This is not to be taken seriously at all...it's merely me doing
daft that most scots vampire players will be groaning over.

For those who don't know, in other words, anyone who has never been 
to Scotland and sampled our national drink, Irn Bru is to Scotland
what Coca cola is to Americans. We get through gallons of the stuff.
It's orange, fizzy, and has a taste unlike anything else. You can't
explain the taste of coke can you. Irn Bru is the same. Many are those
who have tried to explain what the stuff tastes like and ended up
having to say "well...it tastes like Irn bru..."

The one true Irn Bru (Pronounced Iron Brew) is made by Barrs, who
advertised it as "Being made in Scotland from Girders", until the
advertising standards morons said they couldn't say that because it
isn't. 

In the early nineties, Glasgow's kindred were laid seige by the Sabbat.
This in itself surprised noone, the city was hardly the most stable of
places, run by a group of feuding Brujah barons. Prime Sabbat fodder.
The problem here was that the Brujah were very happy fighting each other
and didn't want anyone else involved. They reserved one right : if anyone
was going to kill the other residents of the city it would be them.
It became common to see a large gang of Brujah destroy several Sabbat and 
then turn on each other. The war was evenly matched, and the few residents 
of other clans braced themselves for a long war.
From out of this chaos came the Irn Brujah. There were three of them to 
begin with - Rab,Tam and Big Jock. Three Red haired dockers with a 
blood system that was fifty percent plasma, haemoglobin and all the usual
muck, and fifty percent whisky. These three thugs were quite fearless,
and also quite moronic. They thought nothing of wading into a group of
Sabbat unaided, using crowbar, knife and blowtorch to get the sabbat out.
When the war finally ended, with the sabbat chased off to lick there wounds
in Paisley - a small and rather dull town to the west - the two remaining
Irn Brujah were hailed as heroes. Until that is, the day the next old firm
derby came around. It transpired neither Rab or Jock had thought when their
anonymous Brujah sire embraced them to ask about football alleigances. Rab was a
Rangers man. Jock a Celtic supporter. There was much bitterness, and after
a 1-1 draw, they went there seperate ways.
Today, two small gangs of Irn Brujah roam the streets of Glasgow : Rab's
Gers, and Jock's Bhoys. There are about four in each group, all braindead
thugs. They tend to get ignored, as all they seem to do these days -
apart from fight each other on Argyll street after closing on a saturday night,
so regular you can set your watch by them, is drink enormous amounts of the one 
thing that can still get their dead bodies inebriated...Irn Bru.