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Driving Lessons Chapter 40 - 19th Nervous Breakdown
So while the South London and Peckham Allotment and Recreational Society attempted to broker peace between Spain and the UK, and the Spanish Ambassador and Gibraltar (hereforth called 'Gib') were discussing England's eviction from the allotment site with Pru and Den, England himself was oblivious…
England, Germany, Russia and three medieval kings were making slow tortuous progress along a London street.
"I'm still awaiting recompense for my crushed car, England," Germany told England.
"Oh in the name of my Aunt Josephine! Would you give it a bloody rest?" England shouted. "Damn… the signal's gone. I can't ring the idiot boy back."
"Did you have an Aunt Josephine as well?" Russia asked.
England ignored him.
Germany huffed. "Are we anywhere close to this restaurant yet?"
"Yes. No. What road was it again?"
Germany glared at him and looked at the scrappy flyer given to him by the Italy brothers. "Butt End." He said finally after some consideration.
Russia looked shocked. But then again he was still shocked at England being thrown off an allotment. Even Ivan the Terrible had never been thrown off an allotment..
England pointed. "Down here."
They crossed the road between the parked busses and cars and then down a small alley.
"This is dingy. Just as I expected," one of the Kings said.
"I have shares in this restaurant," Russia said.
"So do I!" Germany said.
"I have more than you!" Russia said, squaring up to him.
"This one!" England said finally as they arrived at a door painted with green, white and red stripes and peered through the murky glass. He mouthed at America to open the bloody door.
America shrugged and mimed that they were 'open'.
"No you're not, you bloody idiot!" England yelled.
America jumped off his chair and unlatched the door. "We were locked! I wonder if that's why we've had no customers?"
"I wonder…" England muttered, entering.
Feliciano got shakily to his feet and then hugged Germany. "Luddy! I'm so glad you came to rescue me! Mr America shouted at me! He's eaten all my food and he's sent fratello on lots and lots of deliveries and fratello doesn't know where he's going! This is a terrible city! I want to go back to Roma!"
Germany agreed it was a terrible city.
"You've caused an international incident, you idiot!" England told America, swiping him round the head.
"Aw! You told me to get a job!" America protested and then said, "International incident? Here? Really?"
"No, not really," one of the Kings said and was shushed by England.
"I thought your cafe was in Rome anyway? I visited it on a date with Liechtenstein," England asked Feliciano.
Feliciano nodded. He was still clinging to Germany. "Yes, we have one there and one here. We open one for four weeks and then this for four weeks and swap over…"
"Why?"
"Because when we get customers who complain about the service, we shut up shop for a while and then we move to another cafe and then go back when they've forgotten or we've forgotten and I'm okay again…" Feliciano's eyes filled with tears. "People can so be cruel!"
"That makes no sense…" England said and then turned to America, "You are going home! You've caused all this carry-on!"
"But I only took orders and sent Romano out!" He showed England a map of London and the addresses he'd circled. "It shouldn't have taken him all that time to get there!"
"You bloody fool!" England cuffed him round the head again as he saw the route America had given Romano. "That's right across the city! And… that's not a bloody road, it's a cycle path and that one there is only suitable for cattle!"
"Cattle?"
"Ja…" George the First spoke up. "This is a very very old city, young man."
"Right, time to go home!" England said as if America was a little kid again.
"So we're not having any pasta because I'm hungry?" Russia asked.
England didn't answer. He wasn't 'in charge' of Russia so couldn't very well order him home as well.
"Pastaaaaa!" Feliciano looked so happy that he ran back into the kitchen, his tall white hat bobbing up and down and began boiling more pasta.
"Besides, where are your CIA bodyguards?" England asked America, shoving him out of the door.
"Dunno… I think I lost them when I caught the 'copter with Mr Kumajiro and Panda dude."
"What?"
"I lost them when…"
"No I mean… Mr Kumajiro and Mr Panda have a helicopter?"
"An helicopter, man. You need to sort out your grammar."
"It's 'a' helicopter, Alfred," England said as they stood on the pavement outside the restaurant, surveying the traffic.
"Where?" America looked around, excited.
England batted him again around the head. He was flushed with the idea that there was no CIA man around to punch him. "Nowhere!"
Inside the restaurant, Russia was asking Feliciano exactly what use he has made of the appliances they had bought. Whilst Germany was confusing matters by telling Feliciano that he should not be spending more of his 'good' German money on the failing establishment. Italy promptly burst into tears. Russia blamed Germany for this.
"You are always going around making little Nations cry. I should take over Italy and he can become part of Russia and then he won't cry ever again. In Soviet Union, people don't cry…" Russia told Germany and then went off in search of vodka.
"Hold me, Luddy!" Feliciano cried.
England looked around for some kind of transport. "How come you got a lift in a helicopter?" he asked.
America shrugged. "Mr Kumajiro thought I was Canadia."
England thought that Mr Kumajiro must have taken leave of his senses if he thought America was Canada. He surveyed the helicopters overhead and the wailing sirens. "Oh my God! I bet they're looking for you, you big idiot!"
"Really?"
"Yes!"
"The boy caused all this?" George II asked, looking around.
"Yes," England sighed. His phone bleeped. He had another six missed calls and subsequent voicemail messages. Two from 'Gib', two from the Prime Minister, one from France (along with a photo attached to a text which England dreaded opening) and one from Portugal. The latter one being the only one England had any intention of listening to.
"Portugal is still my ally," England announced, listening with a smile.
"Who's he then?" America asked strolling off down the road.
"He's my oldest friend!" England told him.
"Yeah, but who is he?" America asked. He was stomping off. "I'm not jealous," he called back.
"He probably is," George II confided to England. "My idiot grandson should never have lost him as a colony."
"I agree… that was the start of it. Losing all my colonies…" England felt like a drink. A big one.
At England's allotment...
"So England's such an idiot. I mean I don't blame you lot for evicting him," Prussia was telling the Spanish delegation, totally oblivious to who they were. He held court from his position in a tin bath full of rose scented bubbles.
Gib frowned. "What?"
"Well," Prussia continued as he got out of the bath, "He's always going round trying to recolonise his colonies." Prussia said. "This allotment of his is just the start."
Denmark handed him a faded 'Frozen' towel. The delegation all averted their eyes.
"Get a load of my five metres of awesomeness!" Prussia yelled and pointed at his private area.
Denmark shook his head, "Have a beer, dude."
"He's oppressing my rights," Gib said. He was starting to wonder if they could possibly be in the wrong place. The Spanish delegation nodded.
The Spanish Ambassador butted in, "Hamish, the Scottish personification said that…"
"Yeah well, he's mad as a Russian in the Sahara as well." Prussia said. He seemed pleased with that image and grinned to himself as he dried himself rigorously.
"…that he was declaring war on us." The Spanish Ambassador finished lamely.
"What for?" Denmark looked appalled.
"I bet it's something to do with his so-called prize turnips," Prussia said. He just knew England was obsessed with his gardening. He had completely forgotten they'd said anything about Scotland.
"Anyway Gib, what you doing with these losers?" Denmark interrupted. He assumed, like Prussia, that 'these losers' were from the allotment society. "SLAPARSE eh?" he added.
Gib and the Spanish Ambassador looked at each other. "I don't know if I want to be British anymore," Gib said sadly. "Not if that's how you treat esteemed representatives."
Prussia shrugged. "Not my fault, mate. If you've planted your potatoes too close to my greens," he said making it sound filthy.
"What?" Gib asked again. He was starting to wonder if he was going mad. "Why are you representing Britain anyway? Where is Arthur?" He asked. "Where's Scotland?"
"Hamish is probably at work doing his drag queen act now," Denmark said, looking at his watch (which was a Mickey Mouse affair).
Gib and the Spaniards looked at each other.
"Arthur's probably drunk somewhere," Prussia said. "And talking of drunk why aren't we?" he asked Denmark.
Denmark nodded.
They opened some beers. Gib took one without questioning. He was sure there was something very odd going on.
At Buckingham Palace...
"I think this is most peculiar," one of the delegation from SLAPARSE* said. (*South London and Peckham Allotment and Recreational Society).
"Your English is very good," Hamish said and then hiccuped.
King Malcolm nodded.
The Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister looked confused.
"Of course it is," said one of the SLAPARSE representatives. "Can we get down to business? Obviously Mr Kirkland isn't here because we assume you're his legal representatives?"
"Aye yer right there!" Hamish burped.
"Well, we hereby evict him!" said another SLAPARSE representative, an elderly man in a tweed waistcoat with grey hair. He'd obviously been waiting years to do this. He slapped a piece of paper on the desk.
"You mean this is an invasion?" the Prime Minister looked shocked.
"Mr Kirkland was the one who squashed my prize marrows last year!" said a lady with a startling perm.
"Is that code for something?" asked the Foreign Minister and then hurried out to get an MI5 Intelligence officer.
"Can we speak to Antonio Carreido?" the Prime Minister asked, using Spain's human name just in case these people weren't au fait with the Nations.
"Who?" one of them asked.
"Is he the new Chair of the General London Allotments Groups?" another asked.
"What?" Scotland looked at King Malcolm who shrugged.
"You know - 'GLAG'?"
Hamish, taking another glug of whisky, seemed to think they were insulting him, put down his bottle and launched himself across the table at them.
King Malcolm joined him and soon there was a tangle of limbs.
"Stop stop!" the Prime Minister yelled.
The video-link came back into life and Spain appeared, he saw the fight, was utterly shocked at the way his (he thought) ambassador and staff were being treated and announced that he would 'take immediate action'. (which probably meant something might happen next week…)
"I miss my conolies," England slurred.
"Jeez you've only had two beers!" America said, seated next to him in the 'Giddy Sailor' pub.
"I know…"
Henry VI sat with them, along with the two Georges who they couldn't seem to shake off.
They'd wandered in the 'Giddy Sailor' pub as they couldn't seem to get anywhere. The traffic was still bad, although better now that America was no longer answering the phone and sending Romano on ridiculous delivery routes. America wondered briefly if Romano had made it back. But like a firefly his thoughts were transient and he was no longer really bothered. He wandered off instead to play a game of pool with George II who claimed he was 'brilliant' at 'billiards' whatever that was.
England sat at the bar drinking, bemoaning to two dead kings about the state of his life, the amount of food America was eating and the cost to his household. He then went on to the loss of Gibraltar, America, India etc. George I was appalled and got rapidly very drunk. The opening bars of 'If you leave me now' played on the jukebox. England felt like inserting America's head in it.
"Hey! My bro Canadia says that they're looking for me!" America yelled across to England.
"Yesh well your CIA…" (England pronounced this 'she-i-ay') "…doods will be worried."
America shrugged, totally oblivious to the chaos he was causing in the streets of London.
"Ah hell…" England pulled out his phone as it rang the opening bars of Coronation Street. He didn't want to answer it. Gibraltar again. He clicked 'ignore'. "Not my problem. I'm not the Nation anymore. Itsh Scotland." He laid his head on the bar in a puddle of beer. "I'm going to stay here." He closed his eyes and just hoped that perhaps he might have a bit of peace. Next to him, George I ordered another another pint of beer and then fell off his stool.
Henry VI had wandered off to look at a poster stuck on the pub door. He had an idea how he could help his Nation, he thought. A way to bring in some money.
"I'm going to apply for a job!" he told England.
England was too drunk to notice and as there were no other customers in the establishment, and America and George II were now arguing over the rules of the billiards/pool game, nobody noticed when King Henry disappeared.
The sudden screeching bars of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' jangled through England's ears. He sat up, the hair on one side of his head sticky with beer on end. "Whatsh?" he slurred.
"My Prez!" America sighed and answered his phone. "Yo!" he yelled and then listened. "Dude I have to stay here, man! Arthur needs me. He's getting old and going a bit senile so I'm kinda his carer." America yelled down the phone. The idea of America being England's carer was absurd. Thankfully, England had staggered to the gents toilets and so did not hear this. "I can't stay on the phone cos I'm going into a tunnel!" America continued and quickly switched it off and nodded happily at George II. "Your play," he said.
"You lied!" George II said. "George Washington would be appalled."
"Yeah yeah yeah…" America said and checked his phone again. "Dude Prez says he's playing glof. What's glof?" he asked.
"I have no idea about these modern games…"
America clapped the dead King on the back, and went right through him, almost landing on the floor. He then launched into a garbled of England's Hanoverian Kings, "You're alright, but your dad's a bit crackers and your son, I mean is it grandson? To be honest I'm glad he went off to talk to those marrows in the Palace gardens. He was giving me the creeps when he talked about being a tree and painting his bum blue."
King George II had no idea what to say to that.
"But at least I got my independence. I still don't like to mention it to Artie. He gets upset…" America confided and then flicked open his phone. "Oh it's the Prez again. He says he will sort out dude Spain and Artie's war when he's finished playing a round of glof." He turned to King George. "I wonder what glof is?" he asked again.
"Oh, absolute dick!" England exclaimed as he emerged from the gents toilets. His phone had gone off again and as he absent-mindedly checked it, he immediately wished he hadn't. It was one of those moments when England wished he didn't have Spacetime or whatever it was called installed on his phone. It was a video call. It was Francis. Francis covered in lipstick, draped in a French flag, wearing bunny ears and carrying pink balloons.
Bizarrely at that moment, the jukebox suddenly began playing 'Michelle Ma Belle' and France clearly heard this as he grinned happily, "Ah! Our song, mon cher! Can you please pick me up from ze Airport?" he called.
England's heart dropped. "Oh bloody hell…" he said.
"Zank you mon cher! Oh and by ze way your flies are undone!" Francis purred and then hung up.
"Damn and bloody blast him to the third ring of hell!" England stormed.
"I've been there!" came a voice. It was Russia, wearing his gigantic Union Jack hat and chewing a breadstick. He had sauntered into the pub unseen and unheard, like a large ninja...
"If he thinks I'm going to just drop everything and go pick him up from the bloody airport then he can go and…" England shouted and vacantly picked up a bag of pork scratchings and began eating.
"I think we should go rescue him!" America announced.
"We can't go anywhere!" England said. "There's still a massive traffic jam! Ha!" he seemed pleased and ordered another pint from the confused-looking barman and opened a packet of cheese and onion crisps. He was clearly in for the long haul.
"But we need to go get weirdy Frogface!" America said. "All for one and one for all!"
"How can we? We don't have a bloody vehicle, you daft Yank!" England said.
"Actually we do!" Russia said.
England put his head in his hands, "Please don't let it be Romano… please don't let it be Romano…" he chanted to himself. He remembered all too well being stuck in the Italian's car once being given a two minute lift to a conference in Rome and being thankful he was still alive at the end of it.
On the jukebox Frank Sinatra began to sing 'Come Fly with Me'.
"An helicopter?" America asked, bouncing up and down excitedly.
"It's a helicopter!" England yelled at him.
"No. But it does fly," Russia said. "Actually, I should say 'he'." He then pointed outside the pub.
England had a bad feeling about this. America, ever the optimist and ultra-confident in himself, did not.
They stepped outside. (England slammed the jukebox on the way out and it skipped to 'Blue Monday'. "I hate that thing," he bemoaned.)
A 20 foot long green dragon looked at them. 'Mr Ping' took over the whole pavement. Confused humans who could not see him, were bumping into what they probably thought was some kind of force field.
"Oh God…" England groaned and felt like throwing up before he'd even got on.
"Coolio!" America shouted.
To be continued…
Will the 'Anglo-Spanish war' be averted?
Will Pru and Den be left to grow their potatoes in peace?
Will France be all partied out?
Will King Henry get a job?
Will England get revenge on the jukebox?
All this and less in the next episode…