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Driving Lessons Chapter 28 - On Her Majesty's Secret Service
England wondered if his life could ever get as bad as this.
Circumstances found him peering through the railings at Buckingham Palace with an effeminate Frenchman. His beloved Bentley was reduced to a playpen for an idiot American and six felines.
The security guards told England quite categorically that no more than four Nations were allowed inside Buckingham Palace at any one time. Absolutely and categorically. Even if the future of the human race depended on it.
England was outraged and shouted, yelled and then sobbed on France's shoulder. And then he wondered who the four Nations were? He knew two were Prussia and Denmark but who were the other two? He had left his degenerate brother in his kitchen baking shortbread. But was he really? England knew the Queen liked shortbread. Was this a ruse just to get into the Palace?
"You don't understand. We have to get in there to stop the Palace from possible demolition and the most assured embarrassment of her Majesty the Queen!"
But he and France were told to leave. The Head of Security had ignored England's protests.
"You know that there's a rule as to how many Nations are allowed in. That rule was made after last time. The East Wing has only just been refurbished and the Italian garden has only just been replanted. We never got that stain out of the carpet in the Blue Room and it had to be thrown out. That carpet was a gift from the Indian Nation to her Majesty Queen Victoria," the Head of Security told them.
France ignored him and was nonchalantly winking at the Palace guard behind him.
England's outrage reached Defcon 4, "I'm the bloody Nation! I should be allowed in to see Her Majesty!"
This earned them both an armed escort back out to the Mall with the rest of the hoi polloi (England's words).
"So how do we get inside?" England asked France as he ignored the tourists going past in their Union Jack hats.
France shrugged. "I do not know, mon ami. Perhaps zere is a guided tour, non?"
England looked at him aghast and then thought about it, and then bizarrely kissed him in his joy, "Yes, my creepy friend!" he said triumphantly. He realised what he'd done, quickly wiped his mouth and grimaced. But France had given him an idea.
"Oh mon cher!" France breathed.
But England hurried off, "You've given me an idea!" England shouted behind him.
"I can give you more zan zat, mon cher…" France breathed, once he'd caught up with England.
They stood at the rear of the Palace where a string of limousines and other luxury vehicles were going through the gates. England watched enviously. "All we have to do is get in one of those," he pointed out.
"Ah… leave it to me and my undoubtable charm!" France said.
In the end it wasn't so much as France's undoubtable charm that got them through the Palace gates but England's pickpocketing skill while France used his world famous distraction techniques.
"Simon Cowell and Cheryl Cole," the policeman looked at their security passes and then back at them. "Well you look a bit different than you do on the telly."
"Oh do you really think so?" France said, simpering.
"I thought you were a brunette?" the policeman said.
"I can be whatever you want, chuck!" France said in an utterly rubbish British Geordie accent.
England shook his head. "Are we allowed in or not?" he said, in what he hoped was a Simon Cowell-ish voice.
The policeman nodded and waved them through before France fluttered his false eyelashes again. The poor man looked utterly deflated. "Who'd have thought that Cheryl Cole would look like a bloke?" he muttered to himself. "And I swear she looks taller on telly…"
"People from Newcastle do not say 'chuck'," England hissed at France as they tried to saunter in.
"Stop telling me off!" France whined.
"Well stop being stupid. I have no idea why we had to steal their passes!"
"It was you who picked them!"
"It was you who decided to fling yourself at Simon Cowell and tell him you could be a star!"
"I could be!" France said.
"And you don't look anything like Cheryl Cole! Even with that lipstick."
"I am still a leetle shocked you can pickpocket!" France retorted.
"I was in the chorus line of Oliver once and a small ragamuffin showed me. As you well know. It has stood me in good stead." England told him. He almost went into a song and dance routine but decided against it as they neared the entrance. "Now try to act normal," he told France. He turned round when he realised there was no answer, to find the Frenchman wasn't there. "Damn and bloody blast where's he bloody gone?!" he said.
Later...
"Ah oui! I find that a bottle of chilled Chablis with a nice filet mignon cooked medium rare with a nice garlic sauce is ze way to go… of course if you want to impress zem even more zen you should just do what you said and give zem one of my friend's Yorkshire puddings avec what you call gravy…"
England had almost given up finding France until he heard these words spoken through an open window. England peered through the window, hidden in a rather prickly bush and stared in disgust at France, plastered in make-up, chatting to a Prince of the Realm.
England had been trawling up and down through the grounds of the Palace wondering where the bloody Frenchman had gone. He'd feared the idiot had been rumbled by the security. But obviously not.
He was about to call out. But found the idea of having a conversation with the said Nation and the Prince while he himself was stood in a bush and, he suspected in Corgi poo, was too undignified.
England skulked back from whence he had come, tried to saunter in through the door, was stopped again by a security guard and then instead of showing him his pass said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Oh my word is that Gary Barlow?"
Everyone turned round and England ran in quickly. It never failed. He stopped, wiped his feet and then tried to remember where he could possibly have seen France.
He ran through several corridors, stopped to take a scone from a tray held by a butler who was on his way to somewhere or other - England didn't stop to ask - and ran on. He skidded to a stop when he heard France's laconic voice.
"…And zen I said to zem zat zay were scoundrels and I would thrash zem to within an inch of zere lives!" France said.
England turned left and found France leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, drinking from a goblet of wine, talking to the Prince of Wales.
"Really? Well I'm certainly not a fan of bad architecture but I don't think the people responsible should be thrashed…" the Prince replied.
"You've never thrashed anyone in your bloody life!" England yelled. "Oh your Highness, Sir… I'm so sorry," he added quickly. "Was Francis bothering you? He certainly bothers me."
"I say Arthur old chap! What on earth are you wearing?" the Prince asked.
England looked down at himself. He was still wearing Francis' flowery pantsuit. Certainly not a look he would normally sport. He was incensed that nobody asked such a question of France himself. "I'm wearing France's clothes…" he said lamely, and began to eat his scone.
"I really think you might have lost the plot, old boy," the Prince continued.
England glared at France, who was sipping his red wine with an unconcerned air, as if his very downfall was absolutely nothing to do with him.
"But you know the rules. You shouldn't even be here. No more than…" the Prince began to say.
"…Yes yes we know… no more than four Nations are allowed in the Palace…" England sighed.
"But you can tootle along and see Camilla later. You know she always thinks you are an absolute hoot, Arthur!" the Prince added.
England finished off his scone and wiped his hands on his trousers (he had no clean handkerchief - a source of great shame and something he saw the Prince had noticed) and grimaced. He really didn't like being 'an absolute hoot'. It implied he wasn't taken seriously. "Well… we'll see about that…" he said resolutely and strode off.
He spun round and shouted, "France! Are you coming or not you old tart?"
"Ah oui!" France dislodged himself from the wall and hopped after him, "Au revoir, your Highness, I will catch up avec vous later… I also am a hoot!"
"He really really annoys me. He always has. Stuck-up little twerp. I remember when I gave him his first bloody sword…" England muttered to himself, as they went through the maze of corridors. He was still cross at the Prince of Wales. "Bloody Plantagenets," he said finally.
"I zink you are zinking of ze wrong Prince, mon cher," France said cautiously.
"Oh right… not Edward the bloody third. No…"
"Eeek!" France almost fell over in shock. "Edward the Third? Where?" he looked around wildly and would have hid if there was anywhere to hide.
England ignored him and carried on. "Now where's the bloody throne room?"
Later...
"You know you're not allowed on the expensive chairs, Arthur and erm… oh… France." The person telling them this was another Prince of the Realm. One who England would have called too young to be talking to his elders like this. But then, England being over 900 years old, everyone was young. Apart from France, France was definitely older than him.
"Look, we're only here to make sure that Prussia and Denmark don't rip the place to shreds," England protested.
"Well I'm sorry but Grandmama says no more than four Nations are allowed…"
"… Yes yes I know all that. By the way, who are the other two Nations?" England asked. "Come on you can tell me, your old Uncle Arthur…" he said, winking. "I'll give you a gobstopper!"
"Oh dear! I'm so very sorry I have got wine on your chair!" France said, standing up and looking at the gold satin upholstery. "Will it stain?"
"For God's sake, France!" England hissed at him.
They were sat in an ante-room. The room in which the investitures were taking place was through some double doors and England had tried and failed several times to enter. "It's a matter of national security!" had not worked.
"White wine will get ze stain out! You look like a man who is handy with a cloth," France said to the young Prince. "Go bring me a bottle of white wine, a mop and a cloth."
"France! This is the second in line to the throne! Does he look like a cleaner?"
"Oui… he does," France shrugged. "I do not know. My royals always looked more royal."
"You mean with their bloody silly wigs and stuff?"
"Yours wore wigs as well!"
"You're incorrigible!" England said, utterly exasperated. "Oh, His Highness is gone!" He seemed utterly amazed that the Prince had not hung around to be compared to a cleaner.
"Ah perhaps now we have got rid of the young Princeling, we can sneak in through ze back way, non?"
"What back way?" England asked.
France winked. "Hold my arm, mon cher. I have lost my crutch somewhere…"
"No, I bloody well will not. And you shouldn't drink so much. Oh my God, look at what you've done to that chair. It was a Georgian antique!" England said.
"Shush!" France said, putting his fingers to England's lips, "You talk too much…"
France led him or more likely, they walked arm in arm (England feeling extremely silly and conspicuous as they did so) through the Palace and came to a very innocuous looking door. "Through zat."
"What?"
"Zat."
"What on earth are you on about?"
"Eet leads to an inner corridor which leads to ze investiture room, mon cher. Ze servants use it."
"How in the name of my Uncle Merlin do you know this?"
"When I visited avec Emperor Napoleon the Third and Empress Eugenie. Do you not remember?"
"Napoleon?"
"Not Ze Napoleon, not ze great Napoleon. Ze other one."
"Ah the nephew! Ah yes I remember. We were allies then…" England shuddered.
For a minute, they avoided each other's eyes.
"It's best we forget about Crimea… who knows if Russia is listening," England whispered.
France nodded, looking around nervously.
They went in and found themselves in a corridor, dark and dank that England suspected had not been used since.. Well, since Victorian times. "Are you sure about this? There's not much room… can you get over there and stop holding my bloody hand?"
"I do not like ze dark."
"Oh shut up… You do most of your work in the dark."
"I do not know what you mean, mon cher."
"Yes you bloody do. You bloody tart," England hissed as they shuffled along, uncomfortably close.
"Zere is a door just around here…" France said.
With that England tried the doorknob, amazed that France was right. "Right, be quiet France and we'll see if we can sneak in at the back. I'm a master at this, after all I was the top spy in the War! We'll try to stop Prussia and that idiot Denmark from causing utter chaos and probably causing some poor woman to scream…"
The door opened and they fell through in a jumble of arms and legs.
England tried to get up but found France was on top of him.
"They can't keep their hands off each other!" England heard someone say.
England shoved France off him and got to his feet. He found a whole room of assorted VIPs, State Officials and Royal family members all staring at him. And France. In fact they were staring at France the most.
Someone, a woman, screamed.
England turned to look at France. He saw now why the woman had screamed. "Will you pull your bloody pants up?" he hissed at France.
France did but didn't seem unduly embarrassed at all. This annoyed England even more.
England pulled up a chair and sat down quickly and motioned to everyone to carry on with the ceremony. France hopped up and stood next to him.
"Sit down," England hissed at him.
"Quelle?"
"What?"
"What?"
"Sit down! Erm… Asseyez-vous!" England finally dredged up from his schoolboy French.
France beamed.
England looked around and noticed that everyone. Even Her Majesty was looking at them. He tried to smile.
"Arthur? Are you alright? You do look odd," came a voice next to him.
He almost fell off his chair when he realised he was sat next to the Prime Minister. "Mrs Prime Minister!" he exclaimed.
"Are you drunk?" she asked.
England was about to say something.
"She has some nerve!" France whispered in his ear. "She looks like the haunted art gallery owner in a Scooby Doo episode."
England punched him on the arm.
They were sat almost at the back of a large ballroom type room (it was actually the ballroom) where a lot of people were sat watching various other people receive medals. Mainly OBEs, MBEs and 'silliness' as France called it. Their names called up by a man in a strange costume (France's words). But no wig (France was disappointed with this).
And then the fateful words:-
"For services to the country in the face of danger, showing resolute courage and bravery… Gilbert Beilschmidt and Mathias Kohler…"
England peered round and saw the two 'idiots' striding up between the lines of chairs, grinning like loons.
Surely, he must be dreaming? He pinched himself and then asked France to pinch him. France did so. He then asked the Prime Minister to pinch him. She refused.
"Yo!" Gilbert said to everyone as he went up to the front of the room, where Her Majesty was waiting.
England held his head in his hands. He wondered whether he should actually get up and say something to save the Queen from being embarrassed by these two imbeciles. He was actually amazed to see they were almost sensibly dressed. Although on Denmark the suit he was wearing was clearly too short for him, whilst on Prussia, the suit he was wearing made him look even more tramp-like (Prussia really didn't suit anything but either a military uniform or the gold lamé jacket he sometimes wore when he pretended to be a game-show host).
"Where did they get those clothes? They look like a pair of vagrants," England whispered to France.
"Zay are yours," France replied. "You whined so much about me throwing your clothes out to ze charity shop zat I went out and bought zem back."
England hit him.
There was a brief tussle and they fell to the floor fighting.
It was perhaps for the best that England did not get to see Prussia and Denmark receive the George Medal for bravery. Instead, Arthur and France were dragged out by security. On his way through the room, England noted the other two Nations in the room.
Germany was shaking his head and writing something down in a notebook. England saw on the binding the title "Why I'm better than England". Beside him was Italy who was staring open-mouthed at France and England.
"This is all your bloody fault!" England told France as he shook himself.
They stood in the Palace courtyard. The ignominy of it all. The security guards had said because he was the Nation they would show a little consideration and not throw him all the way out of the Palace grounds. As if he were a mad uncle. Which he kind of was.
"My whole life is falling apart because of you! I would never have been thrown out if it wasn't for you! I'd be inside eating cucumber sandwiches with Her Majesty. Instead I'm stood out here with a lipstick-wearing Frenchman. How can they get a bloody George Medal? For courage? It's utterly ridiculous, isn't it Tinkerbell? You agree, I know you do!"
France stepped back. It was always a dangerous sign of England's wavering mental health when Tinkerbell was mentioned.
They'd been stood outside now for half an hour while England charged up and down ranting and raving.
France shook his head, "Ah mon ami. Eet eez terrible," he said, trying to sound commiserate. As it was, he didn't really care. He didn't think it was his fault at all. He thought that the British were just plain weird and outdated. He was also a little disappointed that there hadn't been more uniformed men to debag or chances to become naked. He lit another cigarette and then threw the match in a nearby bush.
"Littering! You heathen!" England yelled. Clearly losing his mind. "Just pick that up!"
France shrugged and leaned over, wiggled his bottom at England, "I know you only want to see my bottom, mon cher!" he said sexily and then said suddenly as he straightened up, looking through the window, "Ah! I can see young Gilbert and Den! Zay are eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking tea! From teacups!"
"No!" England hurried up to him.
France ducked down, "Hide behind here so they do not see us!"
England did and then peered through a bush, hidden as they were, they could see straight into the State Apartments.
"Doilies! They're using doilies!" England said utterly amazed.
"Eet eez terrible… and china teacups…" France lamented.
"I can't believe it!"
"Shush mon cher, zay will hear you…"
"And Battenburg cake!" England said.
"Battenburg…" France repeated sadly.
"It's a travesty!" England exclaimed. "I'm going in there!"
"Non! I implore you!" France said dramatically.
But England had already climbed onto the windowsill and was trying to force the sash opening.
"Oh well…" France said with a wave of his hand.
England gave one shove to the bottom of the window and the old rotten wood gave way. He promptly fell into the room, amongst a shower of glass and found himself looking up at his Monarch, the German and Danish Ambassadors, Prussia, Denmark, Italy and Germany (who was shaking his head).
"Dude…" Denmark said. He looked impressed.
To be continued…