William Wallace was a hardcore 13th century freedom fighter who kicked English asses anywhere he could find them and served as a central figure in the First Scottish War of Independence, where he busted motherfuckers’ heads open with a gigantic two-handed broadsword and took no bullshit from anyone, anywhere, at any time, for any reason. He was born the second son of a minor noble, and therefore received precisely jack fucking shit in terms of wealth, land, and power, but in his insane exploits across the lowlands of medieval Scotland would be the sort of shit that towering legends and somewhat-accurate Academy Award-winning historical epics are made of.
Right off the bat let me say that William Wallace wasn’t the sort of bastard that anyone in their right minds would ever want to fuck with. Picture the sort of dudes that compete in the Highland Games – those crazy, beer-chugging, log-chucking, beard-wearing motherfuckers who throw eight hundred pound kegs of whiskey two thousand feet through the air and headbutt small woodland creatures to death. Then picture a guy who could take those motherfuckers in a bare-knuckle boxing match nine out of ten times without even breaking a sweat and you’re starting to get the idea of the sort of guy William Wallace was. Judging by the fact that he carried a six-foot-long claymore into battle with him and wielded it with more efficiency than a gas-powered chainsaw, many historians believe that Wallace was close to seven feet tall. Nobody could take this motherfucker in single combat without getting their skulls smashed like an over-ripe cantaloupe, yet despite being the most imposing figure on the battlefield this side of Wolf the Quarrelsome, many writers of the time mention that he was as dexterous and agile as a genetic hybrid of a panther and Jet Li, and could run faster than a Lamborghini loaded with jet fuel. His Conan-like ability to cover twenty yards with a single bound is the epitome of the Sniper’s Motto – "If you run, you’ll only die tired", and his crazy unabashed kilt-wearing is the utter definition of being fucking balls-out all the time. He probably fucking had to wear a kilt because no mortal pants could contain his massive brass nuts anyways. Here is his story.
Back in 1297 Scotland was having some succession problems when the sole heir to the throne passed away unexpectedly, so King Edward I of England (known as "Longshanks", a nickname he came up with himself while bragging about the size of his dong) decided he’d settle the dispute by just appointing himself King of Scotland and stabbing anyone who didn’t approve of his decision. This didn’t sit too well with the Scottish nobility however, so they took up arms against the English ruler. Edward Longshanks responded by invading Scotland, slaughtering the inhabitants of the town of Berwick, kicking the Scottish Army’s ass at the Battle of Dunbar, arresting the King, and stealing the Stone of Destiny (a giant fucking rock that served as the symbol of Scottish royalty) from its home in the castle at Scone. Before returning to England with the Stone of Destiny and the now-deposed King, Edward made sure to place his men and officers in command of every important thing in all of Scotland, because he was a total fucking dickhead.
Now around this time William Wallace was already known as a notorious outlaw who was wanted by the authorities for killing the Governor of Dundee, a jackass tyrant who got what he deserved when he tried to fuck with Clan Wallace. One day, not long after the English had completed their ass-raping of Scotland, Wallace was out drinking beer and fishing in the town of Lanark. On his way home, he ran into five drunk-ass bastard English soldiers who demanded that Wallace hand over his entire day’s catch, probably because they’d been smoking hash all day and had a serious case of the munchies. Wallace offered to give them half of his haul, but they told him that if he didn’t fork over the goddamned trout then they would have him executed for treason. He responded by bashing one of the motherfuckers in the face with his fishing pole, stealing the dude’s sword, using it to hack all five men to pieces, and then using those pieces as bait to catch even larger fish. He then ran back to town and hid at his girlfriend’s place. When the Sherriff came by to arrest Wallace, his girlfriend said she had no fucking clue where he was. Since “aiding and abetting” was a much bigger deal back then than it is today, the Sherriff had Wallace’s girlfriend executed on the spot.
Wallace went into an insane berserker rage, killed the Sherriff, dismembered his corpse, and slaughtered the entire English garrison at Lanark with his dick. From there he began his crusade against the English, recruiting a band of badass guerilla warriors as he traveled across the Scottish countryside, fighting for freedom from oppression and assholishness everywhere. At Loudoun Hill, Wallace’s group of 50 dudes ambushed a 200-man English cavalry detachment, wiping them out to a man and killing General Fenwick, the man allegedly responsible for the death of Wallace’s father. At Ardrossian Castle, Wallace’s small group managed to capture a heavily-fortified, well-defended English stronghold by luring the garrison out from behind the safety of the castle walls, ambushing them, and caving their brains in with tire irons. News of Wallace’s victories inspired the Scottish people and got everyone super pumped up to fight against English oppression and rise up in support of their freedom. Commoners, outlaws, and peasants flocked across the countryside to join his ranks, and before long William Wallace had a sizeable army of hardcore crazy motherfuckers ready to tear the English limb from limb. They besieged and captured several English strongholds across Scotland, including the historical seat of power at Scone Castle, and managed to force the enemy South of the Forth, out of the heart of their homeland.
Now Edward Longshanks obviously got really ripshit pissed that his serious hardcore generals couldn’t quell this outlaw and his band of revolutionaries, so he had a bunch of his officers executed Darth Vader-style, ordering the survivors to launch a full-scale attack on Wallace’s makeshift army of soccer hooligans. At the Battle of Stirling Bridge, a strong, well-equipped, well-trained, professional English Army drew up battle lines against William Wallace’s forces. Outnumbered over five to one and hopelessly outgunned, Wallace had a plan. He waited for the English to cross the narrow bridge before falling upon them from all sides like a pack of rabid hell wolves attacking an unconscious man made completely out of beef sirloin. As the English attempted to bring their heavy cavalry across the river, Wallace had one of his men destroy the bridge, sending several hundred knights down into the river below and cutting off the English vanguard’s only escape route. The English force was completely routed. As a tribute to his victory, Wallace had a scabbard made out of the dried skin of the slain English Commander, which is kind of morbid.
With the English Army in disarray, fleeing like those stupid ghosts after Pac-Man eats a power pill, Wallace pressed the attack, ready to chomp down on them with his giant yellow jaws of fury while he still had the advantage. He launched a campaign across the border into Northumberland, raiding, pillaging, and burning English settlements wherever he could find them, living for revenge like he was the fucking Punisher. He pushed as far south as Cockermouth, which means very little to me in terms of Geography, but I decided to mention it because Cockermouth is probably the greatest name for a city in the entire history of the world. After several months of kicking ass, capturing supplies, and beating up on the already-defeated English army, Wallace returned to Scotland with incredibly quantities of booty and fame, which in turn probably helped him get incredible quantities of booty from hot babes all over the place, some of whom may have let him cockermouth. For his actions in kicking English asses, he was knighted by Robert the Bruce and given the prestigious title, "Guardian of Scotland and Leader of its Armies".
Unfortunately, the rock star party had to end sometime, and King Edward had finally had enough of Scotland’s bullshit. He ended the war he was currently fighting in France and committed all of his forces to battling the rebellion. In 1298, an army of 30,000 Englishmen crossed the border to teach Wallace a lesson. The two forces met up at the Battle of Falkirk, where 6,000 Scotsmen made a desperate stand against the invaders despite the fact that the odds were worse than the male-female ratio at a Magic: The Gathering tournament. Unfortunately, Wallace was abandoned by his cavalry (which, unbeknownst to him, was comprised almost entirely Scottish nobles who had been bought off by the English crown), and his remaining infantry couldn’t stand up the massive numbers of longbowmen and heavy cavalry fielded by the English. Wallace lost the battle, but during the fierce fighting he did manage to kill the master of the English Knights Templar in single combat, which is fucking rad. Even though they suffered a bitter defeat on the field however, the Scots still managed to inflict such significant casualties against the English that they could not continue their invasion.
Following the defeat at Falkirk, Wallace resigned his title as Guardian, relinquishing it to fellow badass Robert the Bruce, and headed off to France to try and convince the King to help aid Scotland in her war for independence. During his trip Wallace had lots of crazy adventures, like when his ship went up against the notorious pirate Richard Longoville, also known as The Red Reaver. Wallace personally kicked Longoville’s ass in hand-to-hand combat and threw him in prison, but then released him on the condition that he would only continue to attack English vessels and leave the Scots alone. Despite doing lots of cool shit like bench-pressing the Eiffel Tower and eating a baguette, Wallace’s mission to France proved to be unsuccessful, and around 1300 Wallace returned home to Scotland.
Unfortunately, at this point William Wallace was fighting a losing battle. Edward of England had paid off many Scottish noblemen, convincing them to pledge fealty to the English crown, and Wallace found himself alone in his struggle. He continued his hit-and-run fighting with a great degree of success, but ultimately he never again managed to put together a force capable of going toe-to-toe with the English. Scotland finally fell completely under English control in 1305. Only Wallace and his band of outlaw rebels remained. Eventually, Wallace was betrayed by his own men, who handed him over to Edward in exchange for some cash and a high five. Wallace was convicted of treason, and the English dragged him naked through the streets, cut off his balls, beheaded him, and dismembered his corpse. Now that’s a shitty way to go.
William Wallace’s legacy would live on, however, and his death would inspire the Scots to once again take up arms for their freedom. The First Scottish War of Independence would continue, and would ultimately result in Robert the Bruce achieving victory at the Battle of Brannockburn in 1314, finally securing independence for the people of Scotland.
Not only was William Wallace a badass in the sense that he could beat the fucking hell out of you without even batting an eye, but to this day he stands as an enduring national hero to the Scottish people. He fought for his country and for his freedom, not for riches, wealth, or power like some other douchebags out there. He was tough, he was a capable and intelligent commander, he was passionate about killing English people, and he inspired a nation to battle injustice and tyranny despite incredible odds. And thanks to him, they were successful.
Sir William Wallace
Wallace: Man and Myth