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Driving Lessons Chapter 80 - I'm on My Way
"Balamory is absolutely my favourite programme of all time. Probably after In the Night Garden," Denmark was saying to the receptionist down in the lobby.
She was pressing the alarm button repeatedly and trying to catch the eye of the doorman who was trapped in the revolving door with Prussia.
"Teletubbies!" Prussia yelled from the revolving door which had stopped revolving.
The man stuck with him was already banging on the glass shouting for help.
"Ja, Teletubbies," Denmark agreed. He leaned over the reception desk. "Do you fancy coming out with me tonight to show me the city? The last time I was here was in Glasgow I lost my pants and ended up on a train to Cardiff dressed in a French maid's outfit."
The woman inched away from him.
The CIA men were in the lift going up, listening to lift musak and in one case, tapping their feet.
"Do you think we lost Prussia and Denmark?" One of them asked.
"Let's hope so. No training can possibly prepare you for that."
The other nodded. "This elevator is taking a while."
It finally stopped at the top floor and Hamish staggered in, wearing a kilt and tam o'shanter and absolutely nothing else. In his hands he brandished two unopened but shaken cans of Irn Bru.
They leapt back in alarm as he pressed a button that halted the lift.
"Shush!" He said. "I'm being hunted by people who want to take my liberty!" He shouted (which to the CIA men totally negated the 'shush', he also pronounced liberty as 'libershy'). "My boss wants to put me in manacles and see some bloody therapist and it's all so my bloody incompetent brother can take over as the UK!"
"Well Mr erm…?"
"Scotland! Did ye no hear me?" Scotland asked. He looked wild-eyed, his red hair stood on end and he waved the cans at them.
"We're here for Alfred."
"For yon boy? Aye he's an idiot as well. Are ye fan boys or something?" His Scottish accent got thicker and thicker until they could barely understand him. "Ye'll help me though won't yer?"
"Well…"
"Guid, give me your clothes."
"What?" They asked, both at the same time and both with a gulp.
"Take off your clothes - you," here Hamish pointed at Lucien with one of the cans of Irn Bru. "You give me your troosers and you…" here he pointed at Florimund and pointed the other can at him. "Give me your shirt and tie."
"Look we don't think…" one of them protested.
Hamish was not the scariest of Nations (that accolade went to Belarus and Russia in that order) but when he was drunk and only wearing a kilt and nothing else he was a terror. He waved his cans at them. "I've been shaking these cans up and if yer don't do what I want then I'll open them!" He said threateningly.
The CIA men exchanged looks and actually did as they were told. Perhaps they would escape this madman without losing anything more valuable than a few items of clothing.
"Aye, you're guid lads," Scotland said, horrifying them even more as he pulled off his kilt and threw it at them.
"Erm you're welcome?" One of them said. The other stared at him in horror.
Scotland pressed a lift button and they began to descend. He had not put on their clothes but stood swaying to the lift music wearing just his tam o'shanter. "Aye it's a glorious evening for it, gennelmen," he slurred.
"For what?" One of them said.
But Hamish didn't answer, he stepped out of the lift into the lobby, wandered past Denmark who was still trying to chat up the receptionist and, still carrying the clothing he'd acquired, shoved the revolving doors which spilled out Prussia and the poor doorman. The former fell out as if he were detritus falling out of a bin.
The Scotsman headed down the road singing 'Flower of Scotland' which as England would have told anyone, was always a bad sign.
The two CIA men ran back into the building, fell over Prussia fighting with the doorman and hurried to the reception.
"What happened to you two?" Den asked but then immediately turned back to the receptionist. "And then I said to King Christian, 'that stain will never come out just like your gay son'! And then he threw me out, well when I say he threw me out his…"
"What floor is Alfred F Jones on?" 'Florimund' asked the receptionist.
"Hey! I was here first!" Den said.
"Alfred Jones? Who's that?"
"Chad Vader," Den said with a wink to her.
"Oh him." She rolled her eyes. "Floor 6 along the corridor fourth door on the left."
The two CIA men jumped back in the lift and pressed a button and went back up the building. The fact they were wearing hardly any clothes was not a factor.
"He thinks he's a big star," the receptionist called after them.
"And he bloody is. My Russian friend doesn't like him, he liked the duck instead." Den began to say and then stopped as the melodious voice of Yorkshire could be heard on the stairs.
"Bloody hell, Dad, put him down! Thanks for rescuing us an' all but Brian is a show duck. How many times do I have to tell you? He's worth a lot of bloody money!"
Prussia got to his feet, "Yo Bob," he said putting a lot of emphasis on the b's as if he was popping his lips. "Where's yer duck?"
Bob pointed his thumb behind him where England was descending the stairs holding a struggling and quacking duck in his arms.
"Brian doesn't like Dad."
"Where's dude Alfie?" Den asked.
Yorkshire nodded back to the stairs where America was following England and moaning all the way down the last six floors. "Aw but why do I have to gooooooo?"
"Because you do and that's the end of it. Where's Florimund and that other one?" England asked Prussia.
"They took off somewhere with hardly any clothes on," Prussia said.
"Bloody typical. Give them a French name and they become French," England huffed.
"Come on, let's get you home," England said, but didn't say which home.
"You've always been jealous of me," Alfred said sulkily. "You were always jealous that I had a bigger army than you and then I had to rescue you from Germany in two world wars."
Prussia scuttled out of the building when he heard this. He didn't want yet another argument about the wars coming back on him. Den followed him.
"Let's show this city how to partaaaay!" Den yelled, getting some strange looks from passing Glaswegians.
"You were bloody late for both wars!" England yelled at America. He then cuffed him around the head and shoved him outside and then turned to Yorkshire, "And don't you say another word."
"I wasn't going to! It was him that started it. Just drop me off in Harrogate, Dad. Me and Brian have another duck show to get too."
Brian quacked.
"You'll get dropped where I drop you off and it's Brian and I, not Brian and me. How many times have I told you? We're British and we use correct grammar."
"I have a funny feeling that something is going to happen," France told Russia in between ordering new shoes online and feeding Charlemagne.
Russia edged away from him and crossed the room to sit in England's chintzy armchair with the lacy antimacassars.
"Non, I mean I have a funny feeling that we are going to get visitors," France said.
"I don't like visitors," Russia rumbled ominously. He sat in the armchair like a dormant volcano. He switched over the channel to Murder She Wrote and was instantly engrossed.
France shrugged. The fact that he'd just announced to all and sundry (I.e. All his followers on Facebook which amounted to a number of Nations, members of the French Diplomatic Service and various French pop singers) that he was alone (he'd missed out the obvious presence of Russia) in England's house did not seem to occur to him that something bad could come of this…
Russia's phone then went off with an eerie tinny Nokia ringtone. France almost jumped out of his skin whilst holding Charlemagne who burped loudly.
"Ah it is my sestra," Russia said.
"Which one?"
"Ukraine," Russia looked worried. "She says she is still stuck on a bus."
"In London?"
"Nyet. The number 9 bus to Vladivostok. And she has lost her pitchfork."
France nodded. "That's not good. Is she on Facebook?" He asked.
"Nyet. She does not understand it. She thinks it is full of shallow-minded morons who do nothing but take selfies and admire themselves."
"What?" France wasn't listening as he was too busy taking a selfie and posting it on Facebook with the hashtag 'alone in England's house'.
"You know I'm getting really cross with you now," England told America as they got back in the CIA van. "Now get in the van and stop moaning. Where's Prussia and Denmark?"
"You didn't bring them did you? The last time they were in Glasgow they got banned from every pub in the city," Yorkshire said.
"Quack," Brian the duck said.
"How would you know?" England asked. Whether he was talking to the duck or Bob is unclear.
"I just heard about it…" Yorkshire said and tried to change the subject.
"And where's Lucien and Florimund?" England asked nobody in particular.
"Do you know what, Artie? If you brought your gay friends with you then you should have kept a look out for them." America said.
"Are they them?" Yorkshire said pointing at two Scotsmen in kilts coming towards them.
"Do they look like a Florimund or Lucien?" England asked. He was searching for the ignition key. Of course he couldn't find it.
"Hey there's a tv in the back here!" America yelled.
"Or those two?" Yorkshire then pointed at two women.
"No!"
"I wonder if they've got Disney Channel?" America said to himself, fiddling with some buttons.
"Don't mess with anything." England said.
"Or those two?" Yorkshire said, pointing.
"No! Oh actually yes it is!"
Lucien banged on the window of the driver's side of the vehicle. "You got America?" Lucien asked.
"That man has no pants!" Yorkshire said, much astonished.
England sighed and wound down the window. "Where's your pants?"
"Your brother has them. Let us in." 'Lucien' said.
"Where's your friend's shirt?" Arthur replied, leaning out of the window.
"Same." Florimund said.
"Let us in." Lucien repeated.
"Give me the keys and I'll let you in."
"Dad, are these your exes?" Yorkshire asked.
"They're CIA."
"Get lost." Yorkshire scoffed.
"Open the door." Lucien said. Again.
"The CIA left their van unlocked?" Yorkshire said. He looked incredulous. "Listen if they're ex boyfriends you can tell me."
"This is so cool! Their tv screens show all the Nations! Belarus is making some kind of spell - she's actually drawn a pentagram and wrote the letters… A R T…And it looks as if Miss Ukraine is on a bus…Oooh there's Poland having his nails done. And there's my main man Canadia bro!"
"You've been spying on the Nations?" England asked.
Lucien made the big mistake of nodding and England immediately slammed the door of the van on him, but not before he'd taken the ignition keys out of the man's pocket.
"Are you going to just leave them there with hardly any clothes on, Dad?" Yorkshire asked in amazement.
England didn't answer but shoved the van in gear and then sped off down the road.
"Can we stop for a wee somewhere?" America asked. The duck seemed to agree.
"Don't forget to drop me off in Harrogate," Yorkshire said. The duck quacked. "Oh yes, Brian's right. You need to drop me in Giggleswick for a show tomorrow."
England gritted his teeth.
"Do you think we should go and get my dudes Pru and Den?" America asked.
"No, I do not think we should get your dudes Pru and Den," England said through his gritted teeth.
In a small pub called ominously, 'The Drunken Duck', Pru and Den had put 'Is This the Way to Amarillo' on the jukebox and on repeat for 42 times with just two breaks for '500 Miles'. The animosity towards them was only just getting started when Scotland strolled in wearing one of the CIA men's shirts, a Tam O'shanter and nothing else.
"Ah yer big Jessies!" He yelled when he saw them. "I'll fight yer both!"
And then the two CIA men looking for Scotland shoved open the doors. "You've got our clothes!" One of them shouted.
"Me? I don't think so. You wouldn't find me wearing your dumb gear," Denmark said. "Do you wear viking helmets? Carry axes? Wear cloaks? No? Then I don't have them."
"You're not wearing that stuff, Den," Prussia said. "You've got your usual black coat and tiny hat on. Really, you need to get a new wardrobe and dress more like me."
"You look like England," Denmark pointed out. Indeed, Prussia wasn't wearing his usual military uniform as he'd found that it just caused havoc on the English (and Scottish) streets, but had borrowed an amalgamation of England's Guns 'n' Roses t-shirt (which England called 'Guns and Roses') and a pair of America's pants (or trousers as England called them or pantalons according to France). The trousers were a tad too big for him but he'd rolled up the hems and looked quite ridiculous. His brother who prided himself on his appearance would have been horrified. But Germany wasn't there and that in itself was a good thing as Prussia launched himself at Denmark and for the second time in just ten minutes the two friends fought on the floor.
Scotland, seeing this as a free for all, joined in and leapt on top of them both.
The two CIA agents attempted to pull them off each other, not for any benevolent reason, but merely because they wanted their clothes back from Scotland.
"Ach, yer no getting yer troosers back!" Scotland yelled at them.
"We'll tell Nicola Sturgeon where you are!" One of them said.
That made everyone in the pub stop. Even the jukebox which was on its 12th rendition of 'Is this the way to Amarillo' paused.
"Yer wouldnae!" Scotland said, pausing in his bouncing on Den's back.
The CIA man didn't understand the thick Scottish accent.
And then Prussia yelled, "Get him!" To no-one in particular and the whole pub joined in the fight.
"Why does Prussia and Denmark call Miss Ukraine Double D?" America asked England.
"I'll tell you when you're older," England replied. He gritted his teeth. Brian the duck's directions were not good. He'd already missed the turn-off for the motorway junction for 'Giggleswick' and Yorkshire was no bloody help at all. He seemed to be equally impressed with the television screens at the back of the van as well (Yorkshire that is, not the duck). England couldn't understand how he'd missed them on the journey up.
"You say that but you never tell me and I'm older now," America moaned. "Uncle Bob, do you know?"
"I'm not yer bloody uncle!" Bob retorted. "Don't involve me in this. I'm just glad to be away from that bloody television studio. It was hell on earth."
"It was my career! I was a star!" America replied. He sat down in a huff. "My agent said he was in consultation for a film offer. The 74th Marvel film."
"You have all those on DVD why do you need any more?" England asked. And then said, "Damn that was my junction wasn't it?"
Brian the duck quacked in agreement.
England considered reversing up the hard shoulder of the motorway and taking the junction that way but realised that was a Prussia and Denmark way of doing things.
"No! A film part," America said.
"Who's your agent?" Yorkshire asked, feigning interest.
"Same one as Uncle Bryn. Mr Panda."
England slammed on the brakes and a huge articulate lorry almost slammed into the back of them but swerved around them instead, the driver shouting well deserved obscenities at them through the driver's window.
"That damned bear!" England said.
"Hey, he got my career off the ground!" America replied. "Don't diss him."
England grimaced and sped down the motorway. He hated his life. He made a list in his head: 1. Get rid of Bob and Brian as soon as possible. The damned duck seemed to have it in for him. 2. Get America on the plane back to 'DC', if needed he would bloody well get on it with him.
In fact he turned to Bob, who was sat in the passenger seat next to him, twiddling with the radio station buttons and trying to find 'Radio Leeds', and said in a low voice, "Can you get on your phone and book me two tickets - one one way - to Washington?"
"One one way? What on earth do you mean, Dad?"
"One one way ticket and one return!"
"To Washington?"
"Yes, Washington."
"Really?"
"Keep your voice down."
"We could just drive there. Cut along the A69," Bob said.
"Hahahaha, 69!" America yelled from the back and then added, "Why is the number 69 funny, Artie?"
"I'll tell you when you're older."
"I'll ask France."
"Noooooo!" England and Yorkshire both shouted.
"Uncle Bryn says he's having a ball in Cardiff filming in the new Dr Who series," America told them, peering at his phone.
England growled in answer. He then turned to Yorkshire and replied his earlier suggestion. "What do you mean the A69? We have to fly there."
"Honestly, Dad. You're becoming a right diva. You could just drive it."
"Across the bloody Atlantic?" England was beginning to wonder if his son was brain-addled from spending too much time with America.
"What?"
"What?"
"Why do you need to fly to Tyne and Wear?"
"It's Washington DC you moron!"
"Oh, I thought you meant Washington Tyne and Wear."
What on earth was wrong with people, England thought. This was not the first time his fellow Nations seemed to confuse the US capital with an inconsequential North East English town.
"So can you book two tickets?"
"One one way and one return? That makes more sense."
"Yes."
"No."
"Why?" England was almost ready to throw Bob out onto the hard shoulder and if he hadn't have been so wary of Brian the duck, he would have.
"I don't have any money."
"Use Austria's credit card!" America yelled from the back. He'd obviously just caught the last two sentences.
"That's stealing."
"It sure is!"
Over at the Drunken Duck, things had deteriorated rapidly. The Police had been called. Prussia had been playing snooker with Denmark and they used Hamish as cue. Hamish had at first acquiesced to this but then had got annoyed when he couldn't drink from his whisky bottle as his head was used to hit the balls into the pockets. The green baize had ripped and then one of the cues was broken over Den's head. Den's head was very hard and he just went a little dizzy but then he got hold of one of Hamish's shaken up cans of Irn Bru and pulled the tab.
The CIA men who'd been trying to get their pants back, stepped back but ended up covered in sticky Irn Bru. One of them pulled his gun, to find a dozen Glaswegians piling on top of them.
Prussia attempted to wipe down the Irn Bru with a pair of curtains that had seen better days but failed to pull them down properly and instead swung chaotically from the curtain rail. Den thought this was a game and joined him. They swung like apes (as England thought they were), their combined weight however finally was their undoing as the curtain rail snapped and they were flung across the room by their own momentum.
"Ach, yer a pair o' Jessies!" Scotland yelled and jumped on them, presumably to beat them up because they were 'Jessies'.
Pru did not think they were Jessies and fought back, as did Denmark. The snooker table collapsed from their weight - by some miracle they'd landed on it and potted the black.
One of the CIA men jumped up from beneath a pile of Glaswegians and fired his gun - no doubt thinking he could stall things. It made things worse. Half the ceiling came down on him and knocked him out. His colleague jumped behind the bar, obviously thinking this might save him from dismemberment. The barman, who'd rung for the police, erroneously shouted, "Yer can all get out, I've rung the police!"
Nobody took any notice, apart from Prussia, who grabbed Denmark from being Irn Bru'd by Hamish (this involved having over-shaken and very fizzy Irn Bru being poured into your mouth) and, having first stolen a crate of beer from behind the bar and two packets of cheese and onion crisps, tried to run for it. The door was barred by a heaving mass of fighting Scotsmen who really didn't know who they were fighting or who had started the fight. So Prussia, being ever the resourceful one, ran back the other way and up the stairs. Unfortunately, as the floor on the upper landing was also the ceiling for the bar, he fell straight through and found himself hanging on for dear life to a ceiling light.
Denmark could not understand where his friend had suddenly disappeared to (he was still reeling from having Irn Bru being forced down his gullet) and surmised that his friend had been kidnapped by mad Scotsmen (or women - there were a few very hard looking Scotswomen in the melee down below and they fought just as hard if not harder than the men). So he did what only any good Dane could do. He channelled the great Danish King Sweyn Forkbeard (who was definitely better than Harald the Soft) and unleashed the Viking inside of him. Unfortunately he didn't have his axe but instead found a vacuum cleaner on the stairs and used that instead.
Later, when the police arrived, along with the fire brigade and four ambulances (although no-one was seriously hurt several had concussion and one had to have a snooker cue removed from around their neck) the media descended and it was announced that the pub which had survived several world war two bombs was to be demolished.
"Terrible what some people will do to a perfectly good pub," England surmised, watching the news from his own television, whilst at the same time throwing America's clothes willy-nilly into a suitcase.
They had arrived back in the early hours of the morning. Bob and Brian had been dropped off in Giggleswick at the village green next to a pub called 'The One-Eyed Dog'. Bob had shouted after England, "And don't forget to watch us on Countryfile in the duck training section!"
But England had already sped off.
"Right, where's your passport?" England asked America.
"Don't know," America replied. He had flung himself onto his bed and was refusing to even consider going to the airport.
France had long since put Charlemagne to bed in his Star Wars decorated cot. France himself was asleep next to the child on an airbed which had a slow leak. The Frenchman slept wearing a white face-mask and curlers in his hair. Both of which were enough to give England nightmares.
"We need to get to Heathrow for 5.00 am so get a move on," England hissed at America.
"We? Why we?"
"I'm taking you home."
"I don't wanna go," America said for the eightieth time.
England ignored him and rummaged in the American's desk (the fact that America had a desk was amazing enough but it was actually Sealand's bedroom and was shared and England had bought the desk in the mistaken idea that Sealand would do his homework on it). He finally found the passport and waved it in the air.
"Aha!" He shouted.
France stirred.
It had been remarkably simple to order the air tickets. In the end he'd left it to Russia and France, who'd got Austria's credit card number. Russia himself had celebrated the impending departure of America (who annoyed him enormously) by getting so drunk that he'd fallen asleep in the garden shed.
As it happened, Russia and the others were soon going to spend a while in the garden shed…
"Ah! There's the taxi! Come on, old chap, let's go, I know we're going to be three hours early for the flight but it's best to be early than late!" England kept talking as they lumbered down the driveway. England almost skipped to the taxi, ignoring the badly parked white transit van he'd abandoned and ignoring America's groans. Thankfully, he didn't have to shove him in the taxi.
As they sailed around the corner several things were happening which would upset England's life in more ways than one. Firstly, Prussia, Denmark and Scotland were all being arrested alongside the CIA agents. Secondly, a hired minibus carrying several bearded men, all in Elvis costume, made its way to England's house. France's announcement on Facebook that he was alone in England's house was about to further destroy England's 'peaceful haven' and his antimacassars.