OGSF

All turrrns are oot, an' Ah'm beatin' everywun lak a beatnik beater o' hand beaten' pots beats a pot tha' still needs beatin'. Handin' oot tha thrashin's lak a thrashin' thrasher o' thrashes thrashes a thrash tha' as noo bin thrashed enough. Handin' doon tha smack lak a smackin' smack daddy smackin' a smack on a insufficiently smacked smackee. Dolin' oot tha whupass ain a large ladle aintae wee wooden bowls marked ain Hiram's baist crayon "Lars", "Boo", "Noba", "Dalem" an' "Speedy". Deal wi' at, ye vacuous goober miners.

*In strides a fearsome looking Scotsman wearing a drab blue and green tartan kilt, grubby white shirt with baggy sleeves, topped by a shock of red hair and piercing blue eyes smouldering under bushy eyebrows...* "Ah'll gi' ye THIS!" *A boney fist clutching a gnarled cane about an inch in diameter, capped with a solid silver stags head handle, appears* "Stand still ye gibberin' weasel!" *WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! ....(pause)... WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!* "Bastarrd! Ye've tired mah arrrm...AND dainted mah solid silver stags haid handle!" *KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK! KICK!* *Exit fearsome Scotsman, stage left, to thunderous applause* Aidited fer tha feckless twats wi' 13" monitors. [ October 20, 2005, 06:54 PM: Message edited by: OGSF ]

Because we could either name all our towns and rivers and stuff with names already used in Europe and the US, or we could ask the local indigenous people what they call something and use that instead. This of course had the added advantage of allowing more time drinking and less time thinking about a name. Still, we have no idea what the indigenous people meant. After all they could have responded in their dialect 'p*ss off, you silly drunk white person', but it still sounded cool. </font>

Noo tha's there's anythun wrong wi' tha', eh?

Dear Herr Oberst, Ye are a festerin' git. Refer tae mah sig line. Here's tae smashin' a haggis across tha back o' your shtyupaid haid.

Ye can tak a wee dump an' fall back ain at. Hiram were tha ainly wun tae follow ye tae ye Heretical Thraid an' hae's noo aboot as hae? An neither are yoo laddie, sae hoo aboot a wee dram o' shut tha feck oop? Ah still hate ye stankin' guts fer tha setoop ye had mae play agin Hiram fer tha Kannigethood. Feckin conscripts at night. Bastaarrrd tosser.

I believe a spork would prove more rectifying. </font>

Ah always feel a wee bit "icky" after Ah post "oot there". *shudder*

Ye've bin aroond since 2001 an' ye didnae knoo? Af ye really wantaid tae knoo, ye wud alraidy. Sae Ah assume ye didnae want tae knoo. Sae why did ye ask af ye didnae want tae knoo? Boot Ah'm pleased ye pleased aboot BFC's businaiss model. At warrrms mah heart.

So if the AI determines that two units have "met" and will fight, with say 10 minutes left in the 60 minute turn, it is a 10 minute battle? How does the next 60 minute turn fold into the battle - do more troops arrive if you direct them to in the new turn (assuming they are close enough to arrive inside 60 minutes)? How do battles end? Surrender, cease-fire or anhiliation? Or when the turn finishes? Does the system lend itlef to feeding more and more troops into a battle as they arrive in the area? And thanks again for creating this!!

Och, gi' us a hug ye big lug!

Is it one player against the AI or PBEM or both? This is brilliant!! Thanks guys!

Sodding twit! Perth as an Scotland.

Seanachai!! Saind mae a fecki' turrn, ye spazoid!

Ah feckin' HATE CM an' tha bubonic pustules tha' rely on tha gamily hacked anti-Scottish-biased A feckin' I tae kill mah heroic pixel armour wi' o'er-modelled stankin' SP feckin' GUNS!!! Unlaiss tha festerin' guns belong tae mae Jimmy, ain whuch case thae die lak a lost calf wi' a broken laig ain a African Safari tae gamily o'er-modelled pox-coated 0.5 inch Machine Guns a' sixty hundraid billion farty bum-bum yards!!!! An' noo bae tellin' mae aboot tha broon stained marsh-mallow tea bagged Sassanach Thomas bleedin' Atkins bastaarrrds wha' die lak span'l poots o'er a candle-lit birrrthdee cake! Nooo, didnae bae tellin' mae aboot thaim BASTAAARRRDS!!! Thae need a bleedin' fifty tae wun noomerical advantaige jus' tae gi' oot o' at wi' bein' wounded an' noo slaughtered lak panicked HAMSTERS ain a Roller Derby!! "Ah'm tha feckin' AI Ah am! Yoo are *ooked Jimmy, cos Ah'm gwintae selaict bugger all fer ye tae defaind wi', thain kill tha' gorby swallowin' lot o' at afore tha fifth turrrrn!!!" (An' tha' concludes tha battle oopdate)

Hoo di' ye like mae noo sig material? </font>

Hoo di' ye like mae noo sig material? </font>

Hoo di' ye like mae noo sig material?

Got it this time. You continue to writhe in the grip of my superior play. </font>

Does that red dress have my Effing Turn in it? </font>

Mmmmmmmm....WWII ETO CM2.....

Put on your rrred drraiss baby, Coz we're gwin oot tanight! Put on your rrred drraiss baby, Coz we're gwin oot tanight! Ye better wear some boxin' gloves, Case some fool might wanna fight! Di ye ken af bulldozers wall bae modailled? Ah'm gwintae bury tha forces o' heathen darknaiss.

Aye, Ah'm eagerly anticipatin' tha second game! Should bae brilliant! Expecially once tha "British" module arrives an' Ah didnae have tae spaind mah days bein' slaughtered on Omaha Beach!

Feck. Missiles? Abram tanks? Smart bombs? Wha's tha skill? "Lock, Shoot, Go Broncos!!" Didnae tha' tank commander ain Desert Storm sae, "The first clue they had that we were there was when their tanks started exploding!". Ah'll gi' BFC tha benefit o' tha doubt an' try tha demo, boot at's noo WWII ETO. Ah didnae gi' a toss aboot defeatin' tha Arabs, or drivin' a APC past a roadside bomb. Will there bae bulldozers sae Ah kin bury tha bastarrds ain their trainches?

All I know is I'm stuck with lousy industrial lighting, a Brain Tumor 4000 monitor and 2 PC's with noise master hard drives that are on the verge of total CATO - which no doubt will end with the firing of aluminum shards into the horrible soundproofing that passes for a ceiling. While reflecting on how much better my old job was (minus the 3 hour commute) I take a moment out of my crappy day to read your posts and they help me to remember that I should probably be drunk. An object at rest needs to drink. An object in motion also needs to drink. An object that approaches the speed of light, requires exponentially more drink as it approaches light speed. The quantum nature of drink dictates that strange bottles of swill will mysteriously appear in your liquor cabinet while your prize single malt whisky and fine polish vodka will cease to exist. (Kind of like how any cassette tape left in a car eventually evolves into Queens Greatest Hits) Tonight, while watching the Blue and White get there arses kicked all over the ice, I hope you'll join me in a drink to the memory of Father Ted, or as his family knew him, Dermot Morgan, may the funny bastard rest in peace. Feck Arse Drink! </font>