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Driving Lessons Chapter 42 - True Love Never Did Run Smooth
England would never ever have thought he would find himself locked up in the Tower of London. But here he was. Despite the fact that the Tower was now the place where they kept the Crown Jewels and was not in fact usually where prisoners were kept anymore.
England sat next to a drunk Frenchman. A drunk unconscious Frenchman. A drunk unconscious naked Frenchman. It was the same Frenchman - not three different Frenchman. That would have been too much. It was enough that he was handcuffed to the 'pervert'.
"This is our winter of discontent…" he said to France. "We have seen better days," he added as he looked down at France's open-mouthed countenance, his dishevelled hair, and the rainbow flag adorning his nether regions. He shuddered and hoped to God someone would rescue him.
To find out how the English Nation ended up stuck in a 5x5 metre cell with France and how his life unravelled even further we have to go back a few hours...
"This is so freakin' cool!" America yelled at England.
"Oh for God's sake will you put a bloody sock in it? It's not cool, you imbecile," England retorted.
Sat next to him in the helicopter (or 'copter) was France who was swigging from a wine bottle. England didn't even want to know where that had appeared from.
In one way, England was pleased he was being called back to the Palace to sort things out, his brother being such an idiot as to cause an Anglo-Spanish War over Gibraltar. But it was now midnight and way past England's bedtime. He really should have been tucked up in bed with a Horlicks and a copy of Gardeners World many hours ago. He knew he was going to be grumpy in the morning and by Nelson's Column, someone was going to pay.
Not America though, England surmised. The idiot was talking ten to the dozen to the helicopter pilot about his piloting skills in the War. England severely doubted America's rank of Lieutenant-Colonel of the US Air Force. What blasted idiot gave him such seniority?
The 'copter began its descent onto the Palace lawn. England winced as the Queen's prize begonias were blown over. What was the world coming to?
They trooped into the Palace, or should one say America swaggered in, France staggered in and England walked in normally.
"Will you bloody well sober up, you tart!" England hissed at France. "Why don't you bugger off anyway to your blasted job?"
France giggled and took another swig of wine. "Zat is what I am doing, mon cher."
England made the fatal error of ignoring him.
"Walk this way, gentlemen," the footman said, rather pompously England thought.
America attempted to do so and ended up strutting up the corridor next to the poor man.
"What's your name then?" Alfred asked. "I'm Alfred, Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones of the US Air Force."
The man just tried to ignore him.
"Rude…" America muttered.
"He is called Edmundo and he used to be a Spanish bullfighter before he had a close encounter avec a bull," France said and lurched dangerously to one side and fell onto a plush red velvet chair.
"Idiot," England said. "What rot! Bloody stay there, you damned fool."
France flopped down and England and America hurried on.
"We're here to save the world!" America announced as he stepped into a room at random.
"Get out you damned fool! Can't someone have a damned bath in bloody peace?" someone yelled and America got a foamy sponge in the face.
"Well…" America muttered, slowly closing the door.
"This way, Sir!" the footman insisted. "The Duke of Edinburgh is trying to have a bath."
England clouted America around the head. "Fool boy." He poked his head around the door, "So sorry, Sir… your Highness…" he said and was struck by a dripping wet flannel. "He has good aim doesn't he?" England asked, slowly closing the door.
"Arthur! Thank God you've come!" the Prime Minister cried. "We have a problem!"
"I can see that…" England said, looking around the 'War Room'. This was the basement that Churchill, the old King and various heads of Armed Forces had planned Operations Overlord, Market Garden (yes, really) and Operation Rescue Agent XX. That latter one England had not been involved in the planning of although he had participated in it. (He still had flashbacks.)
On the basement floor lay Scotland, hugging a whisky bottle (empty, England noted with dismay) and his sporran. His kilt was askew and this showed his white knobbly knees off to good effect. Beside him lay King Malcolm, his crown battered on his head and clutching a sword. England of course was appalled. This was the result of their battle with the South London and Peckham Allotment Recreational Society (SLAPARSE) The members of that illustrious establishment had left, having proven themselves far more formidable in a fight than Scotland or King Malcolm would have credited them. (Scotland would later state that the woman in the tweed skirt suit wearing pearls named 'Hilda' had a right hook that could have laid out Mike Tyson.)
"King Arthur would never have carried on like this," England told the room.
The Queen nodded, "I hereby declare that Arthur Kirkland is renamed as representative of the United Kingdom and Great Britain," she said and left. They all bowed. Scotland muttered something which England hoped was respectable.
"Are they two countries?" America asked.
England sighed, the 'boy' could always be relied upon to ruin the mood. He thought about hitting him around the head again - particularly as the CIA men were still nowhere around, but thought that the Queen would probably not approve. However, he was pleased that he was thoroughly redeemed.
Also, the President of the United States was on the web conference gadget and was in conversation with the Foreign Secretary. It was a meeting of two minds, if either had a mind England thought. Both bobbed their blond heads at each other and if England wasn't seeing things, the 'Prez' as America called him, was scoffing some kind of potato chips as if he were at the movies. England disapproved wholeheartedly. One should not eat potato chips whilst in the presence of the Monarch.
"Right," England said in his most commanding voice. "Where's Spain? I'll speak to him and we'll sort out this silliness in a jiffy."
"Apparently, he's asleep. It is close to midnight," one of the civil servants told England.
"I would hardly call it 'silliness'," Gibraltar ('Gib') said coming into the room at that moment.
"Ah yes, I see. Well, leave this to the grown-ups, Gib." England said. (He really didn't like calling him 'Gib'. He disapproved of name-shortening, even if he did it himself occasionally but that didn't count.)
"Don't call me that. And I don't appreciate you sending us," here Gib nodded to the Spanish Ambassador, a man who looked as if he'd seen 'things', "…to talk to Prussia and Denmark in that disgusting hovel."
"That disgusting hovel is my allotment shed!" England said, utterly appalled.
"You've been evicted from it," Gib told him.
Everyone gasped. Even the US President stopped eating for a few moments and looked shocked.
"That's just a clerical error," England said, waving it off.
"You can't just ignore people like that, particularly SLAPARSE. They are ruthless," the Prime Minister told England.
"And we'll never recover from seeing Prussia's 5 metres." One of the Spanish delegation said.
"He doesn't have 5 metres," England scoffed.
"How would you know?" Gib countered.
"Yeah, you haven't been on holiday with him," America agreed.
England shook his head. He really hoped he would never ever go on holiday with 'Pru' or 'Den'. The thought absolutely disgusted him.
"Right, never mind all that. You!" Arthur pointed at the Spanish Ambassador, who was still trembling and very pale. (England thought that these Spaniards had no backbone at all.) "Get Tony on that videophone."
The man nodded slowly and began dialling on his mobile telephone. England noted with disgust it had a picture of Spain in his bullfighter's costume with his rear on full show on the back.
America reached across and switched off the US President - probably much to the annoyance of that person. Nobody noticed.
Unfortunately, the video link then came back up and it was someone far far worse.
"What have you all done with my brother?" came a horrid screech.
England dropped the china cup he was about to fill from the teapot he'd found on the table. The cup seemed to fall in slow motion. The Prime Minister pressed a red alert button. America scrabbled under a table, Gib followed him. Scotland muttered, "Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble."
Belarus glared at them from the videolink.
"I thought you'd switched the damn thing off!" England said to America.
America shook his head from under the table and then shrugged.
"Fine superpower you turned out to be." England said. Obviously the bloody thing was linked on an open reception with heads of state around the world - not just the US. Unless of course Belarus (for it was she) was sat in the White House.
She wasn't.
"Where is my dearest brother, Arthur?" Belarus hissed at him. Her presence seemed to fill the room. The cups rattled on the table. England was shocked to see tea being spilled.
"I have no idea. I'm not his sitter," England said bravely.
"His tracker is not working," Belarus told him. She glared at him with piercing ice blue eyes.
England shivered. He felt sorry for the big Russian for a moment. He remembered his 'date' with Belarus, she'd seemed quite amenable then. He tried playing on that. "We really must go out again, Miss Belarus. Remember that fish and chip shop we were going to go to?"
A knife slashed through the air and embeded itself in the videoscreen at the other end (wherever Belarus was at that moment). The screen in the Kremlin (presumably) cracked and splintered, the point seemed to be aimed straight at England's forehead.
"Well, I wouldn't expect you to eat mushy peas, Miss Belarus," England said lamely.
Everyone looked shocked and frankly, astounded and just a little in awe of the Englishman.
"You have 24 hours to find my brother or there will be consequences!" Belarus said in a very low dangerous voice. "You and your abysmal country with its 'mushy peas' and stupid weather."
Surely a woman in a blue frilly dress wearing blue ribbons in her long blond hair couldn't be serious? What possible harm could she do to him?
"My mushy peas are the finest you'll find anywhere!" England declared, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet 8 inches. It annoyed him he wasn't taller than America. "What are you going to do anyway? Skewer us with those knives of yours?" England felt quite brave separated by these screens - even if one of them was broken (hers obviously).
Belarus narrowed her eyes and tossed her head towards someone in the background, a shivering pathetic figure who looked terrified, England had not noticed him there before.
"Comrade President Putin?" she called.
The President nodded quickly like a lapdog, his eyes bulged with terror.
"You will release the military might of the Russian Federation on this minuscule silly country unless my brother is returned, da?" Belarus said in a syrupy sweet voice.
The President nodded.
England was aghast.
He was still aghast when the screen was switched off by the shaking hand of the Army Chief of Staff.
"Well done, Arthur. You've just made things a hundred times worse."
"Well… it wasn't my fault! Who'd have thought? The course of true love never did run smooth…" England said lamely.
"Well done, dude Artie! You just started World War Three!" America said, emerging from under the table and clapping England on the shoulder. "And I know you all thought it would be me and my Prez but who'd have thought it would be you starting Armacopalypse?"
"Wait? What? What's Armacopalypse? Surely you mean Armageddon or Apocalypse? It can't be both."
"It is now!"
"I'm afraid Alfred is correct. You've just made things so much worse. We need to find Russia quickly. Who knows how long we have left?!" the Foreign Secretary burbled from underneath the table.
"Twenty-four hours. She just said," England said with a sigh. He was surrounded by morons.
"Then we need to find fat Russkie dude," America said, pulling on his sunglasses and peering at his mobile telephone (England thought this was blatantly stupid - both the act of wearing sunglasses indoors, at midnight, as well as attempting to navigate the touchscreen whilst wearing them). "I'm going to get my homies to help!" he shouted as he left. "I'm on it like a bonnet!"
"What in God's name…" England muttered to himself.
"Will shomeone just be quiet? We're shtrying to shave the world here!" Hamish called from the floor.
England felt like kicking him. Who knows what 'shave the world' meant?
"I'm putting the military on DEFCON 4," the military chief said and went out.
"I've been on that since that lot moved in with me," England said and realised as he pointed around the room that not one of the 'that lot' were actually there.
That was soon to change though as the door burst open and France staggered in. "Calm down mes cheries! I am here, ah oui!" he slurred.
He was wearing a rainbow flag and nothing else.
"Oh no…"
"Oh oui!" France held his phone up and it played a raunchy French tune from its tinny innards. If that wasn't bad enough, the Frenchman began to shimmy around.
"Put your clothes back on!" England hissed.
The Prime Minister covered her eyes. The Foreign Minister just stared. Hamish tried to sing along and failed. The French tune was not 'The Skye Boat Song' so it all sounded very odd to everyone's ears. King Malcolm was still unconscious thankfully. Gibraltar, who had just emerged from under the table, quickly went back. He'd seen enough of France's impromptu stripteases to know when to take cover.
"Stop it, you fool!" England yelled.
But France was not to be deterred and began actually taking England's clothes off for him, plucking at his buttons and wrestling with his belt.
"Get off me!" England shouted. "Someone help me!"
Nobody did. Everyone kept their distance. France, in his drink-fuelled haze assumed they were the audience at 'Le Petit Bas' (translated from French as 'The Small Bottom') and he was at his brand new job working for the 'Buns and Butts' Dance Troupe (it was still nothing to do with baking, of that England was correct).
"Take off your pantalon, Angleterre!" France breathed.
"Noooooooo!" England clutched at his 'pantalons'. It was almost as if he were reliving one of his recurring nightmares.
And it was about to get worse.
The door opened and the Army Chief of Staff walked back in, along with two Generals, an Admiral and the Prince of Wales. The latter was someone who looked up to England as an eccentric uncle ('Uncle Arthur') and England had tried to instil in the prince when he was but a child all the values he'd attempted to impress in his 60 or so monarchs - a love of beer, keeping your pants on and a severe aversion towards the French. He'd largely succeeded too.
What happened next would haunt England for the rest of his days, or at least for the rest of this day, because although he would burn with shame for it for a while, it was not the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him - it did not even get into the top ten of most embarrassing things to have happened to him (all but one of these involved France in some shape or form, the other involved Hamish).
France fell over and grabbed at England, who promptly stepped back quickly lest France would grab at his crotch and bury his face in it (that was an event that had ended up on the aforementioned top ten), stood on the Prince of Wales' foot, who hopped around and who was then grabbed by France (Francis was remarkably nimble and fast on his feet even after two bottles of wine), who then pulled down the royal trousers.
There was a communal gasp.
"Oh fu…." England immediately stepped forward and did something that made it all worse - tried to pull the Prince's trousers back up.
Then the Queen came back in.
England must have blacked out the rest or else just blacked out with shame.
The next thing he knew he and France had been dragged, handcuffed together (much to Francis' delight, although he was by now hysterical with joy) and thrown in a police van by 'Raoul' and 'Fernando' - the two most unlikely names ever given to Special Branch policemen by a Frenchman.
Arrested for indecent exposure, assault on a member of the royal family, detrousering a member of the royal family, being French in a Royal Palace (the latter was a charge obviously just aimed solely at France and made up especially for him).
"You have to let me out!" England shouted. "I have only 24 hours to save the world!"
To be continued…
Next Chapter - Will England and France save the world?
Will France find his pantalons?
Lots of Shakespeare…
Also thank you to all those who have said you are reading this in class - that makes me laugh so much and I'm sure Prussia would approve!