minutiae and necessary gumph that secure it are in the appendices, shall we say? That said, if the overview is crap then bugger the the rest of it, it ain't getting our vote."

She treated him to a coquettish look.

"'Lady Zo' - I kind of like that, actually. Uh, Angus. Do you...uh...do you wear the, um, wear the kilt in the...ooh...traditional- er...never mind."

She reddened and slurped at the whisky again, wondering how liberal-minded Angus and Nusku might be.

"Now, My Lady Zo, you wouldn't be doubting my Scots ancestry would ye?"

Angus blushed, thinking 'Thank goodness those Bahgummeran MILs have gone....'

Nusku gestured emphatically with her glass. "See, I'm for it. My problem with this whole kids-to-war thing is training the little bastards. It'd be like a PE lesson, except it'd last all day for months, and there'd be deadly weapons. Scuttling around moaning about how they've forgotten their fatigues, threatening to shoot each other, and then when there's a gang of foreign-sponsored rightist insurgents raising hell in some isolated rural district and the local garrison's undermanned and you need to make a forced march pronto to relieve 'em, they all bring in sicknotes."

She glances around for approval. "What? Could happen."

"Ach." She sinks deeper into her chair. "'Sides, back home they'd be adults by the time we let 'em fight anyway. 'Less you conscripted 'em in, like, the womb. Hup two, Corporal Blastocyst! Report for duty at main garrison uterus 0700 hours!"

"...my round?"

'Lady' Zo chuckled. "I wonder how the militarist pro-lifers would deal with that scenario?"

She gestured at Angus, trying in vain to suppress a predatory smile. "Another round sounds great, I've a feeling that this fella could do with some alcohol-induced loss of inhibition..."

" 'Appen the little blighters are too 'ard to 'it anyway. An' they make such a pathetic squeal when y'skewer 'em."

Sharke undid the top seven buttons of his jacket and loosened the kerchief around his throat. He was aware of the smouldering glances passing between Zo Boone and the skinny Scot. He shifted position slightly and addressed Nusku directly.

"Mebbe you could get a secondment to Albione to study our milit'ry training. I'd be glad to help you with the manual..."

Nusku squints at Sharke, eyes glittering with alcohol. "Give me juuuust... one... second..." she mutters, holding up one finger elegantly.

Digging in a coat pocket, she extracts a small palmtop and pokes at it fervently. "...sod it, Minesweeper, son of a... ah, there."

There's a long pause while she peruses the screen.

"barren, inhospitable landscape... moralistic right-wing government... uranium mining... um."

She returns her attention to the Albionean, returning the palmtop to its safe location. Her expression is somewhat less than sympathetic. "With all due respect, sir, I doubt my government would import cheese from your nation, let alone cooperate on military affairs. Speaking of which, do you actually have UN membership?"

Angus drops in quickly to save Sharke embarrassment.

"Lieutenant Colonel Sharke is a military attache on secondment to my Government. He is here as mah guest."

He turns to Zo.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to offend the Rehochipean envoy, but you see, Albione is a bit of a blunt country, if ye get mah drift..."

"Nusku, will ye no' forgive the poor, er, er, man?"

Nusku shrugs. "Very well, then. Consider the matter dropped. But in future I'd advise you to do your research, and to remember you're here as a guest. This is an informal event so I'll not make this an issue of rank, but a military man's prospects are rarely furthered by faux pas in front of foreign CinCs, if you gather my meaning."

She raises her glass to Sharpe. "Your health. Now, who's for Twister?"

* At the mention of Twister, The Rep of Komokom suddenly perks up dramatically...

"Did some one say Twister? Jolly good then, I'll man the spinner thingy!"

"What a dull, dull Friday," sighs the most powerful Calvin, President of Ukroatia

"Twister!" Hannah and Stephanie, returning (again) from the bed in the bar's back room, cried excitedly. After joining the game, they quickly got into positions that got the attention of most of the people in the bar.

Twister? Bloody Hell that's a grand idea. Hmmmm but how do you keep hold of your brandy?

"Hey, everyone, I've got a great idea!" Hannah shouted excitedly. "How about, everytime you fall, you have to have another drink! Fun for everyone! Bartender: for the duration of the game, I'll be paying for all the brandies and shandies people will be needing."

OOC: I have actually seen people try playing drinking twister. I didn't just make it up right then.

As the game is getting set up, Minister of Foreign Affairs Voegelin (for Oakeshottland) walks in to the bar. After a long day of UN work, he had hoped to merely quietly slink in for a vodka or four and forget the day.

"What the bloody hell....?" he thought, shocked to see sloshed representatives getting ready for Twister. "Huh....it looks familier," he thought, "I wonder if Mrs. Voegelin and I did something like that during college...."

Walking up to the bartender, hoping to God not to be dragged in, he says "A double vodka, please. Say, does this type of thing happen all the time?" He barely pays attention as he scoffs down his stoli.

"It's going to be a long night...."

Angus breifly noted the arrival of the rather stuffy looking chap from Oakeshottland, remebering him as a rather pedantic individual from some of the more boring debates in the UN. His attention is quickly drawn away by the antics of Hannah and Stephanie. He wonders if Zo Boone will join in, it seems quite obvious to him that Nusku won't.

Eyes drawn again to the pair from Enn, he blushes and pulls his kilt more firmly over his knees. He trys to take an innordinate interest in the ceiling above his head.

Sharke is oblivious of the fun and games going on. He stands up.

"By Hell Jock! I'll let you know when I need you to stick up for me over some posh, toffee-nosed tart!"

He turns to Zo Boone.

"My Lady, I am honoured to 'ave met you"

Then to Nusku.

"When y'need your nappy changing or your nose wiping, don't come to Albione fer it, we don't appreciate toffs. Goodbye, I'm going to find somewhere to get drunk and have some fun, if such a place exists in this stuck-up city."

He turns his back and strides toward the door.

After spending a while giving an utterly bored bartender the entymology of the Russian word "stolichnya," Voegelin found himself distracted again by the game in the bar.

He hears the two women are named "Hannah" and "Stephanie," although he never did figure out if they were representatives. He makes a mental note to make some staff changes at the Ministry as the game goes on.

"No, I'm sure Mrs. Voegelin and I didn't do that in college," he thinks, "we were never that limber. I'm amazed they don't spill their drinks! How do they get their legs to...oh my..." At that point, Voegelin shared wth Angus a long and very considered view of the ceiling.

Voegelin orders another drink.

Roman Delegate Flavius Remir walked up to the bar. He was winded.

"One Rothman's" said Remir to the bartender.

The bartender obliged, giving Remir his drink. He drunk it slowly, appreciating the fine textures and smoothness of the Arctic-area drink. "If only beer like this could be made everywhere" he thought. He then proceeded to wipe his mind of everything and just focus on relaxing- being a UN delegate can be a thankless task. He knew there was work he to get to, but he didn't care- he just had to have his time to himself.

For the first time Angus shows anger.

"Sharke! Ye'll come back here this instant or I'll have your low-born hide broken tae the ranks!"

"D'yer Hear Me Sharke?"

* The Rep of Komokom, having been manning the little spinner board thing, and being some what distracted by the Ennish, errr... antics? :? Takes on a little more Komokian Brandy then he should have, how-ever he does still have the language skills to describe what he's seen,

"Bloody, hell, jolly good show all this!"

The tall Rifles Officer stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, a diamond-hard glint in his eye, his hand strayed to the hilts of his heavy sword.

"If you were a man, and not a skirt-wearing snob, you'd find yerself lying on yer back and wondering why you were dead, Jock"

"Now think yerself lucky and shut yer bloody gob!"

He glared for a moment before turning away.

Zo was viewing the Twister game with interest, particularly when the Ennish representatives performed more convoluted movements. However, she refrained from joining in.

"Played games a little like this many times. However, there are slight variations on the theme. Certain players like to adopt a 'coupling' interpretation. Great fun, but the men always end up with unpleasant injuries..." She winced as she noticed an alarming sequence of manoeuvres by Sir Albert. She became aware of the brewing feud between the previously tenting Joccian and the brusque Albionean.

"Fellas, calm down." She thought feverishly. What to do, how do I sort this out? Ah, of course.

"Have you tried our Ochayeopoeian 18 year old Special Reserve Single Malt Whisky? It's very special." Christ, this'll cost an absolue bomb.

She put it on the already groaning Ecopoeian tab and made a mental note to avoid the Speaker for the Economy for the foreseeable future.

Derren Orden, four starred General of the Reanicus People's Army bursted into the bar, uttering loud curses.

"Bloody hell, those exiles and their lies, they'll pay blood fer this."

He sat down at the counter and ordered a whiskey

"I'll trace them dogs down if I so need to bring an amy with me"

Angus returned Sharke's glare, for a moment appearing to ignore the Lady Zo. As the ignorant soldier turned away the Joccian visibly relaxed.

"Och No, dear lassie, please don't concern yersel', merely a little testosterone induced high jinks."

He laughed self-effacingly and fixed her with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

"Please, let me buy these famous malts o' yours"

He signalled the barman

"Aye laddie, two bottles o' Ochayeopoeian 18 year old Special Reserve Single Malt Whisky, and, lets see, oh, eight glasses - crystal, mind!

Looking at the bar he noticed, for the first time, the Western Roman Envoy.

"Flavius, old chap, will ye no' join us, how's the Emperor Paul these days?"

Having heroically played twister, pulled a muscle or six and still not spilled his brandy, Sir Albert slowly unknots hisself and visits the bar to sample some of this ochywotsit stuff.
Feeling a little down due to the failure of the language week proposal to be voted through, he though encouraged by the excellent minipoll in support, he enquires as to whether the strangers bar would enjoy a multicultural event or two?

Looking at the bar he noticed, for the first time, the Western Roman Envoy.

"Flavius, old chap, will ye no' join us, how's the Emperor Paul these days?"

Flavius thought to himself, "sure, why not? Better to relax with the company of others...plus, I've had a long day," acknowledged Angus' invitation and got up to join him.

"Hello Angus. How are you? I'm fine. I've had a really, really long day...I don't even want to think about it. Paul? Paul's doing great. He's been a little busy with the space program opening and the elections and such, but he's taking it all in stride. How's Joccia? The situation with Eredron finally over? I've heard no news on the war front- looks like we averted a conflict after all."

* Surprised at how tiring it can be to man the little spinner thingy and laugh along at the antics of ones esteemed, and in a few alomst-but-not-quite-confrontation, errr, "steamed", peers, The Rep of Komokom, takes a momentary break and from behind his chair, pulls out one of those new-fangled note book / lap top thingies that every-one seems to have in coffee shops these days, He boots it up and begins to browse the forums...

"Hmmm, that *individual* seems to have a proposal up and about... Pfffrt, yes, as I though, more garbage, banning the AIDS infected indeed, what a load of rubbish, next he or she will propose we just execute them. Absolute waste of time, damn fool, in fact..."

* The Rep of Komokom begins to type rapidly, and after a brief moment a ping! denotes his post is, errr, posted. He smiles, and continues on,

"Now, what else, ah, not too much of interest, another proposal to end communism... pish and twaddle.... another to... make the mentally disabled slaves... huh, the proposal writer better keep and eye open then.... heh heh heh..."

* More typing ensures, with regular pings, naturally, till,

"Bar-tend, I'll have a Komokian Brandy, and my regular tray of those cheesey savoury things!"

After an exceedingly long time playing twister without falling, Hannah finally slipped on a patch of beer that one of the other contestants had spilled earlier. Laughing, she disentangled herself, went over to the bar and ordered another Ennish shandy. Stephanie continued playing, to the excitement of the other members of the audience.

Angus stands to greet the Roman Ambassador.

"My Lady Zo, Madame Nusku, Gentlemen, may I introduce Flavius Remir, a Noble Roman. Flavius, these gentl........"

He stutters. How is it possible to do*that* no matter how supple your body is? He realises he is staring at the Ennish rep and blushes, then he realises that everyone else in the bar is also similarly occupied. He breathes a sigh of relief.

* The Rep of Komokom, having torn into another preachery type spouting their "moral views" on the forums, (Though he did tear into them in a civil and polite fashion, naturally!) looks up to only get an eye-full of even more Enn-ish antics, and has only one thing to say on the matter,

"Blimey! , the-eee heck-ness can she bend like that?"

* And quite hastily looks back to the glowing screen.

'Lady' Zo tore her eyes away from the contorted Ennish and bowed deeply to the Roman.

"Welcome, ambassador. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." She was doing well, only slightly slurring.

"I wonder, are the stories I've heard concerning Roman, uh, gatherings true?"

Nusku, who had shifted position in her chair ever so slightly at the conflagration between Angus and Sharke, relaxes again and pats the Joccian's shoulder. "The old-timey chivalry's rather sweet, but if I need someone to fight my battles for me there are thirteen divisions better-suited for the purpose. Though don't think the gesture wasn't appreciated. And as for the skirt jibe... well, to my discredit I am not well-versed in Joccian military custom, but in our military the guys in skirts are the ones from whom you want to flee in abject terror."

Her eye alights upon the remaining Ennish, and a competitive spark flares across it. "Zo darling, could you defend my drink's honour? I have seventeen years of state-mandated yoga and aikido groundwork to get out of my system."