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Lag Connoisseur
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Jan 3, 2013
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The following is an accurate historic retelling of the events surrounding the second world war and other associated happenings across the globe, beginning in 1936. These events, and the great men and women behind them, would reshape the world forever.

Many of the most important discussions in history took place between members of Churchill’s war cabinet in the period covered. Although no record was ever made of these vital discussions, this AAR attempts to ‘fill in the blanks’ as faithfully as possible.

I'll be playing as the UK from 1936.

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January 1st, 1936

Sun spilled through the windows of number 10 Downing Street on that cold winter’s morning.
Churchill paced the floor of his office. His manner was tense, I noticed, his brow furrowed deep in thought. The cabinet had been convened early today, unusually so. Something was afoot, we could feel it.

Spreading his arms, the Prime Minister leant forward against the desk to address us.

“Lads,” he said, “It’s been like ten hundred thousand years since we went out and got proper bladdered. This is well out of order.”

The home secretary, John Simon, rubbed his monocle and spoke up. “It’s because there’s all this geopolitical tension and shit.” He mused. “Easyjet aren’t even doing flying or anything!”

“Innit Sibo.” Replied the prime minister, his voice a regal growl, “But me and the boys have been doing all thinking and this like a load of boffins or something. I think we has the answer, yeah?”

Churchill unrolled a large sheet of paper across his desk. The cabinet and I gathered around.

“This lads," said Churchill, "is a boat. But it’s got all planes in it, yeah?”


He took from his jacket a photo, and turned it to show us.


“Mental”, we collectively breathed. It was magnificent.

“It’s like Gatwick airport, but all in the sea and floating and this and without all the taxis and French tourists spewing in KFC.” Mused Mr. Simon.

“Isn’t it though.” Said Churchill. “It’s a boat so nobody can be all like bang bang ratatatatat and shoot it down, and if any gaylord u-boats come and have a go, we can fly all planes at them and be all ratatat bang piss off m8. It’s well mint.”

Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Chatfield, stepped forwards, his roguishly handsome features etched with a grim determination. “All the lads in the ship factory will be pulling well late nights. We’s given them all red bulls and this, but they still going to take a while isn’t it. Building airport ships doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Whatevs Chatters,” said Churchill, placing a hand on the drawings, “packing bags is a right pain in the tits anyway. Lads, parliament will convene this afternoon to vote, but the situation is all but decided. We’s going on tour.”

We all agreed. It was a well mint plan. Meeting convened at 9:14AM, we set off down the pub.


Author's note: Really glad to see Paradox providing a historically-accurate focus tree in HOI4.
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January 2nd, 1936

Our usual haunt, The Landed Gentry, was sadly closed that day. One of Lord Mountbatten's secretaries had beaten up the roulette machine and called it's mum a German the night before, so the landlord pointed us to one of his favourite watering holes just down the road. We were all parched of course, having done almost an hour of work, so George William Slim, Field Marshall and head of logistics, took charge to get us there in double quick time.

Using his 1924 AA road atlas, he assured us we were going the right way. It was only when we boarded a ferry several hours later, did we begin to suspect that we may not in fact be in London any more.


Finally, in the middle of Belfast, Churchill spoke.

"See here Slimmy. We's all well knackered and sweaty and gross and this. Where actually is this pub?"

"Are we nearly there yet and this?" added John Simon, his right hand man. "Chatters is seasick from the boat, and nobody's seen Lord Beaverbrook since Liverpool."

"I think I've got scurvy" came a distraught voice from the back of the group.

"Hear that Slimmy?" Asked Churchill, folding his arms, "The Viscount Halifax has scurvy, and none of us has had a pint. This is well against our human rights, isn't it."

Mr. Slim glanced around desperately. "Look!" He shouted, "We're here!" He gestured wildly in the direction of a pub, the sign outside clearly reading 'The Belfast Arms, Belfast'.

Churchill looked to the sign, and slowly, back to the Field Marshall. He shook his head, and turned to lead us inside. We piled in to the establishment, a few fellows chanting "Slimmy Slimmy Slimmy he's a Dimmy Dimmy Dimmy", which gave us all a good-natured chuckle. Fed and watered, we sat around and discussed the events of the day as the sun gently set outside.

After many hours, and many rounds, it seemed like a good time to move on. Mr. Slim, having disappeared sever hours prior, had returned on a horse, having 'found it abandoned in a field'.


Brandishing his Road Atlas, he lead us down the street to the next pub. I will admit, I may have been slightly intoxicated, but we mostly maintained our composure. A short while later, we arrived at the second establishment. And I must confess, at that point, my memory starts to get a little hazy...



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January 3rd, 1936

I awoke that morning to a loud, metallic ringing, and a splitting headache. It seemed we had all succumbed to slumber in a pub (one which at the time, I was not familiar with). The ringing persisted, waking Churchill and Mr. Simon, who had sat slumped across the table from me. We all looked at one another, and then immediately back down at the table, as we realised just how bright a room we had the misfortune to inhabit. It would, perhaps, I hoped, be a slow morning.

The ringing finally stopped as the landlord picked up the ancient telephone behind the bar. He exchanged a few words with the operator.

"OY!" He shouted, causing us to collectively shudder, "Telephone call for the UK War Cabinet!"

Lord Chatfield pulled himself from the floor to sit beside me. "What is that nutter shouting about? My head feels like it's been three rounds with Sibo's mum."

Churchill held his head in his hands. "No idea bruv. I think he's Irish or something."

The landlord shouted again. "UK War Cabinet? Anybody?"

For some reason, the words sounded familiar. But my head too felt as though it had been several rounds with Sibo's mum, and things just refused to connect. Thankfully, ever the man of action, Mr Simon sussed things out.

"Hang about lads, I think that’s like, us or something." He staggered to the bar, taking the phone. "Thanks m12*. Hair of the dog for me and the lads."

Stabilizing himself against the wall, he listened intently.

"It’s the foreign office!" he called over to us. "They reckon Ireland just formally surrendered or something?"

Churchill sat up suddenly, though seemed to regret it almost immediately. "You wot? Who to?"

Sibo asked down the phone. Surprised, he turned back. "Well- us."


We exchanged looks. Foggy memories of the night before gradually drifted through our heads. Our eyes slowly widened. As was so often the case, Churchill spoke first.

"I thought the traffic was a bit mental on the way down blud."

Sibo agreed, "Innit, with all that cavalry and soldiers and this and that and whatever on the motorway."

"Yeah, that was like, really weird actually." Mused Lord Chatfield "I just thought they were going on holiday like a bank holiday like to butlins or something." Our drinks arrived at the table, and with the rest of us, he took a small sip, followed by a large shudder. "I knew we should have got a megabus rather than driving that tank down." The taste was diabolical, but it seemed to put us in a far better state of consciousness. Roused anew, we decided on a course of action. Churchill walked to the bar, and bought a round for the entire country, which seemed to smooth things out nicely.

"Courtesy of the foreign offce, obvs." he added, with a wink.


We felt that Whitehall may be less than impressed by our exploits, so opted to hold the morning cabinet meeting over some strong coffee in the Tounge and Groove (as it turned out to be called) instead. We had all been discussing locations we'd love to visit on our world tour, but as is so often the way, nothing had been booked yet. The cabinet sat around a large, wooden table in front of the fire place. The Lord Chatfield was making an animated case for a visit to Iceland.

"My uncle's cousin went there last year, it's got like these big ground shooting pond things, like the bath, but a volcano, and you can go quad-biking and bunjee jumping and the water isn't posionous like France so you don't even have to bring your own!"

"A fair point," rumbled Churchill, "what do you say Sibo?"

Mr Simon polished his glasses idly, "I'm not sure we can afford it Prime Minister, Iceland is expensive as balls. If we put Wales up on ebay or something we might get enough. Perhaps we could borrow some from the Queen, maybe put the treasury on the grand national and see if we can get Chatter's uncle to rig it."

Churchill considered. Just as he was about to speak, there came a frantic knocking. We all looked up at the door, and then to Churchill. He was not a man to be interrupted.

“Wot is it m8?”, he asked the door.

A junior foreign office minister burst in panting, motorcycle helmet still attached to his head.

“Sir!”, he blurted, “It’s Spain! They’ve, like, totally invaded themselves!”


The Prime Minister looked taken aback.

“Invaded themselves? Like, for the insurance money or something?”

“No Sir, it’s like one of them civil wars and this, like when City play United, but with slightly fewer war crimes."

Sibo interrupted, his face pale and drawn. “But Spain… That’s where Nando’s is from!”

We exchanged grave looks.

Churchill swept from behind the table, moving to address the room.

“There’s been well beefs in Spain for like a million years or since last week or something." he said, pacing infront of the fire place. "The Fascists won’t let us go on holiday there, yeah? And the Communists want to turn all the chicken into state-run tractor factories or whatever. And now they's trying to sieze power!"

We collectively shuddered.

The Prime Minister paused, deep in thought.

“Chatters, how ready is the Banter Boat?”

The Lord Chatfield looked up, a cautious gleam in his eye.


“Almost m9. There’s no leopard print seats yet because Doncaster's been on strike all week.”

Churchill pressed his fingers together.

“But what about like, the bits for all sailing and planes and this?”

“Oh yeah, that’s been ready for like nine weeks or something? We was mostly just waiting for Sibo's Dad to come and paint it gold with the stuff left in the garage after he did 311 squadron’s spitfires.”

The Prime Minister nodded, keeping his eyes closed for just a second.

“Lads, the time has come. Not just for this prime minister, yeah? But for this cabinet, to prove once and for all to the world what it is that we stand for. To fight tyranny wherever we find it, in whatevs form it may take, when it fundamentally threatens our way of life. For a threat to the greatest chicken shop in all of England, is a threat to us all. Chatters, load the chicken bibs and weight anchor. We’s going to save Nando’s.”

*A compliment, a m12 is like your m8, but roughly a third better.
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I'll have a glance at this AAR and see what it's about, I thought. Your tech tree rather caught be my surprise and the invasion of Ireland got me completely hooked.

Gr8 banter m8 :D
We demand a cheeky Nandos!

Spain must be acquired for this reason alone, the banterous brigade require bottomless frozen yoghurt and soft drinks and Extra Hot Nandos chicken.
March 9th, 1936

Preparing for what was to come would be quite difficult, let me tell you. But Churchill seemed unafraid. When the nation's supply of chicken was at stake, he became a man of absolute focus. He spun around downing street like a whirlwind of office supplies and sherry, ordering lads, fleets and takeaways all over the country.

Part of my duties as a cabinet officer were to prepare reports on the state of the nation. This, in March of '36, was rather better than one might expect the morning after a party like the accidental invasion of Ireland.

National levels of banter were at an all-time high since shipments of Guinness started crossing the Irish sea.


The number of lads up for a giraffe and a half was slightly less so, but so many of us had come back in high spirits from Dublin, that Churchill was sure it would be enough to throw a dictator or two out of a Spanish chicken shop.


Ladditude levels were lacking somewhat, but this was put down to half of the country still being a bit hungover.


My next job was to officially hire Lord Chatfield as chief of the navy, as up until this point he had apparently been blagging it. Normally this would be grounds for a parliamentary enquiery, but he said he did it for the bants and bought Churchill a packet of frazzles, so was duly let off the hook.


Later that day, we all got a bus down to Cornwall to see the HMS Banter Boat commissioned. Lord Chatfield led us up the deck, flanked by golden spitfires, to the bridge. There, sat in what could only be described as a leopard print throne that would have made King Solomon jealous, sat the captain. Arthur Power.

Churchill was agog. Turning to face us, he thundered "Who the hell let Arthur be in charge of our sick boat?"

We exchanged glances. Arthur, a small, portly man jumped up in his chair. "I'll have you know I am the most capable admiral of boats in this entire navy!" His cheeks flushed, "And furthermore, my name is Captain Power. It is an incredibly daring, cool name. We have a powerful navy with well powerful boats, and my name is Captain Power, isn't it!"

Churchill held his hand to his face momentarily.

"Shut up Arthur you pleb." He cast his gaze over the Lord Chatfield. "Chatters, did you do this?"

"Yes bruv. I used well logics, see?" He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man who had earned the prime minister's obvious ire. "Arthur's so boring, there's no way he'll ever do anything as cool or daring as crash or sink the boat, or even get shot at, so it's basically indestructible now."

The cabinet let out a collective noise of surprise. His logic was completely sound. Churchill seemed to agree.

"Good work Chatters." He said, "But Arthur, you still aren't allowed to sit on the same table as us at lunch."

Captain Arthur sat down heavily in his seat, crossed his arms and spun around to face out of the window where a golden spitfire had spelled the word "ARSE" in big red smoke letters in the sky. It only seemed to annoy him further.

I took the time to examine the fleet report, only to discover another of Lord Chatfield's brainwaves.


He explained it to me in detail.

"So everybody was kicking up a total stink about getting all shot at and sunk by the Germans on the way to Spain right, because they're total warmongering nazis and this with gaylord u-boats? So I had a destroyer, HMS Scurvytits renamed to throw them off. There's no way Hitler would sink his own mum! That'd make him like, even worse than, well, Hitler!"

Another tactical masterstroke. I could see we had picked the right man to lead our navy.

My final task for the day was to telegraph the home office to relay their instructions for the evening. After much discussion, a large project was begun to help in the rescue of Nando's from the devious Spanish.


It was evening by the time Churchill called us around a large table in the galley of HMS Banter Boat. Spread out in front of him was a map detailing the trip across the Bay of Biscay, and the subsequent incursion into the northern region of the two warring Spains.

Leaning acros the document, he addressed us.

"Right then. This time I've done a proper map off google maps and everything so Slimmy can't accidentally invade any more sovereign states." We all chuckled. Churchill cracked a rare smile. "Although in fairness, it was one hell of a night out. We sail from here in Cornwall, directly south, and mess up as much of Spain as possible. Some of Slimmy's mates from down the pub are coming too, they'll be invading through Gibraltar in return for getting to pick anything they like from the Morrison's deli counter they have there before they cross the border."



We were prepared. Soon, the invasion would begin. And the fate of Nando's would hang in the balance.
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August 13th, 1936

It was around 8am as we crossed the Bay of Biscay.

The air was thick with tension. HMS Banter Boat rocked gently beneath us, her deck stuffed full of men and machines. Gradually, as if it was drifting towards us, the northern coast of Spain appeared on the horizon. Engines thrummed as plane after plane threw itself over the lip of the floating runway, before turning towards the smoke plumes already visible in the morning light. The rescue of Nandos had begun.


Our landing craft, several infaltable crocodiles Sibo had under his bed from a trip to Brighton, hit the shores shortly after our planes had cleared the skies. Under better circumstances, this would have been a moment to celebrate and have a drink or twelve. But much was at stake. The lads had landed, and immediately set about their work.


I watched the planes coming in to land on the deck, some for fuel, some for repairs, some to spraypaint jolly slogans like 'Spain flies planes like my nan on the M6' and 'LUFC Forever' on their wings. The level of camaradery, and the speed at which the deck crews worked, was quite remarkable to see up-close. My refrain was broken quickly however, by the sharp ring of a telephone from the bridge behind me. Captain Arthur went to pick it up, but Churchill swept past, grabbing it from beneath his fingertips.

"Wot is it M8?", he barked down the line. Whoever was on the other end was talking frantically. The Prime Minister's face turned slowly purple as he listened. After a time, he nodded, grunted, and put the reciever down, forcefully. He paused, to collect himself, and then- "Cabinet meeting, NOW!"

We all gathered around cautiously. "PEN!" Barked Churchill, and one was immediately placed in his outstretched hand. He began to draw on the map table.

"Some - absolute - spanner," he said, accentuating every word with a stroke of the marker, "Has sent the other half of the armed forces to like, Gibraltar or something. By way of the ENTIRE coast of Africa!"


He slammed the pen down on to the table with an open palm. "Who was in charge of giving them a map!?"

We looked around. Nobody had stepped forward.

"Well it must have been some-" Churchill stopped. "Where the hell is Slimmy?" Again, we looked around. Nothing. A rather meek-looking aide spoke up from the corner of the room.

"Sir- he went with the second invasion force, to make sure they didn't get lost on the way to Gibraltar."

The room collectively groaned. The Prime Minister sighed. He spoke in a far calmer, but no less threatening voice. "Back to work everyone. I'll deal with that pleb later, isn't it."

It was probably a good thing it would take almost six months for the second force to reach the same continent as us.


Word did in fact arrive, later that day, from General Slim. A returning plane dropped off this telegram which was rushed to me immediately. Somehow, he was still managing to direct the lads on the ground from a non-specified location off the West African coast.


I showed it to Churchill, who read it top to bottom, hir brow furrowing. Gradually, a more thoughtful expression overtook his previously furious countenance. He began to update the map, the form of a second Portugal emerging in ministry-approved marker pen before us, though rotated at ninety degrees. The prime minister stared at it intently, an ear to the phone, as reports trickled in.


A few hours later, he broke his silence. "You know," he said, gruffly, "that bozo army pleb might actually have a point, isn't it. The lads have taken up positions, and the Spains haven't even noticed or anything."

As more reports came in, it seemed too good to be true. The Spains (plural) appeared to have completely evacuated in wake of our invasion, giving us almost free reign over their territory. Scout planes returning from flyovers brought us hourly updates of the situation on the ground, and the front line between both us and our enemies.


Though the lads had managed to get taxis to the front lines without a problem, a more worrying trend was emerging: Not a single Nando's had been found by our boys on the ground. The mood on the bridge was once again, tense.

"Bunch of Spainy bell ends." Exclaimed Chatters, slamming a fist against the table top. "They're like totally taking the Nando's with them as they retreat or something. It's well selfish."

"Devious Spainiacs." agreed Churchill. He paused. "Order a general advance. Even if we have to get all up in all of Spain, we will find them. Our cause is well just, isn't it!"

"Isn't it though!" we all chorused. We felt the banter coursing through our veins as we made the order for the advance.


Somewhere on the other side of that beach, the lads of the British Empire were on tour. And they were devilishly peckish for some chicken.
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Just what we need... a Chav AAR! :rolleyes:

Hope the lads don't come home with any nasty rashes after going to a rave at Ibiza.
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March 18th, 1937

Churchill's offensive had gone better than any of us in the cabinet had dared to dream. Spain was almost entirely overrun with British lads pilfering letters from shop signs and chugging cans of special brew in the streets. Banter had spread across the country like an unstoppable tidal-wave of vomit.


But the mood on the Bridge of the HMS Banter Boat, now safely moored in Magaluf, was far from jovial. Churchill, sat at his war desk which had rather unceremoneously replaced the capatin's chair some time ago, was in the middle of yet another disappointing debrief from his flight commander.

"Well then where IS all the chicken m8!?" He bellowed, "It isn't running off and hiding up trees and this by itself, is it!" He paused and turned to me questioningly. "Is it?"

The rather worried looking man standing before him twisted his aviator's cap in his hands. "Nah bruv, nah. See, here's the thing, right? We got chatting to some lads from like Zarogza or something when we went for a pint, and they've never even seen a Nando's! Just told us we were idiots and pointed at Portuigal, isn't it."

Sibo emerged from a large pile of war reports under a desk, clutching a bottle of a substance I didn't quite recognise. "Hang- Hang on!" He slurred, "Isn't Nando's from like, Portugal?"

"Sibo!" excalimed Churchill, in one of the few moments I had ever seen him taken by surprise. "Bruv! Where the hell have you been? It's been like four months or something. We's been doing well loads of war and flying and this and you hasn't helped or anything!"

Sibo swayed uneasily. Holding up the bottle, he said "Toilet duck. Got a hell of a kick to it, isn't it."

"Isn't it though." We all nodded knowingly as he dragged himself up to his desk.

At that moment, an aide burst on to the bridge, a document clutched in his hands.

"Sir!" He yelled, "Spain's like, totally surrendered! They're begging us to turn down the phat beats and go home!"

"Never." murmured Churchill, taking the piece of paper and examining it closely. "Amazeballs, they have and everything. What a bunch of euro-cowards isn't they, like the postie versus Sibo's mum's dog.*" There was a pregnant pause. He turned to face me. "Convene the cabinet my main man. We have much to discuss, yeah?."

We met, later that day, in the hangar of HMS Banter Boat. This was the first time I had been belowe decks, and it was only then that I began to truly realise what a marvel of engineering the lads back home had brought to life.


Captain Arthur had locked himself in the bridge while we had gone for lunch, and, from my understanding, had refused to let anybody back in until he had tidied the place up 'to the standards of civilized human beings'.

The Prime Minister stood in front of one of the spitfires (this one the distinct colours of Fulham FC) cigar in hand, and addressed us.

"My brevs. My main men. My arch bishops of banterbury. Spain, has officially capitulated."

There were shouts of "Bravo!", "I say!", and "BIG UP INGERLUND!"

Churchill waited for the ruckus to die down. "Now," he carried on, "we needs to do all bargaining and this. Like on antiques roadshow when they find a well valuable painting like from France, except we need to make Spain think their painting is from down Lewisham car boot, so we get a mad good peace deal from them."

A voice from the back of the crowd spoke up,

"Can we make them give us like, a road to Magaluf? It'd be well easier than going all the way around Africa every time we fancy a piss up, isn't it?"

All heads turned to face Slimmy. Including Churchill's.

"Slimmy you useless twunt, where the hell have you been! The war started eight months ago, yeah?"

"He's got a point though, isn't it." said Mr Simon, now leaning against an oil drum and stroking his chin. "It would make piss ups mad easier, and we wouldn't even need like a visa or special permission from the Queen or anything. In fact," he took out a pen and began to sketch a map on the white wall of the hangar, "if we made them give us well roads to Gibraltar, Magaluf, and say if we need to do a lager run to France, France, we could cut down on easyjet bills by-" He paused, deep in though, "loads and loads, isn't it!"


We looked at the map. New possibilities flowered in our minds' eye of the massive uptick in possible excursions. The banter we would be capable of generating with such new routes would be beyond our wildest dreams.

Churchill nodded solemly. "Standard. Send them demands or something Sibo. Tell them we'll start playing Barry Manelow on the loudspeakers if they don't accept, yeah?" He strode back into the middle of the hangar, taking centre stage once more. "One more thing. All the Nando's have disappeared from Spain, like a magical chicken thieving wizard magicked them all away or something, yeah? Some say they were never even there to begin with! And that our intelligence department is a load of blithering idiots with upside down maps and trousers on their heads and all this."

"That is actually true though." said a voice in the crowd.

"It actually is though," said another "I saw one lick an enigma machine once and I'm not even lying."

"In any case," said Sibo, taking his place beside Churchill, "we now believe that Nando's is actually from Portual. So that will be our next destination, yeah? We're off to get wrecked in the rectangle lads."

There was cheering and whooping from the crowd. I though, felt a measure more focussed. As we were finally re-admitted to the bridge by a fuming Captain Arthur, I set to work planning the logistics for the trip. Another telegram to Whitehall, and preparations were set in progress.



Although nowhere near the scale of the Spanish campaign, I genuinely hoped we could find Nando's in Portugal. I confess that after a full year of bants, logistics and Captain Arthur, even I was hank marvin for a plate of chicken.

*or Sibo's mum herself to be fair
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June 1st, 1937

I ducked under my desk as another chair flew overhead. Crashes and bangs came from behind it, as the prime minister ripped another seat from its fixings on the Bridge of the HMS Banter Boat.

"Somebody stop him!" Yelled Captain Arthur, cowering behind the ship's wheel. "Calm down Mr. Churchill!"

"Don't bovver my mandem!" shouted back Lord Chatfield, fortified beneath a pile of atlases, "Winny C hasn't had chicken for like a whole year or something, it's no use brev!" He ducked as another chair flew by, barely missing his head. The door to the bridge suddenly slammed open. In the doorway stood Mr. Simon.

Winston Churchill turned, and locked eyes with his right hand man. His shoulders rose and fell with his haggard breath, hunched like a gorilla.

"Have you seen this lads?" Asked Mr. Simon, holding out a newspaper, "Hitler's giant overcompensation blimp hit like a tree or a seagull or some shit and went all on fire and exploding and this and that and whatever."


Churchill seemed to come to his senses almost immediately. "What a top-class deutschebag. Serves him right for driving about in a gigantic sausage bomb." He adjusted his collar and sat back down behind his desk, re-lighting the cigar which perpetually hung from his mouth. If one thing could calm the prime minister, it was the poor fortune of the German chancellor. Mr. Simon strode airily into the room.

"There's more lads. Apparently some King bloke tried to get married but isn't allowed, because he's a king and this, so now he's not a king any more."

"Random." Said Churchill. "Who was he?"

"Some bloke called Edward."

"Never heard of him. Sounds like a right tit."

The prime minister put on a small pair of reading glasses and set about his post. We all eased back into the mornings tasks, and I found my focus again. Finishing off the last of the battle plans for the invasion of Portugal, I informed Mr. Simon that our preparations were complete.


He rose from his desk, and came to stand facing out of a window, hands behind his back. "Top," he said. "Let's smash it."

I radioed command. We recieved a single "alright m8" in reply. Silently, the attack began, and we waited with baited breath to hear the first news from the front. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then, quite suddenly, the radio crackled into life again.

"Lads. This is command, yeah? Them Portugals has totally surrendered."



We were stunned. Nobody spoke for a good ten seconds while we took in what had just happened.

Again, the radio sputtered in to life.

"Lads, Command again, isn't it. The Portugals-" there was an indignant voice some distance in the background, "sorry, Portugeese, say there aren't any Nando's here and never have been. Oh, and that you're all complete burro de merdas* who can't even use an encyclopedia. They're saying that Nando's is from South Africa. Can you confirm?"

Churchill gestured a cutthroat motion towards the radio. Silently, Sibo flicked it off. There was another uncomfortably long pause.

"South Africa," said the prime minister, hesitantly, "don't we like, own that or something?"

A terrible possibility dawned on us. I pulled volume five ('e' for extra cheeky) of the encyclopedia Britannia from under my desk, and began to flick through its reassuringly weighty pages. The cabinet gathered around me, wordlessly waiting, all fearing the worst. I arrived on the correct page. Staring back at me, was everything a child of 6-8 years could ever need to know about Nando's. The flavours, from most to least cheeky. The three food groups, chicken, macho peas and banter. And the complete history of the restaurant - right back to where it all began.

Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill held his head in his hands. "Lads," he said, "we are all complete burro de merdas."

"But especially Arthur."

*look it up, it's great
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July 5th, 1937

That evening, we had resolved to leave our floating base, and planned an excursion into the town of Magaluf. Spirits were low as we walked down the dock to the island, recent events seeming to have rather conspired against us. We hoped that, true to form, Magaluf would make things better. Something seemed off as we walked down the high-street. People cast us dark looks, and any joviality seemed to stop abruptly as we passed by. It was most unlike the island we knew and loved.


Churchill, ever the optimist, led us to a brightly coloured bar with a huge concrete seagull on the roof. "Come on lads, in here, yeah? This place is top qual."

We entered the club. The music abruptly stopped, and all heads turned to face us. They watched as we cautiously made our way over to the bar. The bartender spoke in fast Spanish to the Prime Minister, who nodded. He looked around. "Actually m2*, I think we'll give it a miss cheers all the same bruv. Come on lads, let's bounce."

"Like Jordan in a land rover." Added Mr. Simon, sadly.

Back on the street outside, we convened. The atmosphere was decidedly chilly, though it was the middle of Summer. "Lads," Churchill said, quietly, "Iberia is mad awkward."

"Isn't it though." agreed Lord Chatfield, "Do you think it's because we invaded their country for no reason whatsoever and then said we wouldn't turn down our choonz?"

We exchanged the wordless glance of a band of brothers, and nodded. Iberia was mad awkward, and fairly so. We felt even worse than when we had left the boat.

It was General Slim who broke the cold silence. "Lads," he said, lifting his head to adres us, "let's have a cheeky Nando's. On me."

The words hung in the air for a moment. The corner of churchill's mouth lifted slightly. He put his hand on Mr. Slim's shoulder. "Slimmy my son, you absolute Bantersaurus Rex. That's a killer idea isn't it. Come on lads. Let's go smash it."

And with that, happiness had returned. Whether it was the warmth of camaradery, the hope of adventures new, or the thought of delicious chicken, we walked back to the dock and boarded HMS Banter Boat with a renewed spring in our step. Leaving Iberia behind, we set sail for South Africa.


After a quick atlantic voyage, we arrived. Stepping through the doors, the delicious smell of peri-peri marinade assaulted us, as in a euphoric rush, we ran to the bar to order. Slimmy took out his loyalty card and said to the waiter "Nando's for the lads please. With fino sides of top quality banter." And indeed it was. Needless to say, most of the night was lost to shenanigens and good-natured conversation. After a year cooped up on the bridge dealing with Spain, we could finally relax. Even Churchill and Lord Chatfield were in high spirits.


We sang songs, told stories, and generally had a right giraffe. I was quite overcome with emotion, and my memories again, are foggy past this point. But most ceratinly, the sight of the chicken arriving was one I will never forget.


Hours later, as the lights started to go out, we finally left, arm in arm. it was almost two o'clock in the morning, and none of us had thought to book a hotel. It didn't matter. Bellies full, and spirits recharged, we decided to sleep in the tank.

"What a great night." I heard Churchill mumble as he closed the Matilda's hatch.

Isn't it though, I thought to myself, as with a yawn, I felt the warmth of sleep embrace me.

* a deliberately unflattering phrase implying somebody to be only a quarter the quality of a m8.
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Sounds like the lads are going soft, visiting a place without invading it too :D

Oh don't worry, there's more to come. I can get back to playing the game now I've finally fixed (completely redone) my save file. Had to skip a few months, hence the lack of in-game shots in the last post, but it's all aboard the banter express from here on out ;)
Thought this would be cringeworthy, found it to be absolute gold. Sound!

Also I am totally reading their lines in the voices of the ghetto RAF pilots from The Armstrong and Miller Show.