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Driving Lessons Chapter 76 Rollin' in my Rolls
"I'm not Ed Sheeran!" Prince Harry insisted.
"You look like him, non?" France insisted.
"Oh my God watch that lorry!" 'Lancelot' shouted. His name was not Lancelot. That was the name France had given him. He was the poor driving test examiner and he was still receiving treatment for PTSD from the last time he had taken France out for a driving test.
"I had forgotten about my driving test until zis morning," France told Prince Harry. Turning round in his seat to look at him. "I have been so busy what with one zing and another." He failed to tell them that 'one thing and another' was destroying Germany's cars, stealing priceless tiaras and ruining royal weddings. This was beside the point.
"Watch where you're going!" Shouted the palace bodyguard.
"You should take off your bearskin hat, it is very cruel," France retorted. "And also we could then close ze sunroof."
France was correct in both these observations. Bearskin hats are cruel and also if the man had taken off the hat they could close the sunroof. As it was, the bearskin hat stuck out through the sunroof causing many drivers and pedestrians to stop and stare. Although France assumed they were staring at him in his fedora hat.
"Take the third exit at the roundabout," 'Lancelot' said.
"Third? But why? Can we not just go left?" France said and promptly went the wrong way around the roundabout.
All three of his passengers screamed.
"I do have problems with roundabouts," France said, echoing what England had said. Although England would say that France had more problems than negotiating roundabouts.
A lorry driver yelled something rude at France about France's 'problem'.
At the police station…
"Right men, let's get the heck on with this! Mr Policeman, how much is bail for Arthur Kirkland and why can't this poncy dude in the frilly shirt," (here America pointed at Austria) "Pay it?"
"My credit card has been declined." Austria said, ignoring the 'poncy dude' jibe.
"That'll be Hungary. Ring your bank, dude," America said. "'And have the card declared as stolen and then get Artie dude out of this hellhole."
This hellhole had already given England a cup of tea, egg on toast and the opportunity to speak with his 'lawyer'. Lawyer being a broad term as it was Spain. Spain was currently in the local Co-op buying tomatoes.
America handed the phone to Austria.
Austria, who thought the 1850s was 'progressive', slowly dialled a number. "Hello? Hello? Oh… it's an automated system. Damn. I can't remember my date of birth."
Prussia took charge. "NEOLITHIC," Prussia said clearly into the phone. He then looked at the receiver and gave it back to Austria. "Computer says no."
Austria snatched it back, "Mother's maiden name." He said in a desolate voice.
"She was never a maiden," Prussia said, again grabbing the phone. "Hohenzollern," Prussia said into the phone.
Austria glared at him. "Computer says no again. Obviously." He said. He looked most put out.
"Crazy name, crazy guy," America said.
"Can I speak to a real person?" Austria asked the computer on the other end of the line (or perhaps he was referring to America) and bizarrely that's just what happened.
He was soon asking if he could speak to a machine instead:
"I'm sorry but you don't understand, my credit card has been stolen," Austria said for the third time. "Why should I give you my mother's maiden name, the name of my first dog, and the name of my first teacher? What kind of questions are these anyway? I've never had a dog and my first teacher was called Amadeus. He was a marvellous man but I think that's just irrelevant. My card has been declined, maxed out as my American acquaintance has said and I haven't spent on it. My card number? I've just told the computer that! I'm sorry but this is just not working is it? Can I speak to a machine instead?"
Prussia snatched the phone off him, "Listen, Speccy has no idea how these things work, so here's his credit card number…" (here Prussia reeled it off as if he might have memorised it for some nefarious reason) "His password is CHEAPSKATE and his mother's maiden name is Schwarzenegger. Yes, I know. That Schwarzenegger. Long story."
Austria stood next to him glaring.
America meanwhile was sat next to Italy in the reception area (Italy moving a chair away from him and America moving next to him each time) whilst the American loudly told him about Jesse James and amazingly, equating England's 6 hour imprisonment with the deeds of a famous outlaw.
"Please stop talking," Italy begged.
"So the card's been used to buy a return ticket to Sydney, a bikini from Bondi Beach emporium and a surfboard from the same place? Wow. Well I can tell you for definite that the first and the last won't have been bought by Roderich Speccy Edelstein. He can't swim and he's never been to Australia." Prussia told the person on the other end of the phone.
"He's Austria!" America yelled from across the room.
Several hardened criminals in handcuffs waiting to be processed inched away from him.
In his cell, England listened with interest to Germany's ranting.
"Do I look like a man who would throw a stale piece of Italian dough covered in cheese and tomatoes at a member of the aristocracy? I am an upstanding German citizen! You need to question a person called Arthur Kirkland who sent three reprobate dead kings after me. One of them didn't have a head!" Germany yelled.
"Put a sock in it! They can't hear you!" England shouted through the wall.
"YOU!" Germany growled. "You are the bane of my life. Your idiot King Charles the First, that mad moron King Malcolm and that depressed neurotic King Henry…"
"Hey! You leave Henry out of this!"
"Giving a vehicle to three dead kings - one without a head - is unacceptable," Germany concluded, as if the actual fact that one had no head made the deed less tolerable.
"King Charles is a bloody good driver," England said. "Better than France anyway."
"Ja! Frankreich!" Germany yelled, resorting to German which showed just how annoyed he really was. "You enable him!"
"Who's Frankenstein?" England yelled back.
Germany went quiet. Obviously England's utter cluelessness about the rudiments of the German language had finally silenced him.
Somewhere on the London Inner Ring Road...
"Ah you know, I am an excellent driver," France said, completely ignoring the evidence of one broken lorry, a rear-ended Fiesta and a woman now shouting at them. The Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with the Queen's personal plates was also not looking too good either.
It had been a long day for all involved. France had run out of the Palace and found the Queen's personal car sans chauffeur. This happened to be the said Rolls Royce. He peered inside, immediately fell in love with it (although his first love would always be the Ferrari that he and England had trashed in a London park) and got in. Shuffling his derriere in the comfy leather seats he'd found the key left in the ignition. This was clearly an invitation.
That's when things had got messy. A Palace guard completely resplendent in red coat, bearskin hat and waving a sword approached him. Behind him was someone who looked very much like Ed Sheeran.
France was not a fan of Ed Sheeran but thought someone - probably Den - was and so had ushered them both in the car. He'd thought in his French brain that Den would quite like an autograph and meet the singer. He was wrong. Bizarrely it was Spain who was the fan.
He then started the engine and drove off. As this was the Queen's car, the guards at the gate immediately opened the said gate and France drove through.
"I say! Where are we going?" The Ed Sheeran lookalike had said.
"You must stop this car now. You are kidnapping a royal Prince!" The guard had said, and waved his sword at France. France simply took it off him as they drove down the Mall and threw it out of the window.
"I'm sorry but he looks nothing like Prince William," France had told him. He then said, "Mr Sheeran, you can come with me and give my friend your autograph. But I have something to do first." France had totally forgotten until he'd seen the Rolls, that he had his driving test booked that day.
And so that was how France, Prince Harry and a palace guard along with a PTSD suffering driving instructor found themselves stuck in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.
"I'll never pass you! Never!" 'Lancelot' yelled at France.
"Are you related to Anthony Eden? You look like him. He also said I would never pass my test. He also would not allow me into a personal union avec Arthur. Ah… c'est la vie!" France said, lighting a cigarette sighing. Why on earth a former British Prime Minister had ever taken France out driving is a mystery.
'Lancelot' jumped out of the car and ran across the road. Perhaps being told he looked like Anthony Eden had been the final straw. He was fumbling with his phone as he did so, trying to get hold of his therapist.
"This is Carl dude in the bath… this is Carl dude asleep… this is Carl dude being read to by Russia… this is Carl dude having a bottle… this is Carl dude looking at pictures of cats… this is Carl dude looking at America… this is Carl dude watching In the Night Garden… this is Carl dude…" Den was saying, oblivious that he might get an autograph of someone he'd never heard of.
"Mean Gott! Will you shut up about Carl dude!" Austria shouted finally. His phone was ringing - playing the refrains of 'Mozart's Symphony No. 40' (or playing that 'rubbish music without words' as America called it). He ignored it as the contact shown was 'Client - Anxiety-laden driving instructor' and Austria cursed the day he had given out his mobile number to his clients, particularly those who had come to him through England's misadventures.
Denmark stepped back. "Well… I see you don't like children." He said disbelievingly. Den loved kids. He'd had so many - who had grown up to either go on to be Vikings and invade other countries or usually drink themselves into poverty, or both.
"I don't mind children. It's when I am shown a thousand pictures of one gormless looking child doing nothing. Absolutely nothing!" Austria yelled at him.
"Hey! He's a baby!" Prussia retorted, jabbing Austria in the chest. "That's all he does!"
"He's cute! Here, look…" Denmark said, showing Austria a picture of the child covered in custard and grinning satanically.
Austria recoiled as if the custard was going to spill out of the photograph and onto his velvet coat.
"France calls him Charlemagne," Prussia explained, leaning in too close to the Austrian and breathing all over his neck.
Austria wrinkled his nose. "He looks like…" he began.
"Me? I know. He's cute. But he's not mine." Den said regretfully.
"No, he looks like…"
"France? Yeah we know. But he's cuter than France and less annoying."
"No, like… him…" Austria nodded at America with distaste. "Only less loud."
"He ain't mine. I practise safe sex!" America yelled for all to hear and winked indiscriminately at a police lady, although the wink landed on Italy who whimpered.
"Anyway, what does this have to do with me?" Austria asked, batting Denmark's phone away.
"Is he yours?" America asked, loping back up to them.
"My what?" Austria asked.
"Kid." America answered.
"I hardly think so. That child looks as if he has no idea how to hold a violin."
"Neither do you." Prussia answered.
"Hola!" Came a cheery voice.
"Spain! My main man!" America shouted. "How's it going?"
"Oooh… Awesome Trio…" Spain said. He was carrying a Co-op carrier bag full of tomatoes.
"Awesome Trio?" The desk sergeant looked up. "That's the name of the notorious gang who've been terrorising London. Kicking over wheelie-bins, bothering grocery store staff and possibly burgling the Tower of London."
"Do we look like criminals?" Prussia asked.
"Ja," Austria said.
"I think it's time we were going," Denmark said to Prussia. He tried to say it in a low voice, but he had no 'low' voice and it echoed around the room.
Spain looked hurt, "Is it because I have arrived?"
"Nah," America said. "It's because Sergeant Slow here," (America nodded at the police officer) "Thinks we're criminals."
With that, they beat a hasty retreat.
"Are you here to bail out Arthur?" Spain asked Austria. "Or have you come to see me?"
"Of course I'm not here to see you! Preposterous!"
"We used to be married," Spain confided to the desk sergeant.
Austria's cheeks went very very red. "That was a long time ago!" He blustered.
Outside, the Awesome Trio were attempting to contact France. "He might have money to get England out," Prussia told them. "Or my bruder. Except he's in jail as well…"
"Yes if we could bail out Germany than he could bail out England."
"If we could bail out Germany then we could bail out England instead."
"Or we could bail out England, who could bail out Germany."
This conversation seemed to go on for ages. Until at last one of them said, "France doesn't have any money. He's still in debt to that Ferrari dealership."
"Yes, true. Let's hope he doesn't destroy any more cars."
At that moment, by sheer luck of the gods, a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with the Queen's flag swerved passed them, bounced off the kerb, slid across the carriageway and hit a phone-box.
The front bumper fell off and then a wheel fell off.
France, a royal prince and a Palace guardsman staggered out.
"Well, at least I managed to avoid that sightseeing bus," France said, straightening his fedora.
Behind him, the car burst into flames.
"Are you trying to imitate me?" Austria asked England.
England stood in front of him, with spectacles still drawn on his face. "What?" He asked.
"So do you have the bail or not?" Germany demanded.
"I'm trying my best!" Austria replied, shifting his glare from England to Germany.
They stood in the Inspector's office who had just had a call from 'up high' (aka some poor bugger in the Prime Minister's office who had the misfortune to be the liaison with the Nations when they were in London) who told him that they should drop all charges with regards Ludwig Beilschmidt and Arthur Kirkland.
"You're free to go," the Inspector told them.
But they weren't listening.
"Where is your credit card?" Germany asked Austria.
"It's been maxed out," Austria said, stealing America's term.
Germany looked utterly appalled, and amazed. "What? What have you been spending all your money on? I hope you don't expect me to subsidise you?" He said.
"Hungary's got it," England told him.
"She's spent all my money on bikinis," Austria explained, visibly shocked.
Germany tutted. "You should sort out your wife," he said.
England laughed heartily at this. The thought of anyone 'sorting out' Hungary was absurd. Indeed, the thought of anyone, least of all any of the male Nations 'sorting out' a female Nation was hilarious. "I would be very careful, just in case she can hear you. She'll kick your arse." England told Germany. He relished this thought for a few happy moments.
"They say she's in Australia," Austria said.
"I don't bloody blame her either," the police Inspector butted in. "Anyway, you're all free to go."
"It's outrageous, I didn't even get my free phone call to my solicitor," Germany complained.
"Hola!" Spain interrupted.
"Not you," Germany said.
"Just leave. Please," the Inspector said.
"Just like that? Germany asked.
"Get out."
"You English are very contrary," Germany said, heading for the door. "What about the paperwork?"
"Get out."
England was already outside and looking with dismay at the sight that greeted him.
France was arguing with what looked to be Ed Sheeran but wasn't. America, Denmark and Prussia were hiding behind a postbox. A crowd had gathered around what appeared to be a burning Rolls Royce. A tyre rolled passed him down the street.
He went back inside the police station.
He held out his hands to the police inspector, "Please re-arrest me and put me back in that cell," he said.
Author's Note:
Obviously, it wasn't Ed Sheeran…