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It's 04.29 in the morning and the US president is facing an emergency: his satellites have detected an alien vessel orbiting the planet. Soon the aliens come down to Earth - not in Washington DC, but in the forest outside a tranquil English village.AAs the US military manoeuvres to capture the vessel by force, the villagers react to the situation in a rather more... British fashion.
A hilarious comedy with extra-terrestrials, dragons, medieval knights, love and lots of cups of tea.
AUDIO VERSION
Chapter 1
I
Washington DC / Time: 04.29 EST
“So which of you gentlemen has made cookies?” President Suzanne Burke demanded as she entered the Situation Room of the White House, dressed in her dark blue bathrobe.
The military and intelligence figures assembled in the room jumped to their feet. President Burke did not sit down in her chair, but stood looking from one face around the table to the next, each person avoiding direct eye contact.
It was 04.29, precisely seven minutes since a telephone call had woken her from deep sleep. She had been dreaming that her hair stylist had inexplicably given her vertical blue Marge Simpson hair just as she was about to meet the Chinese premier. She had dreams like this almost every night since becoming president.
She had tied her hair into a chignon before coming to the Situation Room, but was still in her pyjamas. Like her bathrobe, the pyjamas were
dark blue and emblazoned with a golden presi-
dential insignia on the left breast. This was stan-
dard White House protocol: if an emergency
occured at night, it was essential that a president look presidential. Nobody wanted to take the order for a nuclear strike from someone in a silk kimono.
“None of you has made cookies?” she asked incredulously.
The people around the table looked uncomfortably at one another, nobody having the courage to answer her. It was well known that Suzanne Burke was not a morning person. At times like this, the basic survival technique was to saynothing unless addressed directly by the president.
“Damn...” she smiled as she sat down, “so I guess this isn't a pyjama party!”
The tension in the room dissolved and everyone laughed at her joke. It was okay: the President was in a good mood today. But then, just as they began to sit back down in their chairs, Suzanne Burke jumped back to her feet, slamming the table with her hand and shouting,
“But if there's no damned cookies then you people better have a damned good reason for getting me out of bed at half-past four on a Sunday morning!”
Those about to sit down jumped to attention. Others, too far gone in their movement, bounced down on their seats and up again. One unfortunate Admiral lost all control and overturned his chair, dropping to the floor after it.
“Why am I here, General?” Suzanne Burke shouted at General Austin, her Chief of Staff.
The General, his expressionless face camouflaging his nervousness, picked up a TV remote and pointed it at a giant screen on the wall opposite the president. A picture appeared: a silver object like three concentric bowls piled on each other – large, medium and small – set against a dark background.
“You are here because of this, Madam President,” he announced. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Well, it looks a lot like my mother's chocolate fountain,” she said after looking closely at it. “General, have you woken me up at half-past four in the morning to show me dessert gadgets?”
“No, Ma'am.”
“So what is it?”
“We don't know, Ma'am,” he answered.
“General, if you don't know what it is,
then how can you know it's not a chocolate fountain?”
“Because at precisely 03.46 this morning, Ma'am, this object moved into orbit around the planet. Chocolate fountains don't do that.”
II
Slough, England / Time: 06.52 GMT
The peace of early Sunday morning was broken by the sound of a crash.
“Shit!” Michelle screamed in the bathroom, “Shit! Shit! FUUUCK!”
Downstairs in the kitchen, Gavin Grant sensed that he may be in trouble. He placed the medieval sword that he had been polishing on the table and prepared himself as Michelle came down the stairs and stood dangerously in the kitchen doorway.
“You said you were going to repair the toilet seat!” she accused him.
“And I will, Love,” he answered. “Promise. Do you know that you're very attractive when you're angry?”
“I just fell off, Gavin!” she announced, “I'm half-asleep, I'm in the middle of a pee, and then the...the... the toilet seat...”
Gavin could not help laughing.
“It's not funny, Gav!” she snapped, stomping over to the cafetiere, “You don't care because men always pee on the floor. You're like dogs – you think the toilet is a tree.”
“Women don't realise how difficult it is,” he informed her. “We aim for the toilet, believe me. We aim like infantry snipers. But there are... imponderables.”
“Imponderables? What imponderables? Wind speed?”
“For some reason, darlin' – and nobody knows why this is – sometimes it comes out straight, sometimes at 45 degrees, sometimes even at 90 degrees. It's a mystery. What can we do about it?”
“Stop peeing!”
“It's not that easy! It's like you're at the wheel of a car that has gone into a skid, and you're like 'Who-oa-a!” and, in the panic of the moment, you don't know whether to hit the brakes or accelerate out of difficulty, see? Ask any man – each time we enter a public urinal we are walking the razor's edge. The atmosphere is very tense because every man is scared that, one day, he's going to piss on another man's leg. It's like the OK Corral, but with garden sprinklers.”
Despite having a number of reasons why she didn't want to let Gavin make her laugh, Michelle couldn't help herself. The bastard just knew how to get her.
“What time is it?” she asked, “I'm really tired.”
“It's almost seven o'clock.” Gavin answered, “That's why I woke you up.”
“Seven?” she frowned, drinking her coffee, “But Gav – it's Sunday!”
“Exactly. We need to get on the road, don't we?”
“Get on the...?”
Michelle stopped, finally noting the sword and several pieces of medieval armour on the table.
“Oh no,” she said, putting down the coffee. “No! You promised: no medieval re-enactments this weekend! We're going to IKEA.”
“We can do that next weekend, I promise, but Sir James has got a hernia, so Baron de Montague asked if I could take his place today. Couldn't say no, could I?”
“Yes, you could!” she shouted. “Gavin, we are going to IKEA, we are not going to… wherever the hell you want to go.”
“Rotherhurst Castle. Pretty little village. Excellent pub.”
“I don't care! We're not going!”
“The Knights of Albion have asked for my help, Michelle. I would not be a very honourable knight if I said 'No, fuck off, I'm going to IKEA', would I?”
“But you're not a knight, Gavin!” she shouted, “You're a garage mechanic!”
He looked at her with a hurt expression.
“Gavin, it has to stop!” she said firmly. “I'm sick of medieval fetes and I hate horses. I can't do it any more. If we are going to live together, it has to be in the 21st century. That's final. I'm not coming.”
“But… you've got to come! In the tournament, Sir Gavin rides for the favour of Lady Michelle! He can hardly fight for Lady Michelle's favour if Lady Michelle hasn't bloody come, can he?”
“Don't pretend it's all about me! You just like playing knights, Gavin!”
“But I really would fight for you, Michelle!”
“I don't want that! Why can't you fight for me by fixing the toilet seat?”
Gavin looked down at the floor, hanging his head like a little boy.
“That's the whole problem with being a man today – we're just here to fix the toilet seat. I need something more than that.”
She looked at him with an expression that was at once loving and sad,
“So do I, Gavin, but maybe we just need different things,” she said softly. “It's up to you – me or the Knights of Albion. Make a choice.”
III
Washington DC / Time: 04.36 EST
“You have got to be joking...” President Suzanne Burke said, squinting at the dark image on the video screen. “You're telling me that thing is alien?”
“That is the only explanation we have, ma'am.” General Austin confirmed, “NASA detected its approach from extra-orbital space – it wasn't launched from another country.”
“An alien ship with genuine aliens?” she repeated, “Like Independence Day?”
Suzanne Burke's mind was working furiously: Great, just great, she thought to herself, Why me? Why didn't this happen to Obama?
“Er... not entirely, ma'am.” General Austin answered, smiling with just a hint of condescension, “The motion picture I believe you are referring to featured a major armada of gigantic extra-terrestrial vessels. This is just the one and it's no bigger than... well, the White House.”
“Fair point, General,” the president agreed. “This is more like Predator.”
“This may not be an invasion, Ma'am.”
“The Predator was not invading the planet, General. He was here to go hunting.”
She looked again at the indistinct picture on the screen, taken at a distance of several hundred miles by a military spy satellite whose camera had been rapidly redeployed from its usual mission of observing North Korea.
'People will say it's because I'm a woman', she thought to herself. 'I can hear them now: “Two hundred and fifty years of male presidents and not a single alien invades, then we elect one woman and look what happens!”.'
“Gentlemen, I'm going to ask you a simple question, and I want a straight answer,” she said, her eyes narrowing dangerously, “Is this the first time this has happened or are these the same aliens as in the Roswell Incident?”
Although addressed to the room as a whole, everyone turned to look at General Austin as the senior military presence there. Among the various conspiracy theories in American society, the persistent rumour that an extra-terrestrial vessel crashed in the New Mexico desert near the town of Roswell in 1951 was a question for the military, just as all theories relating to the assassination of President Kennedy were automatically considered to be the CIA's problem.
“To my knowledge, Madam President, there was no 'Roswell Incident'.”
“Yeah right.”
“As I understand it, ma'am, the debris people saw near the town of Roswell was simply the product of a crashed weather balloon.”
“Try telling that to the good American people who voted me into the White House, General.”
“We have tried, ma'am.” General Austin sighed.
“And so why do you think they don't believe you, General?”
“I... er...”
The General began to panic. All around the table, people were looking at him with urgent expressions. He knew the message they were trying to give him: Never question the intelligence of the general public in front of the President.
“I cannot say, ma'am.”
“Are you suggesting the American people are stupid, General?” Burke asked.
“No, sir... I mean ma'am, sir.”
“If millions of decent people – good, Christian families – believe that something is the truth, General, then don't you think that we should take their point of view seriously?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
President Burke's eyes were bright with a kind of righteous indignation.
“How can I be sure that you really believe that, General?” she asked, “You might be saying that because you know it's what I want you to say. How can I trust you?”
“I... I honestly don't know what I can say to that, ma'am.”
“If even you don't know why I should trust what you say, General Austin, then I definitely can't trust you, can I?”
The General knew that his position was in danger, but he was too panicked to know what to say. Somehow, inexplicably, he was being accused of disloyalty to the nation that he had served without question for his entire career. Why was this happening? He was finished, and he did not even understand how he had got into this situation. President Burke was still staring pitilessly at him, waiting for an answer.
Nobody at the table would help him, but salvation came from an unexpected angle: the alien ship.
“Ma'am!” a senior intelligence adviser suddenly interrupted, “The vessel is moving!”
Ask for chapter 2!
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I Rotherhurst, England Time: 8.51 GMT Rotherhurst was the kind of casually beautiful village that one finds all over England: a Saxon church and three pubs, the modest cottages constructed in honey-coloured stone, each house separated from the street by a small garden. Today, in early June, the gardens were full of flowers cascading from terracotta pots and urns and cracks in the garden walls. The castle was outside the village: a small, but perfect example of medieval military technology. It had been designed purely as a war machine, for strength and impregnability, but the passing centuries had feminised it until today it seemed to be a symbol of a more elegant and romantic time. These days, there was a cherry orchard on either side of the gravel avenue leading to the castle's iron gate, the trees bright with white flowers. Rosalind Maypole's home was in the heart of the village – an old cottage with a front door so small that most people had to bow on entering as if she were royalty. Since her husband had left her for a younger woman some years ago – his secretary, for god's sake – Rosie lived alone with her labrador, Ayesha, and spent much of her day in the back garden of the house. Hers was one of those voluptuous English gardens in which the plants looked as if they were there purely by chance. It was a chaotic Marilyn Monroe of a garden as opposed to the formal, Grace Kelly gardens of continental Europe. Already at this time of the morning, Rosie was on her knees, working in her garden. She was dressed in supermarket jeans and a blue cotton shirt, her white hair tied back as she dug up weeds with a small trowel. She loved to garden at this time of day: the freshness of the air, the morning dew on the leaves, the quiet and... suddenly, she sat up as an ear-piercing mechanical roar shattered the tranquility of the village: VROO-VROO-VVVRRAAAAAAM! She stood up – the noise was coming from her neighbour's garden. To be precise, from the small wooden hut in his garden where he spent his days working on inventions. The noise rose in intensity, screaming like a combat jet diving to attack – VVRREEEEE! – and then stopped with a sudden, cataclysmic BANG! Rosie, convinced her neighbour had had an accident, climbed over the low stone wall between their two gardens and ran over to the hut. Just then, the door banged open and Graham Walker staggered out, coughing. A cloud of smoke followed him from the interior of the hut. “Graham!” Rosie said, “Are you all right?” “Hello, Rosie!” he smiled, “I'm sorry... what did you say?” “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” she cried. “Oh, I see... yes, I'm fine! Absolutely fine! Just a little... um... a little...” And with that he dropped to the ground, unconscious. When Graham Walker opened his eyes, a few seconds later, he could not remember where he was or why he was on the ground. But he did know the face of the woman who was looking down at him, her hand on his cheek, and he did know what he felt for her: a profound and debilitating love. Graham had fallen in love with Rosalind Maypole soon after he moved to Rotherhurst, a little less than two years ago. That was the easy part. To tell her how he felt and to offer himself as a potential paramour was something else. What did have have to offer – a short, rotund male of 62 years with little hair on his head and an inconceivable quantity of hair in his nose? At 57, Rosie was not young herself, of course, and also lonely, but that made it no easier for him. Firstly, he believed – as any man in love should – that she was too good for him. Secondly, he was English. She, too, was English. This made it very difficult. An Englishman cannot simply tell a woman he loves her. She must deduce this information from subtle, almost subliminal messages. Graham, for example, was always very enthusiastic in his acceptance of cups of tea, which Rosie frequently offered. That was a sign. No doubt, had he been born an Italian, Graham would think nothing of looking into her eyes with a dark, smouldering gaze and then kissing her passionately upon her softly mustachioed lips. He would not be terrified of a refusal. Indeed, he would not accept a refusal. He would chase her round and round the garden, shouting 'Bella Rosie – ti amo! Ti amo!' until she offered some form of compromise on the question, but it was quite impossible for a 62 year-old Englishman to do that. Indeed, it would be a strange and terrifying deviation from social norms. “Graham?” she asked, “Can you hear me? What on Earth was that noise?” “Rosie...” he smiled. “Terribly sorry. I'm working on a hoover.” “A hoover?” “My new design of vacuum cleaner. Small technical problem. These things happen.” “Are you sure you're okay?” “Absolutely,” he confirmed. “I'm so sorry to have been a disturbance.” “Would you like some tea?” “Oh, tea would be lovely!” he answered. “Stay here and rest,” she ordered him. “I'll bring it outside.” He watched her walk over to the garden wall, her bottom large and shapeless in her baggy jeans and the strap of her bra visibly cutting into the “Tea amo, Bella Rosie!” he thought to himself, “Tea amo!” II Washington DC Time: O4.47 EST “Madam President, according to our calculations, the alien vessel is coming down over Texas.” “General Austin, I want everything we've got in the air now!” “Fort Johnson Air Base already has a squadron of F-35s in flight, Ma'am.” Air Marshal Ryan Furloe informed her, secretly congratulating himself on having alerted the base some ten minutes previously, “What are your orders if the pilots encounter the vessel?” “They are to engage, of course!” There was a shocked pause around the table of the Situation Room. Air Marshal Furloe looked at General Austin for guidance, but Austin was still too distressed from his previous dispute with the President to risk angering her a second time. “Um... do you think that is wise, Ma'am?” Furloe eventually asked her, “We don't know yet if the vessel has hostile intentions.” “Are you suggesting we wait until they vaporize Houston?” “No, Ma'am, but they may not intend to do that. We just don't know!” “Where I come from folks have a saying,” President Burke said. “They say 'If it ain't got Suzanne Burke's opponents accused her of seeing the world in black and white. Her supporters loved her for exactly the same reason. “Well, Madam President...” Air Marshal Furloe answered cautiously, “I cannot disagree with them on that.” “The American people are not stupid.” “No, ma'am. Certainly not in the essentials of apple pie preparation.” “Whatever is in that vessel, Air Marshal, I do not think it is apple pie.” “I can only agree with you on that, Madam President.” “Good,” she smiled. “Now, the American people expect us to defend their nation, do they not?” “Yes, Ma'am, they do.” “When an unauthorised plane violates US airspace, is it not national defence policy to shoot it down?” “Yes, Ma'am, it is.” “Is this vessel is currently violating US airspace?” “Yes it is, Ma'am.” “Yes it is, Ma'am,” the President smiled. “So shoot it down, gentlemen.” III
Somewhere on the M3, England Time: O8.51 GMT “Fuck off!” Michelle shouted at the fat Porsche driver who had just klaxoned her. “And eat some salad!” “Don't get so angry, babe.” Gavin said, “If you get aggressive, then you're no better than him.” She turned to look at him with a sour expression. She had agreed to acompany him – one last time – to the medieval fete in Rotherhurst, but she had not agreed to be good-humoured about it. “What would you do, Obi-Wan?” she asked. “A guy like that – a little man in his sports car? Just laugh at him! That is going to hurt.” “This is part of your Knight's Code, is it?” she sighed, then adopted a deep voice to say: “A true knight is courteous to one and all. Yes, even fat idiots in Porsches.” “Aren't you happy that I'm a better person than I used to be?” he protested, “I don't get into fights anymore, do I? Being in the Knights of Albion has done me good.” “Of course I'm pleased about that, Gavin, but most men don't get into fights. Are they all playing medieval knights every weekend?” “We're not playing, Michelle, we are-” “Re-enacting, I know.” she sighed, “Although, to be honest, what you fundamentally do is fall off a horse. It's not exactly Al Pacino, is it?” “It isn't easy to fall off a horse convincingly without injuring yourself, you know. Cinema stunt men earn good money for doing what I do.” “Exactly, Gavin – you are falling off horses for free! What kind of idiot does that?” “This year the Baron is supposed to win the tournament. Next year, it might be me.” “It will be the Baron again.” “He said that if I-” “Gavin, why do you believe everything that man tells you?” “Because I trust him. Baron de Montague lives by the same code as the knights of old – courtesy, humility, moral courage, physical prowess, sincerity and loyalty to others, nobility of action, and always trying to do the right thing.” “Gavin, Baby, Sweetheart...” she said, closing her eyes to control her irritation, “the man owns a garage. He sells second-hand cars!” “With a 12-month guarantee,” Gavin reasoned. “Even in his daily life as Bruce Anderson, garage owner, the Baron engages his honour each time he sells a vehicle.” “So does everyone else! I bought this Nissan second-hand with a twelve month guarantee – that doesn't mean that the man who sold it to me was a fucking samurai!” Gavin placed a soothing hand upon her thigh. “Are you going to calm down before we have an accident, sweetheart?” “No, I am not!” Michelle answered, “Don't you get it, Gavin? I'm thirty-three years old. I want a family. I want a man that I can depend upon. Someone who will be there, and not run off every weekend to play Camelot! Is that too much to expect?” Gavin thought about it, stroking his hand along her thigh to calm her down. “What if...” he suggested finally, “it was every two weeks?” “But it won't be every two weeks!” she groaned, “The Baron will call and say 'Come, Sir Gawain, the Knights of Albion need you this weekend!' and you'll run along, just like today! You can't do it on a casual basis, Gavin, so you need to decide what is more important to you: them or me.” “You, of course! But do you just want me to... be a mechanic?” “What's so bad about that?” “Well... where's the romance?” he asked. Michelle's eyes closed briefly as she drove the car, just for a second.
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