Scotland sat in a large, over stuffed arm chair, his brow furrowing as he read the question. He huffed, and shook his head, balling it up, and throwing it into the fire place. "Alrigh'. Why dae Ah like haggis? Dae ye even ken whit haggis is?" The red head crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair.
"Haggis is a traditional Scottish food. Ah donnae ken whit ye all think it is, but haggis is actually a pudding. Nae like chocolate, or anythin' loike that, but actual British pudding. It's actually quite savory. Noo, haggis consists mainly o' sheep's heart, liver, and lungs, with minced onions, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, all mixed with stock." Scotland ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Before ye diss it, fer any o' you Americans and Canadians oot there, donnae diss eating animal organs. Ye dae it all the time when ye eat true sausages, and any hotdog. With haggis though, at least ye ken the animal that it was made from."
The red head smirked, giving the camera his best bedroom eyes, giving off an aura of pure smugness. "Tastes good with neeps and tatties, which are turnips, and potatoes, as ye may call it. Ah ken haggis doesn't sound appealin' but it actually tastes a lot better than ye would expect. It's roight savory, and it has a lovely nutty texture. Though it's normally cooked in sheep's stoomach, noo adays, ye can get it in artifical casin's like ye dae with sausages. Sausages are traditionally wrapped in intestine. Ah'd think stoomach is better than intestine."
Scotland reached over, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, opening it with ease. "Plus, ye drink whiskey wit' it, in case yer lookin' fer an excuse tae git drunk and piss oof dear little England. Sae, Ah like haggis because it is tasty, and can be deep fried, which is a big thin' in me country."
The Scotsman took a long drink from the bottle, as a petite woman came out, and placed a second letter on the arm of his chair. It was best that he didn't see them handing over more letters. Who knew how he would react. When he pulled himself away from his bottle of fine Scottish whiskey, he looked down at the offending piece of parchment, scowling.
"Anoother wan? Whit is this? Ask Scotland day?" He paused, blinking as he thought that over. He shook his head, sighing. "Roight... It is ask Scotland year, ain't it? What's this wan bloody feckin' ask?" He put the bottle down between his legs, and without ceremony, ripped the letter open. His brows shot up as he read over the letter.
"Whit sort o' question is this shite! Askin' how much Ah loike me wee braw!" The red head fell silent, his green eyes going over the words once again, his expression growing softer. The camera started to zoom in on his face, until he looked up, green eyes threatening the life of the cameraman. "Donnae be doin' nae close ups!"
"Answer the question already, mate!" A voice called from somewhere to the left. Scotland frowned, and made a rude hand gesture towards the man.
"Alrigh'! Keep yer damn britches on ye damn eejit! Roight... So on a scale o' wan tae ten, how much do Ah like England? Well, it's complicated. Ah cannae use a number, because it really all depends. He's me wee braw, and technically me wife, an' sae Ah love the bugger. Sae... It's complicated." Scotland crumpled the paper up, tossing it into the fire place like he had done with the first one, looking down at his hands.
"Roight... Sae, if ye have any questions... Jes' mail 'em in..." he mumbled, uncharacteristically quiet.
{Questions from @TomatoLover and @Georgia_Jones. Thanks guys!}
