England and America sat at opposite ends of the couch, beers bottles and a pizza box between them. The thing was, you couldn’t ever look away from America when there was pizza. You’d grab two slices and there’d be six left. Look away for a second. Now there’s two slices left and he’s already eaten half of his share. How is that possible? England stopped asking fifty years ago.
America turned and asked, “How you been, man?”
“Oh, I mean…” England caught a funny look.
“Uh, right, okay. So I, uh, haven’t heard from you guys in a while, ‘cept a few business calls here and there. How’s everyone after the whole Brexit disaster? How’s Scotland? He okay?”
“Uhhhhh…” England stared into his glass. “You could say that.”
Scotland threw the curled newspaper at England. It nailed him in the chest before dropping to the ground. A headline screamed up at them: WE’RE OUT!
“You fucked me! You fucked me, you fucked me, you–“
“Come on, Scotland–“
“Do you know where you fucked me, England?”
“Please don’ say–“
“Right in the ass!”
“There it is.”
In the kitchen, Northern Ireland plopped a bottle of something down on the counter.
England had to squint. “Is that bleach?”
“It is,” Northern Ireland said. He poured two glasses. “Cheers.”
“Better,” said England. “He’s doing better. I suppose. Well, I wouldn’t really call it better. I’m not entirely sure why I said that. Clearly, it’s not better. I think he’s just bottling it up. What stage of grief is that, again?”
“What about you?” America asked with growing concern. “Are you okay? Psychologically?”
“Oh, psychologically? Well…” Then England chuckled, but neither he nor America really knew at what. “That’s a thing, that is.”
“Are you having a stroke or something, dude?”
“They’ve got to go for house number two.”
Oh, right. Wales was there, lounging in the recliner, beer in the hand that was hanging off the arm of the chair, watching some sort of whatever on that one home and garden channel.
“The Tower Bridge flat,” she said. “Ugh, but it was so creamy. The chairs, the couches…. Too much cream. Like a damn clam chowder.”
“Wales and I have been doing a lot of the same. Worrying about the economy, watching the good ol’ telly, there, resorting to alcoholism. We listen now to a lot of Coldplay.”
America popped open another beer. “How is that any different from usual?”
Then Wales turned her head. “America, have you seen my fairies?”
“Is that a euphemism?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know.” Wales snorted then chortled–a snortle, if you will. “Is it? It could be.”
“The fairies aren’t real, Wales,” England said in a raised voice.
She sprung up . “You bastard! They’re real, they are! Who do you think’s been stealing things around the house and setting the plants on fire?”
Before Wales could retort, there was furious banging on the door. Her upper lip curled and she turned to the other two. “Well, who the hell is that?”
Then came muffled shouting.
“Open the bloody door, you witless tits!”
“Oh god!” England doubled over, falling off the couch and to his knees “Oh god, oh god, oh god–Don’t let him in!” He shouted when he saw America make his way for the door. “What are you doing? America! For God’s sake. It’s amazing how you’re only the second biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”
A rush of humid night air came over the room. England face-planted into the carpet and unleashed a heartfelt cry.
Somewhere across the English Channel, France caught a text message.
I love you, mom.
And while the context and intention of the words alluded him, he decided it was best to just accept America’s affection without question.
I apologize to any of my readers with sensitivities (i.e. my mom). Whenever I watch anything about the UK it’s always very vulgar so I just assume that’s totally the norm over there. It’s totally the norm here, as well. Maybe everywhere.
I know Brexit isn’t “news relevant” anymore, but there was a lot of things about it that just one or two stories couldn’t fully capture. So I had to write more. Poor Scotland, man.
If you like the UK, stick around because you might (probably) be seeing more of them in the near future 😉