The Deity in Tartan

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“Shadow Warrior” by Andrew Hillhouse (2000)

This is a short story, a fairy tale almost, about the Scottish people having their very own god, and the incredibly stereotypical things that He did for bonny Scotland.  Written on the 9th May 2016.


The Deity in Tartan

Made out of kelpie-grade haggis, the Alpha Scotsman was the physical embodiment of all that is Scottish. He was not born, but rather came into existence when a large shipment of battered haggis accidentally fell off a cliff and had been struck by lightning at the exact same moment it impacted with an Irn Bru factory below. The combination of the impact, burst of raw energy and that fact that “Real Gone Kid” by Deacon Blue had been playing at full volume in the factory at the time resulted in the single most powerful surge of pure Scottish energy in history. Out of the mighty tartan explosion, which sounded like 10,000 bagpipes filled with selkie fart all erupting at once, emerged the 50 foot Alpha Scotsman.

According to scribes, His first words were “Get it richt up ye!”, presumably directed towards God, for His existence was clearly never supposed to happen. God, unavailable for comment at that time (or any other since for that matter), did nothing to stop the towering Alba golem as He flung Himself across the turbulent seas in a highland jig so perfectly executed that it caused salmon farms and oil platforms to sprout in His wake. The mighty Scotsman soon landed in the Outer Hebrides, where He allegedly took a dump so magnificent that it became a lighthouse powerful enough that it was the only one ever needed for all of Scotland thereafter.

After this fleeting visit to the storm ravaged shores of the western coast, the giant proceeded to break physics by caber tossing Himself all the way to the beautiful isle of Skye, where His porridge-flavoured sweat became premium whisky and His copious dandruff was presented to the local crofters, who in turn baked the pieces until they became black puddings, worth their weight in gold.

The Alpha Scotsman was revered by many, loved by all. Except the English, that is. They, for whatever reason (no doubt dating back to the outcome of the second Scottish War of Independence in 1357) seemed to loath the fact that their neighbours to the north now had a living, resident and quite magnificent deity providing them with all the happiness, success and tourist sex appeal a country could ever need. The jealous nation south of the border simply could not let the Alpha Scotsman live, especially when their own attempts at creating an Alpha Englishman proved fruitless. As it turns out, dumping a shipment of teabags and crumpets off a cliff onto a red telephone booth in a thunderstorm does not create a supreme being. It only makes a mess. The English therefore hatched a sinister plan.

But the Alpha Scotsman was no ordinary Scotsman. He was a super Scotsman. He’d eaten all the porridge in the country and it had expanded both His stomach and consciousness to such a level that He could read other countries’ thoughts. As He sat sunning himself atop Edinburgh Castle one day, He suddenly sensed that the dastardly English were planning to bomb his kilt off, rendering Him nude from the waist down. They had assumed that the Scotsman’s subsequent embarrassment would be such that He would run away from Scotland forever. They were dead wrong. The Alpha Scotsman smirked when He discovered this devious plot, He would teach them not to mess with His bonny kilt and country. The proud giant waited patiently for the English to get their act together and execute their ill-fated plan.

The following summer, as the Alpha Scotsman refilled the North Sea oil reserves with His mind power and eliminated heart disease amongst the population by developing a health and exercise program for school children that they actually enjoyed for once, the bitterly jealous English finally made their move. Scotsman had just finished performing stand up comedy for the first time at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival when a squadron of English fighter jets tore up Princes Street, scaring young children and international dance troupes in the process. The Alpha Scotsman immediately somersaulted onto Arthur’s Seat and bellowed at the screaming metal wasps advancing towards Him, “’Mon then, ye wee beasties!” And ‘mon they did.

The attacking jets fired their guns which had been preloaded with bullets filled with tea and crumpets in addition to the more traditional gunpowder. The Supreme Leader of England had assumed that tea and crumpets would be the Alpha Scotsman’s kryptonite. They weren’t. To the Scotsman, they were less dangerous than midges. Never the less, the screaming bullets tore through the air and obliterated the Scotsman’s belt, dropping the giant’s colossal kilt to His ankles, exposing His Scotch saveloy.

However, far from being embarrassed and running off never to be seen again, the Scotsman started laughing and swinging His dong around like a Glaswegian windmill. You see, what’s under a true Scotsman’s kilt is Grade A highland beef and that’s something to be proud of, not embarrassed. The exposed love organ was the exact same length as one of the giant’s arms, though twice as ripped and intimidating. The sight of such a thing caused the fighter pilots to crash their planes into Princes Street Gardens, where they went up in a giant tartan fireball.

The Alpha Scotsman knew it was now time to put an end to the English people’s jealously once and for all. He did not hate them, nor did He really care what they did, unless it encroached upon His bonny lands and people. A terrorist kilt attack in the middle of the Fringe Festival was just that. So, not bothering to find a replacement kilt, the titan caber tossed Himself down to London in one fluid thrust. Once He landed, the Scotsman did His best not to blind anyone with His gargantuan third leg, but casualties could not be helped. He quickly located and tore the roof off 10 Downing Street, pulled the Supreme Leader out of his office where he was engaged in trying on bowler hats, and told him to leave His beloved country and people alone, lest he wish doom and gloom to befall his own nation. The Scotsman promised to create an army of haggis golems and send them to England with orders to turn every house into a bothy and every man, woman and child into a wee Scottie dog. He’d turn all their crops into highland toffee and Tunnock’s teacakes, making all their teeth rot and fall out. It would rain every day and night for all eternity and He’d even batter and deep fry the Houses of Parliament. The Supreme Leader, through tears, agreed to the Scotsman’s fair terms.

The great tartan titan put the trembling man down and then whisked Himself off to His homeland once more. He had secured Scotland’s future and His people would be free to enjoy the more Scottish things in life, without the threat of an English tea and crumpet invasion ever again. The giant icon of Caledonia smiled, His glistening teeth sending out vibrant rays that caused all the crops in the countryside to spontaneously reach maturity and harvest themselves.

Deciding upon a temporary rest from public view, the Alpha Scotsman made His way to Arbroath, where He created a battered Mars bar so big that it could, and did, feed the entire town for the next five generations. He also made a second one, this time for Himself, and legend says He took it with Him into a secret cave somewhere to the north, where He remains to this very day, waiting for the time when His faithful Scottish people need Him once more.

9 thoughts on “The Deity in Tartan

  1. Pingback: The Deity in Tartan — The Book of Hangman – Out of Words

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