July was a complicated month.
It'd been like that for centuries already: every July, the island-nation would grow even more distant, more taciturn and overall more prone to completely losing his patience. The presence of the United States usually would make the entire thing even more unpleasant, but in that particular month of July, it was the almost complete absence of the younger nation that further darkened his mood.
America had been working exhaustively for years, and now that the date was finally coming, it was almost impossible to spot him. Even more so given the advances Russia was making in the field.
1969, so far, had been a peculiar year. The sale of his best tabloid to someone from down under, the last public performance of his favorite four, landing on Anguilla, the tie with the frog at Eurovision, problems in Ireland, John making history again, another John getting into history, Rhodesia…
And then the 20th comes, and nothing else matters.
The younger calls him some days prior, inviting him to watch the spectacle and rambling on about how epic and heroic all that was. He accepts, of course. And forces the larger nation to watch it through BBC, of course.
So it was that, at oh two fifty six, he found himself sitting on a couch that smelled strongly of cheddar cheese and processed meat, the black & white images dancing in his retinas. He'd never been prouder in all his life.
The younger nation, at his side, alternated anxiously his gaze between him and the screen. He thought he was being discreet, but he really wasn't. At all. England allowed himself a smile.
"That was brilliant."
The smile he got in return was almost too big for the face that held it.
"But I didn't see any of your alien friends there, I'm afraid."
"Aliens don't live on the moon, Iggy! They're from Mars, everybody knows that."
England smiled again. Indeed.