NGLND XPX

by Ian Hutson

  ‘Lovely morning Eric, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s splendid Tony, splendid.’

  The pigeon agreed that it too was up its tits with the increasingly nonsensical output of mainstream commercial Hollywooden studios and the utter lack of films made therein for an audience not still wearing dental braces and a layer of adolescent acne. Then it gave a cheery “prrooh prrooh” and flapped away, crapping on the roof of Tony’s car-substitute as it did so and causing about seventy guineas-worth of structural damage.

  Tony waited as Eric put his bicycle clips back on before they went their separate ways. Tony went to leave himself a note to check the EBC news when he woke up after his morning full-length snooze on the chaise-short [an item of furniture originally owned by Napoleon]. Eric went to unchain the gates and flip the big switch to power-up the London Tube before the rush hour started.

  An Australian backpacker, returning from her evening out spent sipping cocktails and discussing Descartes with friends, used the fire extinguisher from her Rough Guide survival pack to quench the Hollywood director chap’s tired old conflagration, checked that he was OK considering and then left him smouldering gently on a bench next to a bus stop and a small but very relaxing advertisement for Ovaltine.

  From his comfortable position on the bench the Hollywooden gentleman could see the alien flying saucer and was in a prime position to watch as a light blue Police Austin 1300 with creamy-white doors, revolving light on the roof and ner-ner siren went flying past at forty or possibly even forty-five miles an hour roughly thirty-two and a half minutes later (around about five past Sparrow-cough o’clock, a time always slightly to the left of the Beaufort O’Scale and not marked on Continental watches or clocks at all).

  Naturally, London was beginning to wake up by then and several passers-by had to be contained using the new “kettling” technique. That’s where the nice Riot Squad make potential Riotees a nice cup of tea instead of just duffing them up in a confined space away from cctv. To be totally safe the long arm of the law parked the Austin across the gates to Buckingham Palace and left the revolving blue light on, even though you couldn’t really see it very well with the human eye in bright sunshine.

  The least-senior Constable of the Panda-car team, Constable Stuart Irish, slipped into his white “traffic management” over-cuffs and busied himself with the matter of keeping the Riley Elf and the Sunbeam Alpine Mk1 traffic-jam moving, in-between self-consciously posing for photographs with a smiling and bowing Japanese tourist party. Both cars and all three tourists were very grateful and felt very safe.

  The most-senior Constable, Constable Wayne Hey, carefully closing the big gates behind his big behind, went up to the big house in his very own peculiar “policeman’s gait” to knock and to check that all was still well with the big Ma’am. He was taken straight through to the kitchen of course, where Her Majesty was having an unexpectedly early cup of tea. As he entered she checked that her dressing gown was tied properly, dabbed at her curlers and wondered if she’d got the last of the cold cream off her face.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming at such short notice, Officer.’

  ‘My pleasure, Ma’am, my pleasure. How may I be of assistance your Majesty?’

  Elizabeth II led him out through the kitchen door and onto the little wood-decked breakfast area beyond. There was a nice stained pine table with its fringed canopy neatly folded, matching chairs and a barbecue under a canvas cover the same colour as the table umbrella. Several half-used open bags of charcoal, some empty beer barrels and a tired-looking Raleigh tandem bicycle with a dog-eared basket occupied the other corners. The enamelled crest affixed to the centre of the handlebars was a little chipped and rusty, hinting at the high mileage of the royal machine under tough city-centre conditions.

  Elizabeth II sipped her tea and – using her empire-wielding pinkie – pointed upwards.

  ‘One thinks one might have visitors’ she whispered conspiratorially, falling – as royalty always have – into an uneasy collusion with The Law of The Land.

  Philip wandered out to join them. ‘One also hopes that one’s visitors do not use their conveniences while in the station, so to speak, parked somewhat above one’s old homestead as they are. Do you think they’ll have slitty eyes, Officer?’ he shouted in the way that very, very rich older deaf folks often do when they couldn’t give an utter shit any more about offending anyone.

  The Constable looked up.

  ‘I couldn’t say Sir, not yet. You can never tell how these things are going to pan out.’ It was obvious that their Majesties were expecting him, as the Officer on the scene, to do something. He nibbled his pencil for a moment and considered the practicalities of the scene of the incident. ‘Does One have a ladder, Sir?’

  ‘Ladder?’ mused Philip, almost tittering at the refreshingly innocent peasant domesticity of the request. Most people he came into contact with asked for knighthoods and patronage or whether he would mind if they “slept” with The Queen until her royal teeth rattled (in their usual lead-crystal whisky glass on the night-stand by the bed). ‘A ladder?’

  ‘Yes Sir. A wooden device for scaling heights, most often used by the Fire Brigade in the course of domestic feline rescues and suchlike. Two strong vertical parallel supports with a series of horizontal struts between allowing for manual incremental elevation of a person or persons unknown. I suspect that when the experts get here they’ll be needing one soon enough.’

  ‘I know what a ruddy ladder is, Officer. Just not certain One’s got one to One’s hand.’ Philip turned to Cook who was gawping up at the underside of the flying saucer, runny duck egg and HP Sauce from her “third of three breakfast” morning sandwich dripping down her chins. ‘Does One have a ladder? If not then could you have one swiftly manufactured and delivered?’ Cookie wiped her face on her green sleeves and went to see.

  Not having much in common with One, One or even the another, the conversation between Queen, Prince Philip and the Constable was pretty thin while they waited awkwardly, smiling at one another when absolutely necessary and checking their pink velvet slippers, hemp sandals and shiny hobnail arse-kicking boots respectively. [Princely Philip’s hemp sandals were size 14 extra extra wide, extra-flat – as were Constable Hey’s Police-blue velvet driving-slippers.]

  In the shadow cast by the flying saucer overhead the morning had yet to properly warm up but the sky was still a nice blue at the edges and showed a certain promise.

  The The Queen excused herself briefly from the proceedings and presently there came the sound of royal lead-pipe plumbing being commanded by use of a porcelain handle and heavy metal chain, followed by a cistern refilling noisily from the rooftop tank of chilled Windermere Carbonated Mineral. The sound of the cistern refilling did not quite drown out what could only, in any polite society, have been someone else somewhere nearby blowing an extended bass raspberry through an implausibly large sousaphone in order to expel a startled bullock trapped in the body of the instrument. The clank of the chain followed by the cistern emptying and refilling once more echoed through the open frosted window of the downstairs lav. The plumbing flow-rate dipped audibly for a moment, probably as the The Queen ran the water in the basin to wash her hands. Her Majesty re-joined them, looking refreshed and finally ready to face her official day.

  ‘Lovely weather – er, for the time of year – don’t you think?’ offered Philip, ever the expert at ice-breaking but still looking as bored as a monkey in a zoo with no alcohol, no cigarettes, no porno magazines and no other monkey’s bottoms to explore for crusty bits.

  ‘Indeed, Your High Princeness Mr Philip sir, lovely weather. Indeed, so much so that the wife’s thinking of changing over to the summer quilt very soon.’

  ‘Quilt?’ enquired Philip, but before the Constable could answer two Footmen jogged up with a brand new crepe-wrapped ladder supported at the shoulder on two battered (outdoor, heavy-work) Georgian silver salvers.

  ‘Well then, there we are. A ladder. Two s
trong vertical supports with a series of horizontal struts arranged between and allowing for an officer or officers unknown to boldly achieve manual incremental elevation to where no officer has gone before. We’ll leave you to it, Officer or officers Unknown. Do let us know if we can be of any further assistance, knighthoods, patronage, that sort of nonsense. Cook will give you tea and a sandwich or some kedgeree or something.’

  At the sound of her surname (“Cook”) Cook dipped a curtsey, took one last glance upwards and went indoors to put on the kettle and broggle the Aga back up to eggy-temperature. Then she went into the palace hen house armed with a wooden prodding-spoon, to persuade some of the royal hens to lay some nice fresh eggs for the police force.

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour. Your Highnesses. I will try to get this cleared up as soon as possible and with least fuss soonest mended worse things happen at sea mustn’t grumble Sir, Ma’am.’

  As H.R.H. and H.R.H. Senior processed regally away in their matching winceyette jim-jams Constable Hey could hear a heated discussion beginning – possibly re-beginning – about the New Year’s Honours List and the Prince Consort’s retiring Senior Squeeze. Her Majesty was saying something about Dame Yvette over her dead body. Philip’s position on that was that Dame Yvette over Mrs HRH’s dead body might be an interesting and stimulating position, at which point there could be heard the sound of a single, royal blow to the back of what sounded like a royal human head, followed by what sounded like a Prince Consort’s body hitting the bees-waxed floor.

  While the Footmen arranged the ladder against the wall of the wash-house Cook rustled up a nice cuppa and a fried eggy-weggy sandwich for them all. A scullery maid was given the task of washing up Cook’s hen-prodding spoon. The hens in the royal kitchen yard all appeared to be walking as though it was national walk like a penguin day.

  Constable Hey held his nose and used the telephone in the downstairs lav to check with his Sergeant. He was told to hold the fort and do what he thought best or whatever the The Queen told him to until nine o’clock and they could get hold of someone in authority in Whitehall and it would all be out of their hands then. The Sergeant promised to get more men down there as soon as he could to handle the traffic and to relieve Constable Irish at the gate. As he finished his call and replaced the receiver Constable Hey realised that all eyes, metaphorically speaking, were upon him. The big alien tiddlywink was on his patch and it was up to him to prevent the morning newspaper-flapping panic and indelicate tea-spoon tapping on saucer flying-saucer related public disorder that was obviously brewing. What to do though? What to actually do? The words of his grandmother (Inspector Hey, Anti-Squatter Squad) came back to him.

  ‘You do not have to do anything but it may harm your promotion prospects if you do not do when being royally stiffed something which you might later rely on in your annual appraisal. Anything you do do in the face of overwhelming doo-doo may be given in evidence at your interview though so get in there and give it some wellie my son.’

  Girding his loins, the brave constable asked decisively and selflessly, as inspired British Policemen often do do, that a cup of tea be taken out to Constable Irish at the gate (two sugars). Two sugars was Stu’s preferred recipe for his Public Tea, not some sort of nom-de-nick or pet name. Stu’s informal call-sign was, obviously, In the name of the Law. Wayne’s call-sign was, rather confusingly in times of operational excitement, Constable. The Radio Car control centre generally avoided calling either of them by radio if it could.

  Wayne wondered if the Footmen would please to hold the base of the ladder steady. Then he took a deep breath and made his jaw-droppingly dramatic announcement.

  ‘I’m going up ... it’s the only polite thing to do and we don’t want to seem rude by delaying until the gentlemen from Whitehall get into their offices. Besides, I’m not having it on my service record that I didn’t have the bottle just to say hello to a bunch of E.T.s. and check that their intention is not to cause a breach of the peace.’

  A scullery maid with a congenital slack jaw and nervous disposition noisily dropped a shocked and awed saucepan into a sink, even though she wasn’t supposed to have been listening, not at her domestic rank. She apologised to Cook, wiped her hands on her sack-cloth smock and set to work again with a steel scouring pad, tackling last evening’s royal Madras crust on the new Prestige nesting pan-set that had been a gift from the King of Tonga-Tonga.

  All eyes turned to the Constable. The steam in the kitchen had affected the frame but the painting itself was as fresh as the day it was accepted in payment of a below-stairs inter-departmental gambling debt. Then all eyes turned to Constable Hey again, three of them through the scullery sink-station window and a haze of hot Fairy Liquid fumes.

  One rung at a time, steadying himself by alternately squinting from under his helmet and then gently biting his tongue, the Constable made his way up the ladder until he was level with the top of the outside wash-house roof. From there he could see clear to the tomato greenhouse and the three royal wheelie bins (Royal Recycling Waste, Royal Gardening Waste and Royal Rubbish-in-General). Far below him were the expectant eyes of Cook, Cyril and Bert, all bearing a strong resemblance to human wheelie bins and looking about as savoury. Cook was biting on a knuckle and for once it was one of her own and not a greasy piece of a spit-roasted piglet with salted and fatty skin a-flapping.

  ‘Just you be careful up there – I had an uncle once who fell off a roof.’ she warned.

  ‘Did he die?’ asked Constable Hey, looking – against all sensible advice - down.

  ‘No – he moved to the coast and retired on his medical terms.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’ll be careful. I don’t like the coast.’

  Removing his helmet - the strap got in the way in much the manner of a hang-man’s rope got in the way of a miscreant’s breathing processes - the Constable craned his head upwards.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Is there anybody there?’

  Cyril muttered into his sleeve ‘Can you hear me, Mother?’ and was promptly damp tea-towel whipped by Cook. Bert quietly ventured “Knock once for yes and twice for no ...”

  ‘Helloo?’ ventured a wobbling Constable once again, oblivious to the giggly civilian kerfuffle below.

  From far, far, above him there came the sound of massive machinery whirring into action on the underbelly of the great flying saucer. The sound could only be likened to that horribly familiar chorus made every other Wednesday (if clement) by all of the circular-saws at Smithfield being started up all at once and then fed the desiccated bones of the especially bony and circular-saw bound farm animals that nice humans like to eat and also feed to their bloody-lipped, fang-jawed baby children.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Cyril, quite unnecessarily and making the full weight of the law wobble again on his perch a-top the ladder. ‘They’re opening up!’ For some, probably hormonal, reason Cyril was holding aloft the coconut husk mat from the back door, the one that said simply “Welcome! Please wipe your feet.”

  Cook crossed her arms. ‘Well they needn’t think they’re bringing back Elvis. They can have ruddy Cliff Richard as well if they like but they’re not bringing back Elvis. I’ve just brought (SIC) a new eclectic mains wireless and what’s the point of that if they bring back ruddy Elvis. No, I’m not having it.’ She tapped her foot in that way that meant “discussion closed, fetch me the barrel of Custard Creams”.

  A sparkling and obviously alien electric blue light grew from a giant mechanical sphincter at the centre of the flying saucer. It increased in intensity as the opening slowly un-puckered like a corgi about to fart the fart to end all corgi-farts. Traffic on The Mall stopped, drivers stepped out of their motorcars and opened the bonnets in the fashion of some sort of synchronised car mechanic display team. They all, to a man, tried to kid on that they were checking for loose distributor caps or excessively dusty thrumble-gudgeons while they were of course actually watching the flying saucer. All hoped upon hope that, despite the ablutions-prone nature of the early morn
ing hour, the opening of the mechanical sphincter didn’t signify that inappropriate alien plumbing was being used. Not over The Palace! Never that, surely? Unless, of course, the aliens were Cling-ons of some sort.

  A small vicar, in town for the unveiling of the fresh Autumn cassock collection by Black, Black, & Blacker-Styll (deceased) of Jermyn Street, began to pray. ‘Our Corporate Father, who art in Hog-Heaven, I think – yes, I’m quite sure – God be thy name. Give us this day our daily stipend and please, please, please don’t let the aliens dump on The Monarchy or be otherwise overtly unfriendly in any way. Amen.’ With that he withdrew his card, cash and receipt from the Holy of Holies - the Holey in the Wall on the side of St Paul’s - and went in search of a greasy spoon for breakfast. Preferably a greasy spoon blessed with a surfeit of sausage, egg, magic mushrooms, fried bread, tomato, beans and tea.

  Big Ben struck nine and at the sound of the last, very stoic, slightly flat, there’ll probably always be an England “bong” there was a rumbling thunderclap and the electric blue alien beam from the alien’s massive alien craft twisted and tore itself into a deluge of super-powerful 150+ watts of LED down-lighter terror as a telescopic boom extended, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk and stopped just short of the wash-house roof. The Hollywooden “Movie” Director film chap, still smouldering on his bench next to the (oddly rectangular) Ovaltine advertisement by the bus stop, gasped in wonder and admiration at the theatricality of it all and raised a framework of sooty forefingers and thumbs to imagine it against a simple backdrop of nucular (sic) explosions and giant sentient dinosaurs created by radiation and tuna over-fishing with racial overtones and a kidnapped President.