Tea With Becks - Part Two

01 and a half June 2013

Story #673

R. Linda:

(Continued from Part One previous blog entry)

Neither of us wanted to turn around, but we both felt it in our bones. We were not alone. Slowly, we turned, and there was Nigel Farage. That right there would be enough to scare a cat out of a tree. Yes, it was, and I wanted to run out of the room BECAUSE Nige was looking straight at ME! I knew, yes I did; he read me blog bit about him and his adventure in Edinburgh, and well . . . he probably had it in for me. (See 30 May 2013 blog story - Mr. Farage Visits Edinburgh -- And A Memorable Time It Was!)

I could not shamefacedly shuffle forward with an outstretched hand, saying sorry. No, I couldn't because I wasn't sorry. It is people like Nigel who make me life worth living. Rather, someone else does something stupid and writes about them instead of me doing stupid things and being the only one to write about.

However, I needn't have worried. Nige came forward like that at ME! I was taken aback, and poor Becks had no clue who he was.

"Sorry," Nigel said, "I hoped never to be in anyone's blog, especially YOURS." Was that a slap? I couldn't be certain. But I took his hand and gave it a fishy shake since it was a fish hand he held out. "Who is this strapping young fella?" Nigel asked, indicating Becks and probably to change the subject.

I was gobsmacked—neither knew who the other was! What is the UK coming to? So, I introduced them to each other, and Becks was as clueless afterwards as at the start, but Nigel had a glimmer of recognition coming forth in his brain— yes, he'd heard that name before, just never paid it much mind.

"Oh, Beckham, yessish, it's coming to me me," Nige said smiling. "You still play?"

OH NIGEL!!! I was double gobsmacked.

"I just retired," Becks said, his eyes all going steely at Nigel's nerve.

"OH! Just so, just so," Nige mumbled, dropping the fishy handshake with Becks, who wiped his hand on his suit pocket and took himself over to a table filled with royal photos, I supposed to regain his temper.

"I didn't know he could speak," Nigel whispered to me. "I thought all footballers were dolts, too much of hitting balls with their heads, yessish. He does have a bit of a lower class accent, doesn't he, for all the good looks and designer clothing, not to mention the fragrance?"

I slammed me forehead with my hand and said, "DUH!" but Nigel didn't seem to catch that. No, he was leaning around me, looking at Beck's back.

"He looks quite affluent, yessish he does," Nigel said softly to me, "You'd think he could afford to feed his wife, poor emaciated thing she is."

Oh, he didn't just mutter that, but yes, he did! I was glad Becks wasn't within hearing distance. But he was on a roll now, with Becks far enough away that he could softly chat with ME about the man!

"Well, I do hope he doesn't get it into what brain he has left to run for Parliament. He has a funny voice for a nice-looking fella, don't you think? Bit of a shock when he speaks, and oh, who are we fooling. Public speaking for him would be disastrous. Best keep ones good looking mouth shut and look nice." Nigel said, taking a sip of beer.

When I saw the pint glass, I wondered where he got it from. He told me he had a key.

"A key? A key to what?" I asked.

"The key to the Royal Refrigerator," Nigel said, looking smug like he had just let me in on the best-kept of secrets.

"NO!" I said, genuinely surprised. I've heard of such but didn't know it really existed."

Nigel slipped me the key and pointed at a polished square wooden box with a gold gilt trim that said, on the top in royal gold scroll, The Royal Refrigerator. Well, I took that key and shouted over me shoulder to Becks if he'd like a jar. He turned all brightened up by that offer that it wasn't another cup of Darjeeling and came trotting over to fetch one.

"A Becks for you Becks?" I joked lamely.

I put the key in, and a spring lock opened the RR, and there were over a hundred small kegs with gold letters of all the good beers of the world, or so I thought at first glance. The only really good beer in the world that was missing was Guinness. As I perused the fridge, I realised there wasn't one single Irish beer in the lot. I was a bit overcome; yes, I was. But that didn't stop Becks from letting me know that the fridge was filled with the best German beer money could buy. I was pissed I was, so I opted to have none at all.

"They don't call this the House of Hanover for nothing," Nigel said sipping his German beer and toasting Becks who was less than enthusiastic to toast anything with Nigel.

"Hanover?" Poor brain-dead Becks asked Nigel.

"Windsor, now," I said and explained as best I could in simple terms the progression of royalty and when it is a good time to change one's royal last name to something a little less war-inspiring. I doubt if Becks got it, but Nigel was amused at my efforts to educate.

"Are we all retiring?" a voice said, making us all jump and turn around to see Camilla looking at us like our commoner's hands had been caught in the Royal Refrigerator. She moved forward and took Beck's beer glass as she batted what eyelashes she had at him. He looked somewhat confused and went back to the RR for another pint.

"I'm not retiring," Nigel said, "My party is doing quite well." He informed Camilla loudly. "The only people in the world who would like me to RETIRE are the Scottish, and just to spite that lot, I wouldn't give it a jolly thought."

"Oh please don't say that word," she whispered, "retirement gets Prince Charles's hopes up so, and I just can't live with the disappointment when he gets into a black funk over it," Camilla said. "Oh, that Becks," she said, looking at Beck's back as he stood at the RR, filling another glass. "I remember when HIS wife retired, and THAT was met with joy all over the world. She was no longer going to record music or what she thought was music!" Camilla said smugly.

"Meow," Nigel chuckled and walked away.

I had covered me face with one hand at the embarrassment of it all. But that didn't stop Camilla.

"You know Mr. O'Connor . . . " she began.

"O'Sullivan," I corrected, rolling me eyes and wishing I had a strong drink in me hand.

"Oh, right. Well, Mr. O-Sull-i-van, I do think you need to be kinder to Charles and me on your blog."

"You both read me blog?" I said, kind of impressed.

"Well. . . no, we don't, but the footman does, and he tells us what you write about us." She said, looking down her nose at me as me ego deflated quickly. We need to say good riddance to negative things like . . ."

And that's as far as she got as Prince Charles strode up, overhearing her last words and said, "I think we need to give a good riddance to Parliament and install a full monarchy to restore order. Don't you think?" Prince Charles interjected at me.

"Uhhh . . ." I was gobsmacked for the umpteenth time that day. I did not know what to say; I mean, I did know that I would disagree, but well . . . it was PRINCE CHARLES, what was I to do? So I did the only thing I knew and said, "Your garden is lovely."

At which point, for a moment, he looked at me like I had lost my mind. Then he got this stupid smile on his face and was flattered. Yes, he was flattered. He went into a horticultural dissertation on isolated transference of germicides on hybrid plants of indigenous nature. I wanted to say WHAT, but I didn't. I tried to look genuinely interested, but it was painful.

"We just have got to take the time and find the resources to engineer a caste system for the plant population."

WHAT? The "plant population" engineer a CASTE SYSTEM? WHAT???? When he got into the installation of lawn sprinklers and how to make them work at 30-degree angles, I excused meself and helped meself to a glass of German beer. I HAD TO to keep my sanity!

As I turned around from me sixth glass thinking I could handle anything Charles threw at me, I found the Queen had arrived and was waving to Becks and me. We both did that strange royal wave back, hoping we were doing it correctly. We were bidden over to the royal presence, and I was instantly ignored as she looked Becks over and muttered to Philip, who had appeared out of nowhere, "I do so wish our Prince Wills looked like this man. What a boon that would be for the monarchy's image!"

Becks looked slightly disturbed as we both overheard that theatrical whisper to the hard-of-hearing Philip, which wasn't meant to be overheard. This was more so when Prince Harry (who we had not noticed) turned round between his grandmother and grandfather and said, "Then we'd have the Ken and Barbie business going."

Both royals looked confused, and he clarified his remark with, "Becks and Kate, come on now."

Both the Queen and the Duke looked startled. Well, it was apparent neither had thought of THAT, and I'm very sure Posh wouldn't be happy to know the Queen was thinking of lining up her husband with pretty Kate, even if it wasn't truly meant. The conversation was becoming quite uncomfortable for Becks, not to mention bizarre for me, so I politely pulled him away.

Proof some of us dream true - Becks, Yours Truly, Philip (looking unusually happy) and Our Queen.

"Where is pretty Kate anyway?" He asked, looking around with a bit of apprehension.

I looked around, and there she was in front of a full-length mirror, arguing with it. I pointed, and he shook his head, and we moved as far away from her as possible. I did think Beck believes mental illness is catchy, but it wasn't that. It was vanity, but no time to explain that to him.

"This is bloody awful," Becks said, "We need to get out of here."

I could not agree more. I looked around, and the room had no doors! This nearly woke me up! Me heart pounded at the thought of being trapped with the royal family in a very large gilt room somewhere in Buckingham Palace!

"Look at Philip, he's dressed like a toy soldier," Becks said, "and Harry has that Nazi uniform on, and Kate's talking to a mirror, and Camilla blends in with the chimney -- I can't tell where she begins and where she ends, and Pippa's on top of a table wiggling her arse at us, and the Queen is wearing a hat indoors and toting a pocketbook to match, and where the hell is Prince William? OH, and worst of all, is that Nigel whatshisname over there gloating at us?"

I looked, and sure enough, there was Nigel dressed like a wizard with a huge teapot! Even his long velvet robe had teapots and cups for designs on it, and his long wizard hat did, too! He was looking at us, waving the teapot and chanting something, but I saw the white rabbit before he could throw whatever he had coming at us. Yes, I did! It ran across the room and disappeared. I saw where it went; there was a large black hole, and I caught hold of Becks as Nigel started to wind up the teapot and pulled him through the hole just in the nick.

We fell into blackness, but I wasn't scared. At least it wasn't me screaming like a girl. I think that was Becks because the rabbit was below us laughing. The rabbit landed first on something soft, and out the hole it went. Then we landed a bit harder but no worse for wear. We ran out the hole to the light and found . . . we were back in the tearoom.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" Beck's shouted.

I was gobsmacked, for I hoped the last time. We both knew that the double door in the room led back to where the Royal Refrigerator was, with everyone still there. The other door, we couldn't get open—it was locked! What to do? There was no sign of the white rabbit, no, none. A voice behind us made us spin around as it said, "What is a weekend? Do either of you know?"

Violet, old Lady Grantham, was pouring us tea. She was dressed in an off-black silk taffeta in Victorian style, with a large pocket watch and chain draped across her breast. I thought that odd.

"It always happens. When you give these little people German beer, it goes to their heads like strong tea!" she said, handing Becks a cup and then me as we joined her at the table. I sat there, thinking I had heard her wrong. Didn't she mean power goes to their heads? Hum.

"I must speak my mind," Becks said as if in a trance.

"Oh dear, why nobody else does." She said, wiggling her nose, which stopped me cold.

"Don't be a defeatist. It's very middle-class," I caught myself saying to her as she turned her attention to me. "I don't know why I said that."

"Are we to be friends then? They are a bunch of lunatics let loose on us," Becks said to her, ignoring me. "We could use help."

"We are allies, my dear Mr. Beckham, which can be a good deal more effective. More tea, Mr. O'Sullivan?" Violet asked, tipping the silver teapot over my cup.

"No, no, thank you," I said, realising both Becks and I were downing cups of tea like it was going out of style from a teapot that seemed never empty. What was happening? For one Becks seemed to be growing smaller and me taller.

"Mr. O'Sullivan, that's an Irish name?" Violet said as if it was not a good thing.

"Yes, it is."

"You are quite wonderful with your blog, the way you see room for improvement in people . . . wherever you happen to be. I never knew such reforming zeal sparked in the soul of an Irish person."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, not sure it was.

"I must have said it wrong," she laughed, looking down at Becks, who was growing smaller by the second. He seemed to grow a lot of yellow hair and looked like a girl. I blinked several times, but he was still getting smaller and more feminine.

I thought something was off, and as I reached over for the milk, being Irish impolite on purpose, it was then I saw a long white ear tucked into the wig on old Lady Grantham's head. Her eyes met mine, but the eyes were pink, and the ear popped out from the wig, then the other one, and I knew it wasn't Violet Grantham. It was the rabbit! As I got me big hands around its throat, the eyes began to bug out of the head. I could hear meself yelling, "Bring Becks Back! We need him for Team England and the next World Cup!" when I felt the ground shaking like an earthquake and we, the room, everything was being swallowed up and disappearing, but for a voice calling me name.

It was Tonya's voice in the world of the awake, shaking me to the same state.

"You're having a bad dream. Wake up!"

I did. I was shocked. The dream had seemed so real. But there I was in me room, flat on my back, staring up at the post-and-beam ceiling. I knew where I was. I lay there dumbly as the wife got up, yammering something about drinking too much strong tea before bed and it having the effect of good German beer. This was the first day of a new month, and she hoped I'd mend me late-night habits.

"Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit," I said.

Gabe
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