Your understanding of Bretonian foreign policy is as flawed as your grasp of realpolitik. Of course we don't treat everyone the same: I would never allow my sister to marry a Benitez; nor would I entrust the care of my grandmother to a cardamine crazed Maltese halfwit. I am no spokesperson for the Bretonian government, just a plain-speaking, crass, xenophobic old warhorse with a dicky heart and a wooden bladder.
Traders shall receive a warm welcome in Bretonia; the QCRF will assist you in any way; the BPA are the finest, most incorruptible police force in all Sirius. We have the finest weapons, the best ships. New London and Cambridge provide foodstuffs for the sophisticated tastes of Manhattan. We have ready markets for high tech equipment such as optronics and engine components. Our trade lanes are free of pirates.
The War with the sneaky Kusari enemy continues. Our fighting spirirt and morale is at its zenith. These vile weasels are given a thrashing regularly. They smell of cabbage.
Your mewling and complaints about the BMM sound like a pathetic schoolboy complaining about having his lunch money stolen in the playground. Your obvious immaturity and snivelling disposition suggest that mining as a profession may affect one's manhood, sanity and sense of reason. Stay away from the lead.
The chromosomes of Georgie Mountbatten are being debated in parliament as we speak, and his parentage is as questionable as your own.
Good day to you, Sir!
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