by Ian Hutson
It was just a lift though in the final analysis, and most definitely not an elevator, and it stopped with the doors facing Constable Hey.
With a very cheery “kerscreech-clunk-ping” the sliding doors opened and yonder brave Police Constable fell backwards, rolled for his life and was only arrested by contact with the royal decking below, breaking his little Official Police-Business Pencil in the process. From deep inside the machine a chilling mechanical voice warned ‘Please mind the doors’.
The slimy writhing tentacle and exploratory skinless eye-stalk of an alien peered out of the lift and cautiously snaked around to look down into the Royal kitchen courtyard. The eye fixed its gaze on the little flock of hens and some vast, awful, blobby semi-internal brain-gland compared them to the diagram of a Human Being scratched into the surface of a gold-plated “Voyager” LP record held in the grip of another tentacle. The eye-stalk then moved on to the wheelie bins and made the same comparison. Third time being lucky the whole Universe over, the eye-stalk eventually crept around to the bipedal gathering of slightly-developed primates, checked twice against the outline of a Human of more “standard” or “Baywatch” proportions and then, apparently satisfied, lobbed the Voyager LP over its shoulder. You can always tell when aliens have previously accidentally landed in a zoo or a pig farm or an art college and then proceeded to initiate contact on the basis of sloppy assumptions, they are so much more cautious from then on in.
There almost immediately followed the booming, snarling howl of an un-Earthly alien tongue.
‘Sorry! So sorry! We did tell the designers that this lift design was a bit over-theatrical and that all that was really needed was a ramp or a rope or something but you know these artistic professionals with their flourishes and finishing touches. Are you quite medically alright, little paramilitary uniformed disciplinarian alien life-form, after your sudden dis-altitudination? My sensors indicate the sudden partial dis-manufacture of your wood & graphite delayed-communication device and the endustment of the buttocks of your blue serge lower-limb coverings.’
Cook looked up from the flustered Constable, deputised herself and answered on his behalf. ‘He’s fine, Mr Alien Sir, just a bit bruised and, yes, he’s broken his little pencil and dust-encrusted his hairy arse but he’ll live. I did warn him about the coast, but they never listen, do they?’ she mumbled, before lifting the aforesaid Constable up with one hand and dusting him down with the other, her latest loaf of buttered hot toast held safely between her NHS teeth (available in pink or blue plastic or, for five guineas extra, in blackened “foreigner-shocking” English oak).
The Senior Footman, Cyril, stepped closer to the outhouse guttering and peered up into the light. Someone had to face up to this world-changing unfathomable horror and, in the light of the Constable’s graphic graphite injury and the limitations of Cook’s lexicon, the buck now stopped with him. He felt it important to not over-react or precipitate verbal inter-species discomfiture.
‘Air hair lair! Whom may one say is calling?’ he enquired pleasantly.
The alien visitor then clomped out into full view, making the wash-house roof creak a little under the strain as he struggled to keep his balance on the tiles. Unfamiliar as he was with the gravitation-resisting properties of moss-covered Welsh slate with cast-iron guttering, Flemish bonds and granite quoining the alien moved with a certain structurally-inappropriate confidence. A confidence not seen, moreover, since John Hurt relied on a Company thermal vest to keep his ribcage from exploding in space over the dinner table. In space, no-one can hear you starching your underwear I suppose. But I digress. The alien seemed at least friendly and enthusiastic, which after the French Cultural Delegation visit of the previous week was a welcome change.
‘Well hair lair there yourself old sport! I am Ambassador Supreme Commander Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart of the planet Wibble-squeak-growl-fart-roar-eek-roar. We were just passing by your long arm of the Galaxy and wondered if this might be a convenient time to call?’ The Supreme Commander passed down his calling card. It was very nice quality embossed cream vellum with a plain sans serif typeface in a dark sepia and burgundy. The telephone number was awfully long (and would hence probably be quite expensive to call) and the Ambassador’s email address was Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart@Wibble-squeak-growl-fart-roar-eek-roar.pla (the new “dot planet” top-level domain). Apparently he kept a personal blog at uww (Universe-wide-web) dot knitting-as-an-alternative-to-stasis-for-inter-stellar-travel dot wordpress dot pla. ‘If nothing else, we were hoping that we might use your loo. Is it convenient?’
‘The loo?’
‘The moment.’
‘I am certain that it is Sir. Welcome to Earth, to England, to that implicit geographical tautology and, more specifically, to Buckingham Palace. If you’ll follow me I’ll show you through to a withdrawing room and advise Her Majesty that you have called.’
The alien ambassador coughed. ‘Um - to the loo?’
Cyril heard “toodle-oo” and wondered why they were leaving so soon. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, of course – to the loo - to the right.’
A cheery ‘Just a tiddle-i-po’ seemed an awfully odd thing for an Ambassador to say, but he felt the need to say it anyway. The scullery maid – not having been born yesterday – handed the Ambassador a fresh toilet roll and went to fetch a can of heavy duty air-freshener and the plunger. ‘Ying tong my arse’ she muttered, railing afresh at her lot in life.
Cook dropped another splendid curtsey (while still bodily supporting Constable Hey) as the aliens filed past and though her kitchen. ‘They’ll be needing tea too before long I expect’ she grumbled, watching them go and form an orderly queue.
‘Probably posh biscuits as well if you ask me’ said Bert. ‘Right, Constable, let’s get you cleaned up and then we can see about getting you a fresh little pencil. We’ve got some somewhere with the Royal Crest on them – picked out in that real fake gold if you will – and each with a little eraser at the blunt end. The erasers are a bit scratchy but still, beggars can’t be chewers as they say. Now, H, F, HB, B, 2B or not 2B – that is the question, Constable. Whether tis knobblier on the pocket notebook etcetera etcetera.’
As it happened Her Majesty had already taken to her regular morning semi-skimmed Jersey milk hip-bath by the time Cyril, the Senior Footman, came through with the news and, rather disconveniently, Ma’am also had a luncheon appointment with representatives from the Royal Society for the Detection and Bio-Rhythm Nullification of Certain Small Belgian Detectives. The manner of Her Majesty’s podiatric pumicing suggested to Cyril that a short postponement was in order.
The message was relayed to the withdrawing room where the Ambassador had been busily engaged discovering that the legs of a Louis XIV chair were not in fact designed to splay out under his weight or to spring back into the upright position when he stood. Everyone pretended to not notice of course.
Ambassador Supreme Commander Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart indicated that he was sorry for the inconvenience and was quite happy to call again later. Tiffin was duly arranged and explanations made, after which the aliens returned to their saucer with a tin of shortbread, some Dutchy Originals lemon curd and a soft-cover handbook of royal etiquette bearing the rather endearingly modern and non-threatening title “So, you’re going to meet Her Majesty already ...”.
Ambassador Supreme Commander Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart left a small glass paperweight containing some Dark Matter, a desktop-toy Higgs-Boson generator and a bound set of the Concise Illustrated History of Planet Wibble-squeak-growl-fart-roar-eek-roar, its Sentient Flora and Fauna, Rock Formations and Meteorological Systems, Chemistry, Biology and Detailed Social Development, from Planetary Formation to the Present Day with especial regard to presenting the Dominant Species in a non-partisan or threatening way to the non-indigenous while still preserving the magic and mystique of life within the Twelve Tribes, the Seven Sects and the Three Ruling Houses. The Appendices (in several further volumes)
detailing Wibble-squeak-growl-fart-roar-eek-roar Architecture, Horticulture, Viticulture and Pop Culture had been playfully translated into Haiku format to make them more appealing. Workmen with big shoulders, builder’s bums and an easy familiarity with Japanese poetry were summoned (via hidden specialised bell-pull near the fireplace) to move the set to a room that boasted a reinforced concrete floor.
The electric-blue electric light presently disappeared as though someone had flicked a switch (in fact, they had) and the lift thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunked telescopically back up into the saucer section carrying a much-relieved Ambassador. Traffic on The Mall began moving again although folks were careful just to doff their hats to each other and to not discuss the mystery problems with their cars’ grindey-grindey bearings or crossbeam grease-nipple dippers. None even hinted that they might have seen a flying saucer disgorging ambassadors from the planet Wibble-squeak-growl-fart-roar-eek-roar. Few were prepared to risk impoliteness by precipitously anticipating the issue of the proper lexicographical and, specifically, pronunciation standards relating to references to creatures that looked like a cross between recently a machine-washed Teddy Bear and the Flying Spaghetti Monster. This had a lot to do with being English and very little to do with the difficulties in getting the civilised human tongue to pronounce Wibble-whatever with a very rude fart noise in it. We English are not averse to farting if we absolutely have to in order to make a point, it’s just that if you re-name things properly once then there’s no need to you know ever again and everyone’s happy.
It was already quite clear though that a similar tack would have to be taken with the aliens to that dictated with Foreigners who clung to silly Spanish variety “th” sounds or to “U” sounds that required undignified lip-curling, or to languages that one could only successfully speak with wet bronchitis or near-fatal pneumonia (such as “oh you have the Welsh do you?”). The aliens and the alien planet would have to be unilaterally re-christened to something sensible and re-christened soon. No doubt notification would be sent to them when necessary, possibly after colonisation, civilisation and the installation of a proper railway system with standardised timetables and penny fares for Third Class travel.
Between breakfast and royal tiffin Constable Stu had to move the Area Car no fewer than four times to allow access for the big black Rover and Wolseley limousines that buzzed like motorised flies between Buckingham Palace, Whitehall and Westminster. Everyone was skulking around and singing Guess Who’s Coming to Tiffin or trying to remember the phrase ‘Klaatu barada nikto’ just in case.
At three o’clock the guests were beginning to explore sitting down, the humans in hardwood deckchairs and the aliens on their favoured bean-bags. This took some time since the aliens seemed anxious to be introduced to the bean-bags and took great offence at their indolent silence and refusal to return a high-six or an energetic stomach-crash-bounce (the standard greetings of the Blob People, who all resembled bean-bags).
Constable Stuby-baby was finally taken off shift and went home to his little terrace in Camberwell, tired but pleased to have done his part for inter-species relations. The aliens looked so very much like his family on his wife’s side. Once he’d changed out of his uniform and locked his whistle & truncheon away in the steel cabinet required by the terms of his Concealed Whistle & Truncheon Licence he put the dog on the lead and went to get some salad leaves and tomatoes from the allotment, ready for when the Missus got home from her job at the brewery. She was a mash-stirrer and he loved her with all of his heart. Well, more accurately, he loved her Staff Allowance of beer and was quite fond of the smell of hops that pervaded her every crevice. When she returned after a hard day’s work, warm and moist from hefting her paddle, it was like cuddling the essence of a pub that had been retro-fitted with breasts and steadying, rugby-player’s thighs.
Oh gosh, I’ve drifted off at a tangent again.
Cook had settled on tea, cakes, crumpets, scones and biscuits on the lawn and had advised Her Majesty’s Social Secretary’s Social Secretary’s Receptionist of such. All was ready exactly when she said it would be, including the thin, crustless, diagonal cuts of white bread and butter so beloved of the high and the mighty. The only change that was made to Cook’s plan was to serve things on Spode plates and tables rather than directly on the lawn.
‘Another slice of thin parliamentary bread and butter, Lord D. Masser?’
‘Well, if you insist, Prime Minister Brownaughs. Some constituency honey too would go down rather splendidly for tea – if there’s any left, that is, for the more right wing among our august company.’
An aide cat-walked across the lawn, not quite certain whether grass was allowed for subordinates. He had a message.
‘A trans-Atlantic telephone call has been received from Hollywood, sir. Apparently they have heard about our guests. They seemed reluctant to engage in the niceties of polite conversation and simply left a message to the effect that the – oh, now what job title did they give them? Oh yes – the Hollywooden Leaders of the Free World have taken off, I presume in some sort of aeroplane convoy, and are heading in the direction of England with an expected time of arrival twenty-three hundred hours on something called PST. They are insisting that Heathrow Airport be closed to all other traffic for the landing and that an area of one hundred miles in all directions be placed under martial law and Hollywooden Army control for the duration of the Presidential visit. They give assurances that internment and use of Agent Orange will be kept to the minimum required to ensure their own safety during their inefinite stay. No contact is to be attempted with the aliens until the Hollywooden experts arrive, at which point they will require all of our data and our complete obedience in all matters.’
Brownaughs furrowed his brow. ‘The who?’
‘The Hollywooden Leaders of the Free World sir. The message also stated that the M4 Motorway would be required to be closed to the public for the Hollywooden Presidential Humvee convoy to form up. Accommodation at the palace would be required for all of the Leaders of the Free World sir, that list including James Cromwell, Bill Pullman, Morgan Freeman, Michael Douglas, Stanley Anderson, Anthony Hopkins, Jon Voigt, Robin Williams, Gene Hackman, Billy Bob Thornton, Lloyd Bridges and of course, Leslie Nielsen.’
‘Any of them Republicans?’
‘It’s difficult to tell, sir.’
Ambassador Supreme Commander Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart, the most senior of the dozen or so aliens present, watched the exchange and sipped his tea through a straw (a footman had bravely ventured to suggest that eating each cup and saucer with the tea might constitute a social faux-pas in some circles or even cause digestive problems over time).
‘A problem, Prime Minister? Our schedule is flexible and I shouldn’t want to get in the way or inconvenience you. We would be happy to call again, again, even later.’
He flexed his tentacles, removed the straw and exposed his slobbering second jaw in the equivalent of a very polite and actually very genuine alien smile.
‘Just grumblings from the filmed entertainment industry, Mr Ambassador, just grumblings from the filmed entertainment industry. I shan’t be a second.’
The P.M. spoke to the aide. ‘Assure the gentlemen from Hollywood of my best wishes, advise Leslie Nielsen that I should be pleased to meet him Thursday week, at about ten or eleven. Advise the other pilots that they are welcome to circle quietly and watch or, if that would prove inconvenient, to go away. Ask Sir Baden-Powell to scramble a couple of RAF Jet-Spitfires to meet the convoy mid-air and repeat the message in single-syllable exothermic air-to-air communication if necessary.’
‘Tell them to kindly bugger off, we’re busy, and blow them out of the sky if they argue Sir?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Very good, Sir.’ Ed, the aide, walked away across the lawn and beckoned to his Aide’s Aide to finish his aide-refreshing lemonade and come to his Head Aide’s aid with what had just been said.
‘Hello Ed!’ said the Head
Aide’s aide, Fred, ‘Have some of this aide-refreshing lemonade that Cook’s made, I’ve kept it cool in the shade of the potting shed.’ There was a shaking of Head Aide’s heads. ‘I’m afraid that there’s no time for aide-refreshing lemonades in the shade for this or any aide, Fred, after what the PM just said.’ Fred had been afraid of as much. He began to wonder if they ought to be drinking tea instead.
‘Oh dear, Ed’ said Fred, ‘we’re starting to heterodyne again whenever we refer to each other – perhaps we should use our middle names. Mine’s Dick, what’s yours?’
Ed looked startled. ‘Dick? Oh dear, mine’s Rick.’
Fred looked pained. Ed made a unilateral decision.
‘You’d surely feel like a dick, Dick, calling me Rick, better stick to Ed, Fred, a least while we’re on duty. You’re going to like this duty, it’s a beauty...’
As they marched away to make the PM’s arrangements Ed tried one final time to find some workable epithetical compromise, but it seemed that even Fred’s nickname at school was unsuitable, for Ed’s surname was Rowlocks, and that rhymed horribly with Bowlocks. Such are the painful rigours of life in the English Secret Service.
While the aides were in deep and meaningful conversation, Ambassador Eek-eek-wibble-squeak-growl-roar-fart noticed that the sun had crept around and that parts of Her Majesty, The Sol System Queen, Elizabeth The Two’th, were in danger of getting overly warmed. He signalled to the huge Mothership parked in the air above to shift a couple of yards to the left so that she would remain in gentle and bird-twitteringly cool shade.
Eek stirred his third cup and accepted a Garibaldi in his saucer. ‘Ah – northern Hollywooden including Alaska, Hawaii, a large chunk of Mexican California and a bit of Guanotanamo Bay if you must but absolutely none of “Frigging French” Canada as we were told in no uncertain terms by several yellow taxicab drivers. Once, that is, we’d found a cab driver who could speak Hollywooden-English. Our earlier missions did try to make contact there a few times. Northern Hollywooden that is, not Frigging French Canada.’ He delicately dipped his Garibaldi into his tea, suggesting a familiarity with English biscuits and their abuse beyond the alien’s official experience.