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Chapter 8 Oh Yeah

England whistled happily to himself as he filled the kettle. He looked through the window over the sink at the sunshine, at the birds singing in the trees and smiled to himself. It was going to be a lovely day. Perhaps. He had no hangover, no ominous text messages had arrived during the night, it looked as if those awful tattoos were fading and best of all - no Francis.

He switched on the radio to get the latest news. 'A disturbance in a Hungarian restaurant resulted in the arrest of four people'. England shrugged, "Bloody foreigners."

He sipped his tea, looked up and spilled his beverage all down his freshly laundered trousers as a horse's head appeared at the window.

"What the bloody hell!" England exclaimed and then remembered the night before.

He jumped up and opened the window. This was not a good idea. The horse stuck its head through. England hopped about, rummaged through his cupboards for some sugarlumps, turned back to find Francis' head there instead.

England spilled his tea again and shouted a series of expletives.

"You are pleased to see me?" France asked, pointing to England's trousers.

"Dear God!" England yelled.

"Not quite…"

"You don't bloody live here, you tart," England said.

"Not yet," France muttered. Then, seeing as England was not about to open the door for him, he climbed through the window.

"Bugger off!" England said, attempting to fix his trouser predicament.

France smiled at him almost paternally. "Ah Angleterre, you are so cute when you are angry."

"I am bloody not cute!"

"I disagree," France went to ruffle his hair.

"Leave my bloody hair alone."

"It needs cutting… or something… definitely something, mon cheri. It is terrible. Only Russia has such a bad hairstyle."

England was momentarily lost for words.

"Besides, I have brought you something very exciting…" France held out an envelope.

England frowned, "What is it?" he declined to reach for the envelope, as if it were a bomb or worse.

"Plane tickets!"

"Where to?"

"Open ze envelope!"

England was very suspicious, "I'm not going on any more dates. I am not going to give you any more driving lessons. I am now taking a stand, here and now. So you can just leave right now."

France nodded, "But first, mon ami, I need to help you take the horse outside back to its owner."

"If this is some kind of devilish trick…"

France turned and looked at him and affected an innocent look. "Devilish? I am just trying to help you!"

"Help me? Your last few attempts to 'help' me have left me with a black eye, arrested, with tattoos which are probably indicative of black magic…"

"Shopping list…"

"Excuse me?" England asked, aghast that he was interrupted.

"It was a shopping list…"

England ignored him and continued. "…And then sent on a date with Hungary who clearly was only interested in gossiping with Poland. Why on earth he turned up I have no idea and then that big American lunk…And as far as I'm concerned, if I don't see Hungary and Poland again until the next world meeting then it will be too soon…"

"But we have to return Zsa Zsa Gabor!"

"What?"

"We have to return Zsa Zsa Gabor!" France said pointing outside.

"What in God's name are you on about?" England peered outside to see if there indeed was an aging Hungarian actress outside.

"The horse!" France said. "I zink, honestly, Arthur, that you are going mad."

"Well I'm going to change my trousers…"

"Zis is the story of my life," France sighed.

England took a deep breath and decided to ignore this. "And then I'm going to have a cup of tea and toast and then you are going to take Zsa Zsa… erm that horse back to Hungary."

"Moi? But it was you who stole it!"

"I did not steal it!" England yelled and then took another deep breath.

"But mon ami, it was nothing to do with me."

Actually, England had to concede that for once he was right. France could not be blamed for this.

"Where is Hungary now?"

"Between Romania and Austria!" France said and smiled. It was an old Nation joke and one that some of them never tired of telling.

England gritted his teeth and thought about running upstairs, locking the bathroom door and staying there until France had gone. But he knew that France would not just 'go'. He would stay outside the door, tapping on it, saying stupid things and saying 'Angleterre' over and over again. He knew from experience.

"Text Hungary and ask her where she is." England ordered him and stomped upstairs.

He got to his bedroom and began sorting through his wardrobe. He needed trousers that were France-proof.

"Now then…" he perused his wardrobe. A guardsman uniform - no. A pirate's costume - no. Then some yellow tie-dye dungarees he'd worn back in the 1960s. Those would be good, at least they were 'France-proof'. But no he finally settled on some jeans that needed ironing.

He could hear France talking on the phone to someone. Hungary, England supposed.

"Oui, oui, I do not zink he had a good time last night…"

"Don't tell her that!" England yelled.

But France continued, "I agree, he eez so mean and he never pays for anything!"

"I bloody do!" England yelled, struggling with an ironing board on the stair landing.

"He says zat Poland and America turned up with leetle Texas."

"He wasn't bloody little!" England yelled, finally finding his iron and switching it on. "Why are you telling her this?"

France did not answer him, "He eez so uptight. Eet eez a shame I was not zere."

"It's the only bloody good thing about it!" England yelled.

"Mon cher, 'e says zat was the only good zing about it."

"Don't tell Hungary that!" England shouted in a panic and then promptly burnt his hand on the iron.

"He eez stood at ze top of ze stairs sans pantalons!"

"I'm ironing!"

"E is insatiable!" France confided to the person.

"Ironing!" England tried to confirm. He ran down the stairs in his boxer shorts and snatched the phone off France, "Listen here," he said in his most commanding voice, "I am not mean, I am not insatiable and I am wearing pants," he said down the phone, standing in his boxers.

"Oh… your Majesty, I am so sorry…" He began bowing, his face beetroot red and glared at France. "Yes, your Majesty. Really? The Hungarian Ambassador said that? Oh… And President Hollande said I had to teach Francis to drive did he?" he punched France on the arm. "Yes, Francis is a hoot isn't he?"

France smiled, holding his arm.

"Yes yes, I suppose Anglo-Franco relationships are very important," England said through gritted teeth. He glared at France and mimed a throttling gesture and then drew a finger across his throat.

England listened again and then said, "Yes, I'm sure he'll make a good driver… eventually… Yes, I will put my pants on." He hung up and proceeded to chase France around the house with a large frying pan.

By the time he'd recovered, had a cup of tea and come to terms with the idea of France and the Queen of England being on first name terms and that the Queen liked France, he found that the iron had burnt straight through the back pocket of his jeans.

He shrugged and put them on anyway, deciding to tell France not to go touching his 'bloody derriere or he would kill him' and resigned that this was no doubt going to be a dreadful day. His bum felt cold through the burn hole but at least he was wearing clean boxers.

"I like your Queen, she is tres chic," France confided.

"Shut up," England growled, feel rather jealous and under threat as his 'boss' and France and France's boss were obviously in cahoots to make his life as miserable as possible.

They were going down the road together, however, neither were in the same vehicle. England was driving the Mini, with the window wound down whilst France was riding alongside on 'Zsa Zsa Gabor'.

For once, France was quite conservatively dressed - for him. He was not dressed as an aging but obscure washed-up rock star, nor as a seedy nightclub owner. In fact, he'd made an effort and was in a proper suit with a suitably knotted tie and ordinary shoes. England was suspicious.

"Zis is a strange driving lesson, Angleterre," France said.

Their argument had started as they'd left the house.

"I'll drive and you ride the horse back," England had said.

"But I need to practise driving not riding. You ride and I will drive," France had said.

"You can't drive alone, you're a learner," England had reminded him.

"Zen, you drive, come back here and zen…"

"But then, I've just gone out and come back!"

"Oui… Or I will ride ze horse zere, ride back and zen we go together."

"But then you've just taken the horse for a ride."

"Ah…"

"Are you high?"

The horse, with a higher IQ than both of them, had munched slowly on the begonias looking at each of them in turn.

"You ride, I'll follow in the car," England had said finally.

"Zat is what I said!" France had told him flicking his hair and climbing on the horse.

"No it's not!" England had said and got in the Mini in a less flouncy manner.

England's next door neighbour called after him, "It's nice to see you out, Mr Kirkland!"

Arthur wasn't sure if she meant 'out' as in 'out out' or out as in 'out of the closet'. He turned on the ignition and pretended he hadn't heard.

Hungary was staying at the Hungarian Embassy, France told England and so the two Nations ended up abandoning the car and leading the horse through the streets of central London.

After an excruciating series of mime, talking very slowly and loudly, France's failed attempts at Hungarian - all aimed at some quite dour (England thought) Hungarian Embassy staff, Hungary herself came out and yelled something in Hungarian from an upper window.

"Good morning, Miss Herdervary!" England called up. "We could do with a cuppa!"

Actually, Hungary was telling the Embassy staff under no circumstances were they to 'let those two idiots into the Embassy'.

"We brought your horse back!" France called up, "Ah, zis is a sight for sore eyes, non?"

Hungary disagreed, "Cut it out, Francis you pervert!" she yelled.

"I was not talking to you, I meant your guards!" Francis winked at the security staff.

England rolled his eyes.

"Has he been fed yet?" Hungary called down.

"I don't know, probably. He had some croissants earlier, probably some wine, you know what he's like," England called back.

"You fed wine to my horse?" Hungary looked ready for war.

"I thought you meant France!" England exclaimed.

"I think you're obsessed with France, Arthur and you need to get your life sorted out," Hungary told him.

"Ah, eet eez true l'amor," France said, pulling a rose out from somewhere, a place England preferred not to think about.

"Bloody shut up, you fool," England said, refusing the rose.

Poland's voice could then be heard, "Will you two be quiet? Some of us are trying to get some beauty sleep."

"He needs more zan zat," France said to England.

"I heard that and I'll come down there and kick your arse, Francis!" Poland said.

Much as England would have liked to see France getting his arse kicked by a man in a pink negligee with curlers in his hair, they really had to be getting on.

"He's obviously aggrieved that I left them. And that he got arrested. Bunch of hooligans," England muttered.

"I heard that, Arthur and I'll be down to kick your arse as well…"

England definitely put some speed on then and they rounded the corner and hurried back to find where they'd parked Mini.

Two hours later after much trudging up and down, the two Nations had to admit they had forgotten where their car was.

"Ah well…" France said, pausing to look at himself in a shop window as they strolled down Oxford Street.

"Never mind, 'ah well', we can't just leave it," England said.

France wasn't listening, "I look rather gorgeous today, do I not, Arthur?"

"No, you don't," England said and dragged him away.

"You are so cruel!" France cried dramatically.

England hurried off, pretending he wasn't with the outrageous Frenchman.

"I need to visit my baby," France said suddenly, catching up with England.

"Your… your baby?" England stuttered. Surely not? "I didn't know you had any children… I mean apart from those islands of yours."

"Ah you mean Saint-Pierre, Saint-Martin, Martinique…" France raised an eyebrow, knowing that all these French sounding names would confuse England.

England stuttered, "Well yes…"

"I love zem all. But zis one is gorgeous…" France hurried off through the crowds. "She eez my baby!" he called back.

England, although pretending not to be with the flamboyant Nation, hurried after him. He could of course just catch a bus home but on the other hand, he didn't want to leave France loose on the streets of his beloved capital and he was also a little bit - no, quite a lot - intrigued as to this 'baby'.

"Isn't she gorgeous? Look at her, mon ami, have you ever seen anything so beautiful… I love her, I tell you…" France's eyes had that mystical glowy look that made England step back.

The French Nation had his nose pressed against the glass of the West London Ferrari dealer.

The object of his love was a flame-red Ferrari.

England shrugged, "I don't know, it looks a bit flashy to me. Also it's very low down. You might have trouble getting in it," England told him.

France ignored him, breathing hard on the glass in a most disturbing fashion, "I have to have it…"

"Ah well, you can't can you, until you've passed your test…" England said airily. "And at the rate you're going, that's going to take at least until 2057."

To England's horror, France ignored him, and stepped into the showroom. "Bonjour!" France called to a salesman who practically pounced on him.

"How can I help you, Sir?" the salesman asked.

France smiled, "Ah well, I was looking at ze gorgeous car over zere…"

England hurried in, "He can't afford it!" England told the man. He then turned to France, "It's 200,000 pounds! Do you know how much that is in euros?"

France smiled, "I have been saving up!" he turned to the man, "My boss has promised me one."

"You have a good boss," the salesman was saying, leading France around the car.

"You'll never get in that car with your bad back," England declared. "Now come on."

"Just sit in it, Mr er…?" the salesman opened the door and gestured to France.

"Bonnefoy… Francis Bonaparte de Chevalier Bonnefoy. And yes," here France glared at England, "I will sit in her."

England shook his head.

"Would Sir like a cup of tea?" another salesman approached them.

"I would absolutely love a cup of tea," England told him, "Milk, no sugar. Please don't put the milk in before the tea bag and please make it strong."

The salesman hurried off looking just a little aggrieved at being told how to make tea by a man in jeans with a hole in the bum.

"Ah zis is gorgeous. Feel the leather, Arthur!" France purred, sitting in the car.

"There's not a lot of room is there?" England said, peering in. "You won't get your weekly shopping in there."

"Would Sir like to get in as well?" the other salesman asked, looking a little excited and flushed - he obviously could smell a sale from one buyer but the negativity from the buyer's 'boyfriend' was a danger to his commission. He was sweating like a small Nation at World Meetings when Russia came and sat next to them, England thought.

England sighed and with great effort, creaking of joints and folding his back, got into the car alongside France.

"Isn't she gorgeous, Arthur?" France asked him. France had put on his Gucci sunglasses and along with his perfectly coiffeured hair and designer stubble, looked every bit the part of a millionaire playboy about town. "Don't you think she suits me?"

Actually, England had to admit that yes, the car did suit France and France suited the car. He couldn't imagine any other Nation, that he knew of anyway, who could pull it off. Arthur would rather have his fingernails pulled out than admit this so he just said, "No, you look like an idiot with more money than sense."

France's sunny smile disappeared for a moment but then re-appeared as the slimy salesman, dripping in grease England thought, poked his head in and said the magic words, "You only have to put down a 10% deposit for a test drive."

England laughed, "He doesn't have that type of money. He practically lives with me because he can barely afford a place here…" England obviously meant that France either lived in the French Embassy or in some secure safe house acquisitioned by the French Government. France was not allowed to stay in a hotel any more after various 'incidents' led to him being barred from every hotel in Central London.

The man raised an eyebrow, "Of course we take credit, and joint credit is not a problem."

"I'm not paying for this heap of junk!" England shouted. He then realised what the man said, "We're not a couple!" He yelled.

But the man had disappeared to get some paperwork.

"I have money…" France said and held up a gold credit card.

"You can't use that!" England said, appalled, "It's a government credit card. It's for emergencies."

"Zis is an emergency."

"10% deposit is… 20,000 pounds… Oh my God!"

France smiled, making annoying humming noises and fiddling with the buttons.

"I'm going to go and sort this out, don't bloody break anything, you idiot." England attempted to get out of the car. It was too low for him and he shuffled and struggled, "Francis, can you give me a shove and get me out of here?"

"But you said that I am not allowed to touch your derriere."

England growled at him but was mollified when the other salesman came back with a cup of tea, "Here you are, Mr er…?"

"Thank you, Kirkland. It's Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland," England said, sitting back and sipping the tea, which to his utmost disappointment was below par - weak and too milky. He drank it anyway.

Inside the sales office, there was much excitement about the millionaire minor celebrity who had come in to buy a Ferrari. (They were all sure they'd seen France somewhere, and were trying to work out which rock band he used to be in.)

One staff member expressed doubts - a young secretary said, as they fell over each other with the keys, "Shouldn't we do a background check on them first? I mean you can't just give them the keys to a quarter of a million pound car…" But everyone ignored her.

France looked as if he'd been given the holy grail as they passed him the ignition key and took his credit card from him. "Merci…" he purred.

The forecourt large glass doors were wheeled back ceremoniously.

The engine roared to life...

England, resigned to the fact that he would never get out of this 'blasted' car without help - probably a shoehorn, fastened his seatbelt and clutched his cup of tea. "Oh dear God…" he said as France drove the car out of the showroom.

England looked over his shoulder to see the salesmen waving at them as if they were celebrities. England shuddered. The poor humans, he thought, had no idea what they had unleashed.

The CD player mechanism slid out and France inserted a disc. The opening strains of 'Oh Yeah…' came on the stereo and France turned up the volume to full, pressed the button to lower the Ferrari's roof and they screeched down the street.

Author's Notes:

This chapter is kind of inspired by Ferris Bueller's Day Off - especially the bit at the end 'Oh Yeah' by Yello...