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Driving Lessons Chapter 60 - Dog Day Afternoon
"What in the name of Queen Victoria, is going on here?" England asked. It was a question he asked a lot of since France had moved in with him.
"Do you know that individual, Sir?" The policeman asked him.
The fact that there were policemen (and helicopters and now a TV news crew) was enough to make England's heart sink. He was about to deny it but someone stuck a microphone in his face.
"Are you the boyfriend of the robber? What's your name? Would you do an exclusive interview with us?" a journalist asked him.
"No I'm not. None of your business and no I wouldn't." England retorted, utterly disgusted. "What robber?" But he really already knew the answer to this.
"A Frenchman calling himself Napoleon or something has taken possession of the fuel station premises," the policeman told him.
England sighed heavily. "You mean Francis Bonaparte De Chevalier Bonnefoy and all that nonsense?" He asked.
"So you do know him?"
"Well…"
"He claims he is only doing it to get money for a sex change operation," the news man said excitedly and then turned to the cameras. "This could go out on the ten o' clock news!" He added as an aside to England. "He says he's doing it all for you!"
(The Police all looked at England when he said this and some wrote in their notebooks which was never a good sign in England's view.)
"For me?" England asked, his voice going several octaves higher as if Germany had already got hold of his testicles.
"Slough Evening News", the newsman said, giving England his card. "We've just been touch with someone who claims to be your son, Peter."
But they were disturbed by a huge 'flump' and England and the newsman jumped.
It was Idris, although the newsman clearly thought it was just some strange anomaly.
"I'm required to tell Mr Ping where you are," the old dragon said ominously, breathing heavy sulphurous-smelling breath in England's ear.
The humans of course could not see him and were doubtless incredulous when England began yelling loudly. "Tell your bloody master I'm not scared of him. Tell him to come and get me himself! Him and his master that Mr Panda. Bloody psychopathic bear!"
"Who are you talking to?" The newsman asked. "Can you comment on what the robber has said that if he could be a woman, he'd be everything you wanted him to be?"
"No I bloody well won't! Now bugger off while I talk to this dragon!" England yelled.
The journalist hoped to God that his microphone had got all that. Obviously this story was getting better and better. A transvestite Frenchman, holding up a fuel station with an unidentifiable weapon telling the police that he only did it so he could be a woman (he had actually said that if he was a woman, England wouldn't pick on him, but they had misinterpreted this) and now the robber's boyfriend was also a demented loony.
Before England had a chance to reason any more with Idris, the dragon had unfurled his huge wings and took off, causing an unexplained (to the humans) blast of air.
"I bet he was hiding the whole time on the top of the bloody car wash," England said.
"Yes I was!" Idris called as he flew away.
"Bugger."
"Can you talk to him, Mr er…?" a Policeman approached England.
"Who? The dragon?"
"What?"
"Oh, you mean Francis? Oh do I have to? Can't you just arrest him and send him back to France?"
"Is that where he's from?" the journalist asked, writing in his notebook.
"Isn't it bloody obvious? He speaks French. He has sexual perversions. He thinks garlic is a vital food group. He has problems with personal space. Of course he's bloody French! He's not exactly Welsh is he?" England said with mounting impatience.
"He's holding several people hostage in the service station and he asked to speak to you," the Policeman explained.
"Oh sod it." England said. He wondered if that evening could get worse.
It could and it was about to.
"Can you tell your weird little friend to stop screaming?" The Welsh taxi driver asked Germany.
"Italy, listen to the man!" Germany said.
"But… but… I really can see a dragon!"
"Ja," Germany hissed, "But the human can't. So stop it!"
"It still doesn't look blue," America mused. Sticking his head out of the window and looking up.
Flying directly above them was Idris.
The taxi driver who had picked them up at the caravan park, watched them in the rear-view mirror. Three more incongruous customers the man had never seen. An uptight German who kept muttering about somebody who ruins cars, an excitable Italian who kept chattering about pizzas, scary Russians and somebody called 'Fratello' and an American who was on the 157th level of Candy Crush and told the others to send him 'lives' whatever that meant. When the Italian screamed about a dragon, that was what made the taxi driver slam on the brakes.
"Idris! My main dude!" America yelled out of the window.
"Aaargh!" Italy screamed and almost jumped into Germany's arms. As Germany was sat in the front passenger seat, this was very troublesome.
"Just drive on," Germany told the taxi driver.
But America was already clambering out of the taxi. "Yo! Idris! Do you know where Arthur is?" He yelled up at the dragon who was circling above them.
The taxi driver, being a human, could not see the dragon. "Is this some kind of joke?" He asked. He began talking into his two-way radio to his radio operator. "Margaret," he said (obviously Margaret being the lady back in the taxi operator's office). "I've got some weirdos here. Probably the same weirdos Daffyd was talking about who caused all that trouble down on the seafront. They're saying they've seen a dragon and one of them, an American has jumped out and is talking to it… I mean er… thin air."
"Oh this is intolerable!" Germany said, summing up what the poor taxi driver felt. He got out with the air of a man who is done with the world. "Alfred," he hissed. "Get back in the car. We know where that car-wrecker and Francis is." (He said the name 'Francis' with particular loathing and disgust.). "We only have to follow the helicopters and police cars." He pointed out.
"I know but I want to ask Idris why he's green," America said.
But Idris was already flying away, having dipped his wings in salute at the American (who saluted back). (He had a message to deliver to Mr Ping.)
"Aw dammit," America said, in awe. "He could have given us a lift." (Germany shuddered.)
"Mr England thinks it was that other dragon, Mr Ping, and Mr Panda who try to cause Word War Three and they were behind the whole cake disaster," Italy told them, standing beside Germany and trying to hold his hand.
"Never mention that cake again," Germany warned him. He then looked around. "Where's the taxi gone?"
"He said he thought we were all a bit mad and then he told me to get out and then he drove off. I waved but he didn't wave back," the Italian replied sadly.
Germany just glared at him and then glared at America, who was obliviously waving at the dragon's diminishing form.
"I'm surrounded by morons," Germany said and began trudging off in the direction of the sirens.
"I'm surrounded by morons," England said to himself, weirdly echoing his German counterpart and arch-enemy. (England had a top ten list of enemies that he updated every so often, but Germany had occupied one of the top spots for a long time, as had France - the latter for around 956 years.)
"Could you talk to your boyfriend, please?" The policeman asked him again and handed him a megaphone.
"He's not my sodding…oh for God's sake… Francis!" He yelled.
"You don't have to yell, Sir. It's a megaphone."
England almost clouted the young policeman over the head. Why were they all so young these days? It was getting dark now and almost time for Coronation Street. "Francis! Come out now with your hands out of your trousers and nothing will happen."
"Well actually, we're going to arrest him and send him back to France," the policeman said.
England almost hugged him. "Really? Promise?"
There was no response from inside the filling station. England noted with some alarm (and a little satisfaction) that there were armed police surrounding the place.
"Do you have a shoot to kill policy?" He asked hopefully.
"No, definitely not," the policeman said with some suspicion.
"Francis! Get your fat arse out here now before I miss Coronation Street!" England shouted into the megaphone.
"Erm, we don't advise threatening armed robbers, Sir," the policeman said.
"He doesn't have a bloody weapon," England said.
"Phone call for you," another policeman said, approaching and holding out a mobile phone.
"I hope that's not bloody Germany. You can tell him from me that I didn't mean to set fire to his car." England replied.
"The robber…"
"Ah right… Yes…"
France's dulcet tones assailed England's ears. "Ah mon cher. I only came here for a cup of tea pour tu" (England winced at this) "And zis young man says zat I am trying to take over ze place. It has no sartorial elegance. Why would I want zis place? Ze terrible vinyl flooring, ze decor, ze total lack of pornography. And ze only coffee is zat terrible English crap."
"Francis. Nobody cares. Get yourself out here now." England replied.
"But zere are guns!"
"That's because they think you have a gun, you bloody oaf."
"Pourquoi? I told ze man here zat I have a great weapon, ah oui and zen he pressed an alarm and zen he ran out next to ze cheese and onion pasties and he is sat zere crying. You English are very weird, mon cher. By ze way, do you still want your tea?"
England would have slammed the telephone device down but it was a mobile and instead he handed it roughly back to the policeman, whom he called an 'utter moron'. He then marched towards the petrol station, with the policemen watching in amazement and tried to shove open the doors. They were locked - it was the standard 'emergency locking code' in case of robberies. And obviously to stop any perverted and moronic Frenchmen from escaping in their underwear.
England peered through the glass door, pressing his nose against it. Inside the shop was a startled looking service station attendant where France had described him - sat in a corner of the shop next to a display of 'Pukka Pies'. France was stood at the counter idly smoking a cheap cigarette and flicking through a 'Mens Health' magazine. It was probably the closest France could come to finding any pornography.
England tapped on the glass and mouthed 'I AM GOING TO KILL YOU'.
Germany, Italy and America were just two miles away and trudging fruitlessly along a wet muddy Welsh road. They were following the sounds of sirens and helicopters and America's satnav which seemed to hate them.
"Can you shut that off?" Germany told America.
"She doesn't like us," Italy said sadly. He looked depressed. He was still worried about what state his pasta would be in when he returned to the caravan. He doubted a mad Scotsman, two dead kings and a rampaging Russian would ensure that it was okay.
"She told us to turn right back there," America said.
"That was a sheep farm. I doubt England and France are anywhere down there. We follow the helicopters." Germany said decisively. He wasn't going to be led astray by this undisciplined American.
America wasn't listening. "I wanted Darth Vader as my satnav voice but…oh wait a minute…" he stopped as the satnav on his phone chimed in again and told them, in an imperious English accent to turn around at the earliest opportunity. It also called him a 'dumbass'.
Germany never trusted an English accent, not since the British propagandists in the War had spread rumours about his underwear. "We're going this way," he said through gritted teeth.
"I don't think that lady likes us. She just called you a dumbass," Italy said.
Germany looked at the Italian. "Don't be stupid, Italy."
"Yeah, she's done that before," America said. "She often calls me stupid."
"It's not a 'she', it's a computer-generated voice. It's not a specific gender." Germany told him.
He snatched the phone from America, switched it on mute and handed it back. "You're a fool. Besides how did you put directions in it if you don't know where England is?" he pointed out like most reasonable, sensible people.
America shrugged, sulking. "I told her to find Artie dude."
"I'm going to text my brother," Germany said.
"No, not Prussia… he calls me spineless and useless and eats all my pasta," Italy whined.
"Shut up, Italy. Besides you don't have any pasta," Germany said and pressed some buttons.
'Dear Gilbert…' (Germany always always used proper grammar and punctuation in texts, he could not abide text speak) 'Can you give us a lift please so I can beat up England? We are…' (here he consulted America, who shrugged and tried to consult Siri, who apparently told him he was an 'idiot') '… just a few miles from that caravan park where England's brother Wales has a caravan which is now on its side…' Germany sighed as he texted and wondered why he was putting all this in a text to his brother, who probably didn't care '…it's not far from that dreadful cottage we all stayed in that burned down… just text me and I'll try to send you co-ordinates. Best wishes Ludwig.'
"German nobhead," America muttered.
"What?"
"That wasn't me. That was Siri."
Germany glared at him. The phone pinged and a reply came that both pleased and displeased the German.
'Soz mate I'm at Arthur's house. We've set up an indoor rollerblading party and I'm in charge of beverages.'
Germany wondered who the 'we' was.
Meanwhile at the service station…
Francis, arch-villain, was now prancing up and down trying on various different 'free' tiaras that were included in such publications as 'Girl', 'Princess' and 'Sparkle' from the magazine rack within the shop.
"What do you zink, Leopold?" He asked his one hostage.
"You look like an idiot and my name is not 'Leopold'," the hostage said.
"Ah but it suits you, mon ami."
"Can I go now?"
"Non, not until I know zat ze horrible policemen will not shoot moi."
The youth looked disappointed. "There's nothing to stop me just walking out," he said.
France turned to look at him. He didn't look much like a feared villain, in his flip-flops, mud-splattered poncho and plastic tiara. "I have fought in ze great French army…" (England would have snorted at this) "…Trained avec ze French Foreign Legion…" (this was true but it was a training weekend and a whole battalion had ended up in a little known English seaside town called Snoring by the Sea, blind drunk and wearing tutus) "And have killed men with just a baguette." Here France looked in vain for a baguette, found a soggy cheese roll and threatened the boy with that instead.
"Francis! Get out here now!" England yelled through the door.
The South Wales police force had at first thought England was the epitome of foolhardy courage, but then realised that actually, the French super villain was armed with nothing more deadly than an out of date cheese and pickle roll. They shoved Arthur to one side and battered their way into the shop, flung France to the floor and handcuffed him, declaring him to be under arrest for armed robbery with a sandwich.
Thankfully, France's tiara was unharmed.
"Ah mon cher, I did it all for you!" France said dramatically as he was bundled out, his hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles manacled.
"I bloody hope not!" England said. "And where's my bloody cup of tea anyway?" He said.
"You're under arrest as well," the policeman said, slapping cuffs on England.
"You've got to be bloody joking! Coronation Street is on in a bit!" England spluttered.
"You're under arrest for accessory to armed robbery. Put him in the van."
Germany, America and Italy were just rounding the corner to see, much to Germany's gleeful satisfaction, England and France both being bundled into a police van.
America just managed to get this filmed on his phone for later uploading to his youtube channel.
Later in the police cell.
"I'm never ever ever going to speak to you again. Ever."
"Ah mon cher. I know zat zis day will get better. Trust me."
England sat on a hard bunk thinking about how shit his life was and whether his Bentley was still in the car wash. They were both still handcuffed as within half a minute of being released England had attempted to throttle France.
"I zink zat I mean… I think that after today you should go a long long loooooooong way away from me. The furthest you can possibly be. Think Easter Island. There's nothing there but giant heads. You can't possibly hurt anything there," England told France and then turned his face to the wall.
France considered this. "Can I ask you just one zing, mon cher, before my exile?"
England didn't answer.
"Could you adjust my tiara? It has slipped down a little."
England spun round and launched himself on the Frenchman and some kind of head butting competition began and then the cell door opened.
England stopped, having done nothing more than dislodge France's tiara completely and get more mud on his face. He hoped against all hope that it was an ally. That it could be America (although he was now sending his video of England's arrest to all the other Nations), or Scotland or even Belarus his supposedly lawful (or awful) wife.
It was none of these.
"Oh my God…" England stood up and tried to shake off the mud and salute which was difficult when your hands are in handcuffs.
The man in front of him looked him up and down as if he had scraped him from the bottom of his shoe. A man with a military bearing, a toothbrush moustache and steely grey eyes, he looked like a man who had seen it all. He probably had. "Arthur?"
"Oh Mr Private Secretary… please tell Her Majesty that I can explain everything…" England said, trying to stand to attention and failing as France leaned against his left leg.
"I really hope so because Her Majesty is wondering why you're not at Windsor?" The man who was Private Secretary to the Queen, the Royal Family major-domo, and general 'fixer' was glaring at England, as if he severely regretted that England was his Nation.
"Windsor Castle?" England spluttered.
France looked the man up and down with interest and purred, "Who are you, hmm?"
The man ignored France as if he were something found at the bottom of a fishpond. "No, Windsor Safeway," he said and then amended through gritted teeth, "Of course Windsor Castle." He was clearly not used to making jokes and his left eye twitched.
"What for?" England asked.
"The Royal Wedding…"
Author's notes:
The man who came to see England is of course the Private Secretary to the Queen and based on a character in The Crown which I've got quite addicted to.
Dog Day Afternoon - obviously not a song title this time round but one of my favourite films - about an armed robbery starring Al Pacino. Classic.