Tomorrow (Monday 25th Feb) is the anniversary of the last ever successful invasion of Britain by a foreign army. You're not likely to hear much mention on it in the mainstream media, though. I don't imagine the 211th anniversary of anything is likely to warrant the front pages. (Unless the Daily Express is still in circulation in 2218, and then we will no doubt still be able to enjoy headlines about Diana and Maddie)

So, in the interests of not letting this important historic event go unreported for another 39 years, and just while we're all having fun waving our flags for the Sick Nations Rugby Cup, I thought it might be fun to lift the lid off this long forgotten threat to our Nation, which took place on a day very much like today...

By 1797, The British and the French had been at each other's throats for even longer than Paul McCartney and Heather Mills, although to be fair, there probably wasn't as much money at stake at the time. France had taken a bruising during the Seven Year's War, during, and had repaid the Brits by joining forces with the Americans during the War of Independence. Since then the revolution had messed things up royally in Paris (Quite literally, as it happens) and Britain had been engaged with the People's Republic of France's Revolutionary Army (Or what ever they called themselves that week) for at least the last five years.

Despite the fact that there had been a full on revolution in France, new ruling classes soon began to emerge, and the original landed gentry who had survived retreated into the one place where they were truly safe – The army. (Oddly enough, any evening spent in the Officers' Mess at Sandhurst will illustrate the point nicely, even today. Edwardian fops are still very much alive and well. It's just that these days they command regiments of Challenger Tanks)

But I digress. During the French Revolutionary wars, the British aristocracy had enjoyed a rip-roaring tally ho across the continent, chasing those jolly froggies all over the place. And they were actually doing quite well. At that time, war was a simple matter of landed gentry riding around on horseback whilst the unwashed and syphilitic peasants in the next field took turns to slice and blast the shit out of each other. The simple fact was that the French had been keen to lop off the heads of anyone with any real military experience, and those who had risen to take their place were only just getting the hang of how to powder their wigs properly.

Matters of state were (mis)managed by a group of revolutionaries called “The Directory”, and it was their job, in Paris, to make the really big decisions.

“Right, Brothers. Item six hundred and fifty two – The war.”

And so on...

Anyway, at some point, after numerous meetings, committees, subcommittees, planning meetings, pre-planning meetings, and such like, somebody decided that it would be a brilliant idea to invade Ireland.

The thinking was actually pretty straightforward. A boat, carrying soldiers and trusted officers, would sail around Scotland and land on the Irish coast, where they would incite the downtrodden masses of the Emerald Isle to rise up against the British in just the same way as their American Comrades had done. Not only that (And here comes what the French version of Baldric would call Le Plan de la Ruse) A second, much larger force, would be dispatched to the UK, to create havoc and mayhem, and hopefully create another revolt by the poor to take on the might of London itself!

I don't particularly want to spoil the ending for you so early in the story, but I think it's safe to let you know that the plan doesn't exactly turn out the way the Directory hoped. These days we have the benefit of Sod's Law, which dictates quite clearly that Anything that can go wrong; will go wrong, or as soldiers are prone to repeating: No plan ever survives contact with the enemy. Back then, their comfort and hope was that God was on their side and that they were right. Just like the Aztecs. And the Spartans. And the Argentinians.

The invasion of Ireland was a total loss. The Met Office had issued a severe weather warning for all invading vessels, and in the December of 1796, the boat turned round, having found no safe place to put ashore. They almost battered themselves to death on the rocks of Bantry Bay, but with Christmas just around the corner, the Captain knew it was a worthless cause. At the very least the sailors would want double time, and it just wasn't worth it. They returned to Paris just days after their wingmen set off for Britain.

Oblivious to the utter failure of the Irish invasion, and quite content to go without watching re-runs of The Sound of Music, was Colonel William Tate. Not the most French sounding name, is it?

Well, Tate was an Irishman, who had become an American Citizen. He'd lost his entire family when pro-British Native Americans had gone on a killing spree to make their point. Since then he'd given his time over to fighting the Brits, (Although it's perhaps odd that he didn't simply take it out on Native Americans, since they were much closer to home) He had come to France after falling foul of the authorities in Amerca. A small matter of trying to take back New Orleans in the name of France had not gone down very well with the local magistrates, and he arrived at the Directory as a seventy-year-old compensation-hungry exile, and by all accounts he was a pain in their collective rears.

So it's quite likely that he'd been sent out to Britain just to get rid of him.

Tate: You're sure this is a good plan?
General: Quite sure Monsieur. Quite sure.
Tate: How many men, did you say?
General: Fourteen Hundred. As I promised.
Tate: All crack troops, yes?
General: Well.... Not exactly crack troops as such...
Tate: Oh, Then at least seasoned soldiers, then?
General: Well... There is a war on, Monsieur...
Tate: But at the very least – you're sending me with decent fighters?
General: Ah, Mai Oui, Monsieur! They are all very good at fighting. They are... How you say, Le bird de la jail? Yes?
Tate: Jail Birds?
General: Ah, yes, Monsieur Tate. That is it. They are all former convicts.
Tate: You;re sending me to invade Britain with fourteen hundred convicts?
General: Certainly not, Monsieur. Such a thing would be unthinkable! For your information, Monsieur Tate, every one of those men was freed yesterday. They are now free Brothers of France.
Tate: And what's this? British uniforms?
General: Well.... Supplies are running low..
Tate: If the Brits find us in these we'll be shot as spies! It's ridiculous!
General: We've thought of that, Monsieur. All is well. Behold – we have died the uniforms black. So as to distinguish them from the red coats of your enemies.
Tate: That's not exactly black, is it?
General: Monsieur?
Tate: Well, it's not is it? It's more a shitty brown.
General: I assure you, Monsieur Tate. This is a Black tunic. Your legion is to be known as Le Legion Noire.
Tate: Legion Shitty Brown, More like. Oh well. It will come in handy when we meet the Grenadiers. So what are my orders.
General: Your orders are cunning and well planned.
Tate: I'm sure.
General: You are to proceed directly to Bristol, the second largest city in England. Once there, you will burn it to the ground.
Tate: Just like that?
General: Oui. Obviously you will be greatly outnumbered, so you are not to engage in any fighting with those stinking Roast Beefs. Burn the city down quietly, so as not to draw attention to yourselves.
Tate: Right. We'll use the quiet matches.
General: Good thinking. From there, you should make your way quietly up to Chester, and then to Liverpool. Create havoc and mayhem in thee cities. With any luck they will be so busy trying to keep order that they will be unable to even consider sending reinforcements to Ireland, where our revolution will be in full swing.
Tate: Right. Okay then. That all sounds easy enough. Is there anything else?
General: But of course, Monsieur. You fight for France. You are magnificent! Speak with everyone you find. Spread the word of the revolution. Your numbers will swell as you move through the company. What begins with a few hundred will spread and spread, until you become an army of the common folk, united with a single purpose – one desire-
Tate: Win the lottery?
General: Revolution, Brother! Revolution!
Tate: Oh, yeah. That to. Now about my back pay...
General: – Later, Monsieur Tate. We have uniforms to die.
Tate (Under his breath) Yeah. And I bet they're not the only ones...

Well, that's pretty much what happened. Tate sailed out in three rather splendid ships. There was a shortage of officers, as those who had not met the guillotine were busy with the proper war which was going on elsewhere. Many of the officers were Irish, and it's true that the vast majority of enlisted men were convicts. Well armed convicts, with a good supply of powder and steel. But hardly what you'd call a disciplined fighting force. Oddly enough despite the failure of this expedition, this principle of sending out well-equipped but poorly trained social drop-outs to hostile environments has become standard practice for The United States of America. So perhaps not everyone thinks it was such a bad idea.

Well, the Met office issued another Severe Weather Warning for invading shipping, which meant that Commodore Castagnier (The Naval Officer in charge of the fleet) was very reluctant to try to come ashore. (“Monsieur, I have signed for these ships!”) Instead, they sailed past Bristol (Flying the British Ensign, the feindish dogs!) and eventually tried their luck further up the coast, at Fishguard.

“Not much happens at Fishguard.” is a bit like saying “There's not much worth watching on ITV”. Everybody knows it. You don't need to actually say it. That night, two bored watchmen were playing I spy:

Frank: Something beginning with “F”?
Colin: Yes.
Frank: And it;s not the Sea?
Colin: That begins with “S”
Frank: I know. But it's always the bloody sea.
Colin: Well not this time.
Frank: ... Oh, I dunno. Foam on the sea?
Colin: Nope.
Frank: Far away sea?
Colin: You're not even close.
Frank: Ffff... What begins with eff?
Colin: Give up?
Frank: No.
Colin: You'll kick yourself.
Frank: Shut up, see? I'm thinking.
Colin: Oh come on, it's obvious!
Frank: No it's bloody not!
Colin: Look – over there!
Frank: What?
Colin: Don't you see? It's a frigate!
Frank: Oh! Ha! You bugger! So it is!
Colin: Coming this way an'all.
Frank: Don't be daft. We can't fit 'em here!
Colin: Yeah, but do they know that?
Frank: Oh, come on. Nobody's going to be daft enough to try and land one of them here?
Colin: Well they're still coming our way.
Frank: Oh. Bloody fools.
Colin: (Shouting) Go the other way! Bristol's over there, see?
Frank: They can't hear you.
Colin: Well wave at them or something. I dunno.
Frank: Hey, I know. The cannon. If we fire a shot then they'll see us.
Colin: You'll sink the bloody boat!
Frank: Well I'm not going to aim it at them, am I you muppet?
Colin: What's a muppet?
Frank: No idea. Just be ready to wave them off when they look up.
Colin: Right then.
(There is a pause. While frank takes a 9 pound cannon ball and primes the fuse. After a bit of swearing he manages to get a light from the brazier to the pan and the shot fires off into the night.)
Colin: Bugger me that was loud!
Frank: Start waving then!
Colin: Oi! Over here! Bristol's that way!
Frank: Turn round!
(pause)
Colin: Look – it's working, see? They're veering off.
Frank: There you go! See?
Colin: Wait a minute – what's that?
Frank: What?
Colin: Something beginning with “F”
Frank: Eh?
Colin: (Hands Frank his telescope) Look – they've just dropped the Red Ensign. And they've put up-
Frank: They're bloody French!
Colin: Frenchies! In Fishguard! Get to the cannon!
Frank: Right!
Colin: Range about sixteen hundred, I'd say.
(Pause)
Colin: Can you hit em?
(Pause)
Colin: Frank? What's up? Seventeen hundred. Can you hit 'em?
(Pause)
Colin: Frank? They're getting away!
(Pause)
Frank: Colin. Whose turn was it to stock-check the cannon shot?

By this time, the watchmen at Fishguard weren't the only people to have seen the French invaders. Word was beginning to spread along the south coast of Wales that the military vessels were looking to put ashore. It is documented that Fishguard repelled the invasion with only one cannon shot, although it's unsure whether this was meant as a warning or simply as a greeting to large vessels to tell them to stand fast and await a pilot. Either way, castagnier was taking no chances, and he eventually slipped un-noticed on the beach at a little know fishing village called Llanwnda, which was so named by picking Scrabble letters out of a bag.

Tate and his men disembarked, and the supplies were unloaded. By 2am, on the 25th February 1797, the last ever successful invasion of Britain was complete.

Post Invasion

These days it's quite the in thing for a rich man to have a business interest or two. Football teams are very popular. Or, failing that, boybands are a cool way to make money. Back in the day, the coolest kids on the block were into unifoms. Everyone who was anyone had their own private army. And William Knox was just such a man. Having been chased out of America (as a British under-secretary of state) he had settled down in Pembrokeshire to buy a little coastal property. Which turned out to be... Well, Pembrokeshire.

Loyal to the King, (George II) he had formed the Fishguard and Newport Volunteer Infantry, which gave his son something to do. At 28, Thomas Knox was made a Lieutenant Colonel (Say it Left-tenant for none English readers), and placed in control of three hundred men.

He was at a party when the news got to him that Fishguard had been invaded, and as you can imagine, he told the messenger to go forth and multiply. It had been 731 years since the last invasion of Britain, and he was hardly going to fall for a gag like that... “Look, just Piss Off will you? Can't you see I'm busy? I'm just about to finally liberate young Daphne from that over-tight bodice and you want to go and play bloody soldiers. Tell them I'll play on Thursday. Assuming I've sobered up by then...”

Lord Cowdor, of the Pembroke Yeomanry Cavalry didn't take nearly as much convincing. He was stuck at a particularly boring funeral when the shout went up, and had dashed to the saddle quicker than you could say “Tally Ho!”

By this time, just about every independent fighting force in the area was in on the act. And the Pembrokeshire Militia had been mobilised. Effectively every able bodied man who could march was out looking for the invaders. It did not look good for Tate.

It's usually a good idea, when planning to invade, if you can keep some sort of order of your troops. This would have probably been made a lot easier were it not for the fact that the good people of Scrabble Letters had recently been fortunate enough to find the wreck of a Portuguese merchant vessel on their beach, which just happened to be laden with brandy barrels. (Live coverage from BBC News 24 had watched the locals forcing their way into the containers and coming out with BMW engine parts, as well as massive boxes of Pampers.) After just a morning of looting, the French troops were utterly legless and incapable of fighting anyone but amongst themselves.

Not long after, Thomas Knox, having torn himself away from booze and bodices, rounded over the hill and looked down over the scene at Scrabble Letter beach. He saw a force of 1200 soldiers, lined up and ready to fight. And he had absolutely no way of judging what state the men were in. (“That's not singing, I can hear, is it Dickie?”). He did a quick bit of maths and worked out that odds of 4 against 1 were not really the best way to make a name for himself. He was so busy retreating that he barely even noticed that he had run headlong into Lord “Tally Ho” Cawdor, who wasted no time in denouncing Knox as a coward and taking control of his force before heading off back down to the beach for a bit of jolly action.

All this took place long before the advent of television, of course. And there was no Coronation Street to keep everybody happy. All the men had gone out to fight with the militia, and the women were bored.

So bored, in fact, that they turned out to watch.

In great numbers.

Now, I don't know how well you know the traditional Welsh costume, but it includes a red tunic and a tall, black hat. From a distance, this might – if you were drunk enough – look a little bit like a Grenadier's uniform. From what we can gather, the drunken French took one look at the ring of red jackets which now surrounded them and went to pieces.

“Monsieur! It is the Red Coats! And they are all really ugly!”

Amongst the folklore that has arisen from this story, perhaps the most enduring tale is that of Jemima Nicholas, who was so annoyed by the audacity of the French invaders that she rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a pitch fork and captured a dozen French soldiers single handedly. She locked them up in the local church before setting out to bring back some more. Apparently she had been rather a “formidable lady”, and anyone who's ever visited South Wales on a Friday night will probably know what that means.

The surrender was formalised, rather ironically, in the local pub. No doubt if you ever pay a visit to The Royal Oak in Fishguard, they will still be talking of little else.

And that was that. The French were sent home, or at least that's what was claimed. It's far more likely to say that the Home Office meant to deport them, but lost their data and forgot to tell anybody.

King George II did the decent thing and fired his French Chef in protest, although it's unclear why he hadn't considered doing that during the five or six years the country had been at war before hand.

Tate returned to the Directory, but found very few sympathetic ears. It's believed that he may well have headed back to the USA, although there are no accurate records on the matter, as he is now Ex-directory.

And Thomas Knox, still outraged at being called a coward in public, challenged Lord Cawdor to a duel. Although it seems he never actually fought it. There were always problems with the diaries. “So many other conflicting appointments, you know how it is...”