Hopefully not before we see some Japanese antics in Asia and the RU absorbing some of the more batshit aspects of Japanese culture as it's own
"What Madness Is This?" Volume I: The Union Forever
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
Hopefully not before we see some Japanese antics in Asia and the RU absorbing some of the more batshit aspects of Japanese culture as it's own
Not gonna lie, I was morbidly curious as to how anime would develop ITTL but now it seems it may never see the light of day here. Considering the fridge horror, I'll chalk this up as a win.
Or the RU invents anime as an absorbtion of Japanese culture...
I may have misread, but Nap made it sound like the RU was only going to erase Japanese culture and replace it with their own kinda like what they did with Britain in Classic.
I read it as destroying most Japanese culture but absorbing select elements into itself
Introducing a new kind of teenager to the Protestant world..... Yankaboos!
These fun loving, All-Hailing teens love Japanese American Animation, Sweet Victory, and the thought of Charles Oswald turning the Vatican into cinders! Order now!*
*We are not responsible for any hate crimes your Yankaboo commits against Catholic Irishmen or other races and or religions. Non-refundable.
To me, there are too many aspects of Japanese culture the RU/AFC/MDP could find useful/honorable/whatever for there to be complete annihilation of Japanese culture. Most of it? Sure. But stuff like Bushido and filial devotion is too useful for the RU to pass up. In fact, something I'd like to see is perhaps the Union absorbing select aspects of "Better Cultures" in a similar way to what the OTL US has done. Take what you want from those cultures, ignore the parts you don't like.
I could see Shinto ancestor worship becoming a Japanese tinted version of Spiritual Marxism, while Bushido is kept and adapted to suit a more Union-minded outlook
"Bushido" is adopted by the Council of Jehovah and the Union army as the "Code of the Holy Warrior," and all Union soldiers trained as IJA soldiers were trained OTL. I can imagine "Burr Charges" to be common as the soldiers invoke the name of the Prophet in assaulting their enemy
Yo, my name is Mr. Steve.
I'm a French Yankeeboo (Custer fan for you continentals). I write CusterxColombia fanfiction and draw Captain America comics on my tablet, and spend my days perfecting my art and singing superior Yankee songs. (Battle Cry of Freedom, Yankee Doodle, the Star Spangled Banner)
I train with my coffee grinder every day, this superior weapon can punch clean through inferiors because it is made in Yankee factories, and is vastly superior to any other weapon on earth. I earned my coffee grinder license two years ago, and I have been getting better every day.
I speak American fluently, both Yankee and the Virginian dialect, and I write fluently as well. I know everything about American history and their betters of society code, which I follow 100%
When I get my American visa, I am moving to New Haven to attend a prestigious University to learn more about their magnificent culture. I hope I can become a worker at Goodyear or an ORRA officer!
I own several ORRA uniforms, which I wear around town. I want to get used to wearing them before I move to America, so I can fit in easier. I bump fists with my peers and speak American as often as I can, but rarely does anyone manage to respond.
Wish me luck in America!
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Teaser of my "Christmas Special:"
'Twas the night before Patriot-Saints Day, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
A portrait of President Steele was hung on the mantle with care,
In hopes that Father Abe soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While dreams of goodly ghosts and presents filled their heads;
And mamma in her robe, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear but lo,
A great iron carriage pulled by buffalo.
With a laugh and a salute, it was old Father Abe,
I knew in a moment he must be back from the grave!
More rapid than eagles his cattle they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Custer! now, Dancer! now Mason and Dixon!
On, Comet! on, Courage! on Crawford and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop carriage it flew
With the sleigh full of gifts, and Father Abe too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each giant hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney ghostly Father Abe came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue, from his head to his foot,
He was back from the dead, a ghost to boot;
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a soldier just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his beard, how manly!
His cheekbones like razors, his breath smelled of brandy!
His noble mouth smiled a faint smile,
And his stovepipe hat gave him quite the profile;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He was ghostly and pale, a spectre of ectoplasm,
His medals were shiny, bright gold, silver, and platinum.
He looked gaunt and strong, a true Pinnacle Man,
As he laid his presents of guns and bullet cans;
In a flash he saw me, with a twist of his head
But I was a Better, I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And laid out his treasures; then turned with a jerk,
And he looked up and saw our President's picture,
And he raised his hand and recited a Scripture.
He sprang back up to his carriage, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Patriot-Saints Day to all, and to all a good night!”
'Twas the night before Patriot-Saints Day, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
A portrait of President Steele was hung on the mantle with care,
In hopes that Father Abe soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While dreams of goodly ghosts and presents filled their heads;
And mamma in her robe, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear but lo,
A great iron carriage pulled by buffalo.
With a laugh and a salute, it was old Father Abe,
I knew in a moment he must be back from the grave!
More rapid than eagles his cattle they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Custer! now, Dancer! now Mason and Dixon!
On, Comet! on, Courage! on Crawford and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop carriage it flew
With the sleigh full of gifts, and Father Abe too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each giant hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney ghostly Father Abe came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue, from his head to his foot,
He was back from the dead, a ghost to boot;
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a soldier just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his beard, how manly!
His cheekbones like razors, his breath smelled of brandy!
His noble mouth smiled a faint smile,
And his stovepipe hat gave him quite the profile;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He was ghostly and pale, a spectre of ectoplasm,
His medals were shiny, bright gold, silver, and platinum.
He looked gaunt and strong, a true Pinnacle Man,
As he laid his presents of guns and bullet cans;
In a flash he saw me, with a twist of his head
But I was a Better, I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And laid out his treasures; then turned with a jerk,
And he looked up and saw our President's picture,
And he raised his hand and recited a Scripture.
He sprang back up to his carriage, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Patriot-Saints Day to all, and to all a good night!”
> Be me. A French Yankeeboo.
> Save up for years to move to America to be among my fellow Betters. All hail!
> Always wanted to work in a Goodyear factory.
> Got my wish.
> Please kill me.
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Don't worry! The friendly folks of the Europan Military will be more than happy to take care of that for you! If not, us Carolinians always love to help unfortunate souls such as yourself.......
A VERY MADNESSVERSE HOLIDAY SPECIAL
MICHAEL'S MAGICKAL PATRIOT-SAINTS DAY:
A VERY MADNESSVERSE HOLIDAY SPECIAL
'Twas the night before Patriot-Saints Day, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
A bottle of brandy was placed upon the mantle with care,
In hopes that Father Abe soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While dreams of goodly ghosts and presents filled their heads;
And mamma in her robe, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear but lo,
A great iron carriage pulled by buffalo.
With a laugh and a salute, it was old Father Abe,
I knew in a moment he must be back from the grave!
More rapid than eagles his cattle they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Liberty! now, Dancer! now Mason and Dixon!
On, Comrade! on, Courage! on Crawford and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop carriage it flew
With the trunk full of gifts, and Father Abe too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each giant hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney ghostly Father Abe came with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue, from his head to his foot,
He was back from the dead, a ghost to boot;
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a soldier just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his beard, how manly!
His cheekbones like razors, his breath smelled of brandy!
His noble mouth smiled a faint smile,
And his stovepipe hat gave him quite the profile;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He was ghostly and pale, a spectre of ectoplasm,
His medals were shiny, bright gold, silver, and platinum.
He looked gaunt and strong, a true Pinnacle Man,
As he laid his presents of guns and bullet cans;
In a flash he saw me, with a twist of his head
But I was a Better, I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And laid out his treasures; then turned with a jerk,
And he looked up and saw our President's picture,
And he raised his hand and recited a Scripture.
He sprang back up to his carriage, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Patriot-Saints Day to all, and to all a good night!”
It was Patriot-Saints Day Eve. Little Michael Custer, a mere lad of nine, sat by his bed, his head bowed in prayer.
"My dear God, bless Papa, and make him even greater, a savior of our country like you save souls. I worry about Papa sometimes, God. Please make him strong for us all and please let me see him more. We never have time to play or talk anymore. And make me grow up great big and strong too, a man of steel. And I don't like to ask much for free, but I'd love a new train set, and a Pierce .45. I promise I've been a good boy all year. I memorized the Book of Manifestum, all by myself! Amen and All Hail!"
Though Michael prayed for presents and more time with his dad, who was off managing the immolation of Mexico, his prayers never seemed to come true. He prayed every year for his dad to get to see him more, and while managing the country often forgot the finer points of fatherhood, such as giving his son guns and train sets and going hunting together. Little Michael wanted to see his dad more than anything. Without a mother, he often spent lonely days surrounded by officers forced to babysit, and they were no fun at all! Why, they even let him drop his cat Toby out the window of the President's House. They didn't even flinch! He hated that cat, anyway, a gift from McClellan. He was glad the feline fink was gone; he always scratched him so! And so Michael sat, day after day, month after month, longing for friends and his dad. He understood, of course, that his father was a great, very busy man. But he wished for his prayers to come true. He wished for his dad and a bundle of presents, a Patriot-Saints Day dream come true!
Michael rarely played with other children. Being the President's son, few parents wanted to risk their child playing with or getting rough with Michael. He spent most of his days with his tutor, the blind Christian gentleman Mr. Tobias, the English-born right-hand of famed spiritualist Dr. Marx. Only the best for a President's son! Mr. Tobias was very gruff and ornery, though, and would smack Michael across the hand for mispronouncing words or reading ectoplasmic incantations wrong. Wanting his son to be a hard man, Custer got a hard man to rear him. "No, you little guttersnipe!" Mr. Tobias would screech in his Cockney accent, whacking Michael with a hickory switch. "How on earth will the spirits be able to even make out what you are saying with that stutter of yours? Do it again! And this time try not to summon vagabond bugaboos for fifty miles!" Whatever the subject, Mr. Tobias would always be sure to criticize Michael every step of the way. "Frederick the Great died in Potsdam, not Berlin! Any ignorant hilljack knows this fact! Will you be bested by a common street urchin, you little brat?" Smack! went the switch again.
Michael was entirely miserable, but he bore his pain like a true Pinnacle Man and rejoiced, for he knew his was the New Jerusalem in this life, and the Kingdom of Heaven in the next. He stalwartly refused to give up learning, and Mr. Tobias hit him less and less. But still hung the dreary darkness of being alone, with 100 butlers and nary a friend. He prayed and he prayed and he prayed every night, for joy and friendship, for love and light.
He had been told, time and again, that the old stories of Patriot-Saints day were just legends. Only a fool would believe the spirits would cross over from the Other Side with gifts and guns and all sorts of lovely things! But the charm was still there, a magic of sorts, and young Michael's faith in having a joyful Patriot-Saints Day was unshaken. He did believe in Father Abe! He did! He knew every story, all by heart, about Father Abe's iron carriage that flew through the sky. Pulled by buffalo, huge wild beasts, with a trunk full of presents for every good boy and girl of the Betters of Society. It was a night of joy, but also a night of pain for sinners and the unfaithful, as the wicked and wild Nightstalkers would walk the streets. These figures of the dead, in robes of black, would beat and maim Inferiors who dared offend Jehovah. Their faces were warped, but through the night the spectral figures of Father Washington, Father Crawford, and Father Cromwell could be seen, whips in hand. Their eyes glowed red, their mouths deep in frowns, composing the music of the night with the screams of sinners. But their rude ways were necessary, their wicked laughter and brutal beatings were God's judgement upon sinners, and upon no-good little boys and girls who didn't remember their Scriptures! A Nightstalker would come for every bad little child, and stuff them in his sack, to drown in an icy lake, beat with a club, or even... send straight to the wide-open iron gates of Hell itself. But little Michael feared them not, for he was a Better boy, with nothing to hide. But he could hear them now, out in the streets. Their whips cracking. He heard Father Washington command in the distant ghetto, "In the name of God and the Continental Congress, begone sinners!" Father Cromwell joined in, shouting, "He who stops being good stops being Better!
He crawled into bed, and tucked himself in, the cries of the Inferiors music to his ears. As he laid alone, staring at the ceiling, he hoped and he prayed for all his dreams to come true. But never would they, he thought. Some things were just too fantastical to be true. But he remembered Mr. Tobias, and all their sessions with the Other Side. Surely, if pernicious bugaboos and harpees could be real, then so too could be the legend of Father Abe, the gift-bearing Martyr of the Union! He had to be real! He just had to be! With that, little Michael curled up and drifted off to sleep.
About two hours later, close to midnight, Michael awoke to the sound of a thump. His eyes widened with fear, not knowing what it could be. When he heard, faintly, something slide down the chimney. His heart was pounding, he dripped a cold sweat, as he crept out of his room and into the parlor. There, in the faint light of a dim electric bulb, a huge ghostly figure appeared by the fireplace. He wore a blue suit and a great top hat, and he had a huge sack strapped to his back. The man seemed real, but also faint, as if Michael could see through him. A ghost! A real one! It was Father Abe! It had to be! Strong Abe the Martyr had heard his prayers! The tall, lumbering figure, seemingly not aware that he was being watched, made his way to the Patriot-Saints Day cross. Michael had helped decorate it himself, and placed the Star of Union atop the mighty wooden central beam. Father Abe began to pull presents, as if by some strange Christian magick, out of his pack without ever seeming to run out. The bag was an infinite portal of firearms, ammunition, and all sorts of wonderful things! The martyr was smoking a pipe, of course, and Michael had never smelled tobacco so sweet. There also was the smell of fine brandy, old Abe's favorite drink, as the figure took a sip from the libation bottle on the mantle. Michael knew his Abe-bait would work! His jackboots stomped on the polished mahogany floors as he continued around the cross, laying out a new Pierce .45 and a huge box of bullets. Next, he laid out a train set and tiny figures of Union soldiers, all painted up in genuine lead, with a big toy aeroship with a real balloon! To top it all off, the Pinnacle Man laid down a genuine buck knife, engraved with Michael's name, with a handle carved of the finest ivory.
Softly, Michael spoke through the silence, "I... I thought you weren't real. They always said you were just a story! But I always had hope, sir, hope you'd come visit me, Father Abe!"
The huge old man turned with a smile, doffing his stovepipe hat like a gentleman. His loud, clear, baritone voice replied, "I am humbled to make your dreams come true, young man. But I have one last gift but to give you."
Michael's eyes widened, about to pop out of his skull. "Oh joy, Father Abe! I am beyond grateful for my presents you already left! I can't imagine anything that could make this Patriot-Saints Day brighter! My prayers have been answered!"
Father Abe walked over to him, his stride three feet at a time, like Goliath in the Bible. He crouched down in front of Michael, now grinning mischievously. "Ah! But you have one last prayer yet to be answered! Tell old Father Abe now, what, pray-tell, is the third verse of the Book of Fati?"
Little Michael didn't stutter at all! He knew this by heart! "And so it shall be that Manifest Destiny shall heal our wounds and sorrow. Fear not, faithful children, for the Angel of Destiny marches with us through the sands of time, both before and after and forever more, and shall bring us to fulfill these Prophecies and Visions. Stand strong, and fear not, for the Lord of Hosts is with our nation. And we shall handle serpents and drink poisons and experience tumult, but nothing shall stop us from achieving our God-given duty of Manifest Destiny. And all who are against us shall be cleansed like unto glass with Holy Fire. Amen."
The old man smiled a great big smile and pointed to the door of the parlor, which linked to the mudroom and front entrance. There came the sound of a door creaking, and then the hall light shone in behind the figure of... Papa George! Michael's father was home for Patriot-Saints Day! He shook with joy and yelled, "Papa! Papa! Praise Jehovah, you're home!" before rushing to hug the blonde warrior-president. As his dad picked him up and hugged him, Michael shouted once more, "I knew you were real, Father Abe! I knew they lied about you!"
The ghostly figure began stepping back to the fireplace to leave, but as he did he said this to little Michael:
"Michael, your friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe anything except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Michael, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. The Other Side is eternal, a magickal place of inexplicable affairs and wondrous things. There is magick, Michael, yet in this world.
Yes, Michael, there is a Father Abe. He exists as certainly as love of country and duty and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Father Abe or the Other Side. It would be as dreary as if there were no Michaels. There would be no childlike faith then, no songs of great triumph, no romance, no happiness to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Father Abe! You might as well not believe in your father! Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the Strongest Man, nor even the united strength of all the Strongest Pinnacle Men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, duty, wonder, love, and honor, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernatural beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Michael, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Father Abe! Thank God he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Michael, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood and bring fortune and gifts to all God's Chosen Betters. Now, I must be off! The buffalo are getting restless and I have many, many more stops to make. Enjoy your presents and your father's company. Happy Patriot-Saints Day, Michael Custer!"
With that, the great man was gone. And that concludes the story of Michael's Special Patriot-Saints Day. All hail!
- Michael's Magickal Patriot-Saints Day by Henry Smythe (Harbinger Press, 1920) as read by President Charles Oswald at a President's House children's holiday event, August 10, 1965
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Even sweeter when you realize it was Charles Oswald reading it aloud at a children's event in 1965 at the end. "Ask not what Father Abe can bring you, ask what sort of brandy and peanuts you can leave for Father Abe!"
I'm actually gonna whip up a couple Holiday drawings here. Especially the Nightstalkers, which are literally WASP Krampuses. lol
I'm actually gonna whip up a couple Holiday drawings here. Especially the Nightstalkers, which are literally WASP Krampuses. lol
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Perhaps a little update showing different holiday celebrations across the world. You have the Union ones, CoCaro ones, Japanese ones, Russian ones, Europan ones, and Nordreich onesEven sweeter when you realize it was Charles Oswald reading it aloud at a children's event in 1965 at the end. "Ask not what Father Abe can bring you, ask what sort of brandy and peanuts you can leave for Father Abe!"
I'm actually gonna whip up a couple Holiday drawings here. Especially the Nightstalkers, which are literally WASP Krampuses. lol
^Elsewhere in the world, Xmas is probably very much the same. The crazy ol' Union is the one with the interesting (in the Chinese sense) traditions. lol
Ladies and gents, here is a very rough drawing I did showing the Nightstalkers. Literally a cross between Krampus, Halloween, Guy Fawkes Day, the Purge, and the KKK. Young men and women across the Union dress up as the dead Patriot-Saints and wreak havoc in the Inferior ghettos as that most magickal time of the year arrives: Patriot-Saints Day Eve. Stories say they are ghosts, back from the Other Side and hellbent on punishing wrongdoers and Inferiors who don't mind their place. Popular costumes include George Washington, Oliver Cromwell, Joe Steele (post Steele's death), Custer, Queen Elizabeth, Martin Luther, Milo Miles, Uncle Sam, and Lady Liberty herself.
*cue Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies to montage of race riots in the ghetto between militant Inferiors gangs and Nightstalkers. Merry f****** Christmas.*
Ladies and gents, here is a very rough drawing I did showing the Nightstalkers. Literally a cross between Krampus, Halloween, Guy Fawkes Day, the Purge, and the KKK. Young men and women across the Union dress up as the dead Patriot-Saints and wreak havoc in the Inferior ghettos as that most magickal time of the year arrives: Patriot-Saints Day Eve. Stories say they are ghosts, back from the Other Side and hellbent on punishing wrongdoers and Inferiors who don't mind their place. Popular costumes include George Washington, Oliver Cromwell, Joe Steele (post Steele's death), Custer, Queen Elizabeth, Martin Luther, Milo Miles, Uncle Sam, and Lady Liberty herself.
*cue Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies to montage of race riots in the ghetto between militant Inferiors gangs and Nightstalkers. Merry f****** Christmas.*
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That chapter was wonderful. I feel sorely tempted to write my own little bit about about Christmas from different perspectives; one would be wealthy Irish family celebrating a very french influenced Christmas in the emerald isles, the other a young Irish Inferior trying desperately to make it home Patriot-Saints Eve before The Purge style lynchings of the ghettoes.
And I nominate this song as a traditional Patriot-Saints charol...
And I nominate this song as a traditional Patriot-Saints charol...
Oh wow, in totally forgot something rad I can add to this timeline. So my hometown in Ireland is filled with a lot of weirdness which would fit perfectly in the Madnessverse.
The town is built largely on land once owned by Arthur Guinness and his family to the point we have a honking huge country estate in the middle of it. In addition, we also two old famine workhouses (since reclaimed as public buildings), numerous Famine follies, and even a Famine mass-grave. I’d only have to change a very small number of details to create an Irish version of Goodyear
The town is built largely on land once owned by Arthur Guinness and his family to the point we have a honking huge country estate in the middle of it. In addition, we also two old famine workhouses (since reclaimed as public buildings), numerous Famine follies, and even a Famine mass-grave. I’d only have to change a very small number of details to create an Irish version of Goodyear