January 3rd, 1936
I awoke that morning to a loud, metallic ringing, and a splitting headache. It seemed we had all succumbed to slumber in a pub (one which at the time, I was not familiar with). The ringing persisted, waking Churchill and Mr. Simon, who had sat slumped across the table from me. We all looked at one another, and then immediately back down at the table, as we realised just how bright a room we had the misfortune to inhabit. It would, perhaps, I hoped, be a slow morning.
The ringing finally stopped as the landlord picked up the ancient telephone behind the bar. He exchanged a few words with the operator.
"OY!" He shouted, causing us to collectively shudder, "Telephone call for the UK War Cabinet!"
Lord Chatfield pulled himself from the floor to sit beside me. "What is that nutter shouting about? My head feels like it's been three rounds with Sibo's mum."
Churchill held his head in his hands. "No idea bruv. I think he's Irish or something."
The landlord shouted again. "UK War Cabinet? Anybody?"
For some reason, the words sounded familiar. But my head too felt as though it had been several rounds with Sibo's mum, and things just refused to connect. Thankfully, ever the man of action, Mr Simon sussed things out.
"Hang about lads, I think that’s like, us or something." He staggered to the bar, taking the phone. "Thanks m12*. Hair of the dog for me and the lads."
Stabilizing himself against the wall, he listened intently.
"It’s the foreign office!" he called over to us. "They reckon Ireland just formally surrendered or something?"
Churchill sat up suddenly, though seemed to regret it almost immediately. "You wot? Who to?"
Sibo asked down the phone. Surprised, he turned back. "Well- us."
We exchanged looks. Foggy memories of the night before gradually drifted through our heads. Our eyes slowly widened. As was so often the case, Churchill spoke first.
"I thought the traffic was a bit mental on the way down blud."
Sibo agreed, "Innit, with all that cavalry and soldiers and this and that and whatever on the motorway."
"Yeah, that was like, really weird actually." Mused Lord Chatfield "I just thought they were going on holiday like a bank holiday like to butlins or something." Our drinks arrived at the table, and with the rest of us, he took a small sip, followed by a large shudder. "I knew we should have got a megabus rather than driving that tank down." The taste was diabolical, but it seemed to put us in a far better state of consciousness. Roused anew, we decided on a course of action. Churchill walked to the bar, and bought a round for the entire country, which seemed to smooth things out nicely.
"Courtesy of the foreign offce, obvs." he added, with a wink.
We felt that Whitehall may be less than impressed by our exploits, so opted to hold the morning cabinet meeting over some strong coffee in the Tounge and Groove (as it turned out to be called) instead. We had all been discussing locations we'd love to visit on our world tour, but as is so often the way, nothing had been booked yet. The cabinet sat around a large, wooden table in front of the fire place. The Lord Chatfield was making an animated case for a visit to Iceland.
"My uncle's cousin went there last year, it's got like these big ground shooting pond things, like the bath, but a volcano, and you can go quad-biking and bunjee jumping and the water isn't posionous like France so you don't even have to bring your own!"
"A fair point," rumbled Churchill, "what do you say Sibo?"
Mr Simon polished his glasses idly, "I'm not sure we can afford it Prime Minister, Iceland is expensive as balls. If we put Wales up on ebay or something we might get enough. Perhaps we could borrow some from the Queen, maybe put the treasury on the grand national and see if we can get Chatter's uncle to rig it."
Churchill considered. Just as he was about to speak, there came a frantic knocking. We all looked up at the door, and then to Churchill. He was not a man to be interrupted.
“Wot is it m8?”, he asked the door.
A junior foreign office minister burst in panting, motorcycle helmet still attached to his head.
“Sir!”, he blurted, “It’s Spain! They’ve, like, totally invaded themselves!”
The Prime Minister looked taken aback.
“Invaded themselves? Like, for the insurance money or something?”
“No Sir, it’s like one of them civil wars and this, like when City play United, but with slightly fewer war crimes."
Sibo interrupted, his face pale and drawn. “But Spain… That’s where Nando’s is from!”
We exchanged grave looks.
Churchill swept from behind the table, moving to address the room.
“There’s been well beefs in Spain for like a million years or since last week or something." he said, pacing infront of the fire place. "The Fascists won’t let us go on holiday there, yeah? And the Communists want to turn all the chicken into state-run tractor factories or whatever. And now they's trying to sieze power!"
We collectively shuddered.
The Prime Minister paused, deep in thought.
“Chatters, how ready is the Banter Boat?”
The Lord Chatfield looked up, a cautious gleam in his eye.
“Almost m9. There’s no leopard print seats yet because Doncaster's been on strike all week.”
Churchill pressed his fingers together.
“But what about like, the bits for all sailing and planes and this?”
“Oh yeah, that’s been ready for like nine weeks or something? We was mostly just waiting for Sibo's Dad to come and paint it gold with the stuff left in the garage after he did 311 squadron’s spitfires.”
The Prime Minister nodded, keeping his eyes closed for just a second.
“Lads, the time has come. Not just for this prime minister, yeah? But for this cabinet, to prove once and for all to the world what it is that we stand for. To fight tyranny wherever we find it, in whatevs form it may take, when it fundamentally threatens our way of life. For a threat to the greatest chicken shop in all of England, is a threat to us all. Chatters, load the chicken bibs and weight anchor. We’s going to save Nando’s.”
*A compliment, a m12 is like your m8, but roughly a third better.
