Thirty Days Across the Big Pond: A Crash Course in Pomp and Circumstance

By Mike Slickster

Welcome to the wacky conclusion of Mike Slickster's phenomenal journey across the big pond: part three of a humorous, historical, outrageously forthright trilogy, extolling the supreme graciousness and heavenly grandeur of English Royalty, present-day nobility, heartwarming spiritualism, and one sensationally adorable friend. This last installment of the epic series is a royal tribute to London, its beauty and heritage, filled with glorious tales of medieval charm, ghastly ghosts, awe-inspiring architecture, a dash of euphemistic sexuality, and centuries dedicated to ceremonial pomp and circumstance, complete with photos and illustrations to enhance the reader's enjoyment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304654205

Book preview

Thirty Days Across the Big Pond: A Crash Course in Pomp and Circumstance

Thirty Days Across the Big Pond: A Crash Course in Pomp and Circumstance

A Novel

by

Mike Slickster

Dedicated to the Memory of Amy Winehouse

14 September 1983 – 23 July 2011

Prologue

Less than two days were left to Mike Slickster's sensational grand tour of Europe and England.  Roughly 3,200 miles (5,149 km) had been covered via a rented British automobile, sailing over the English Channel on the ferryboat, continuing on to Paris, trekking south to Nice, then to Rome, Florence, and Venice; followed by a trek through the Alps into Austria and Germany, rocketing on the autobahn to the Netherlands, and stopping for a five-day stay in Amsterdam which brought us up to where Part Two began. 

While in Holland's capital, our hero met an English gal named Pamela in a bar at the hotel in which they were both staying.  She was in town on business for a couple of days.  The two shared intimate moments together such as being locked up in Amsterdam's hoosegow, and becoming lovers on her last night in town before she left for home in London.  Arrangements to meet each other in England upon Mike's return to the capital city for his flight home were made, which brings us to Part Three of this trilogy that turned into a mystical, fantastic, final foray across the big pond. 

This forthcoming, concluding episode is based on Slickster's personal experiences in the UK at the end of his uncanny, thirty-day excursion.  Exotic Food, dalliance, eccentricity, clairvoyance, rock and roll, romance, tasty sex, English Royalty and noble heritage are among the story's main keywords.  The plot is derived delectably from the author's detailed, strictly updated travel log; researched historical data true to form, and from the writer's off-the-wall, explicitly vivid imagination.  Some names of the locales and establishments, and all those of the characters involved—aside from celebrities and public figures—were changed to protect the innocent.  The illustrations found within this novel are original creations of this author,  photographer and graphic artist, except for those obviously from the public domain, faithful digital reproductions, and where noted otherwise.  And now, let us proceed to Chapter One of Thirty Days Across the Big Pond: A Crash Course in Pomp and Circumstance.

Chapter One: A Most Unexpected Visitor

Back in jolly old England, heading northwest on the four-lane highway from Dover, I needed a bit of readjustment, what with traveling on the left side of the road again.  Fortunately, following the traffic on the busy motorway for 60 some-odd miles (96 km) toward London made it easy to adapt.  Everything proceeded as planned until the M20 turned into the A20 at South Circular Road, the same spot where I had trouble 24 days prior on the trip to France.  Upon entering that infernal rotary and heading left around it—instead of my accustomed right—I became totally disoriented and went east instead of intentionally west.

Saturday Night on that dark, lonely stretch of thoroughfare, with the landmarks not like anything I had remembered from my previous trip in these parts, prompted me to stop at three petrol stations to ask for directions.  No one knew how to get to Kensington, which seemed somewhat odd and discouraging, making me wonder if it was because I spoke with a Yankee accent and couldn't be understood; for I was having a definite problem reckoning with the local Cockney dialect.  Turning around and backtracking, I found the Westminster Bridge and crossed over into familiar territory, remembered from my first stay in London two years earlier.  Having just bought a map of the city at my last stop, I was able plot the remainder of my route around Buckingham Palace, up past Knightsbridge (where Pamela lived) and then west on Cromwell, the boulevard on which the hotel was located. 

The unintended sightseeing tour of Southeast London cost this weary traveler two extra hours on the road.  After checking in at my accommodations, taking my belongings up to my room on the third floor, I parked the Fiat one block away, keeping it there for no extra charge until early on Monday morning.  A city ordinance stated I had to be out of town before seven o'clock, or risk a ticket for driving in the Congestion Zone without a permit. 

A well-stocked minibar awaited in my chamber, a welcomed sight for sore eyes.  I grabbed some white wine, took a swig straight from the bottle, and looked for Pamela's business card in my wallet, fulfilling my promise to contact her upon my arriving.  It was almost 10:00 P.M.  She answered my telephone call quickly.

Michael, you made it and in great time, she responded.

Actually not, I got into Calais early and was able to depart at sixteen fifty-five.

Leaving at that time, you would have docked in England an hour and a half later, or at around eighteen thirty, Pamela said.  It's eighty miles from the seaport to here.  I'd say your arrival wasn't very far off from expected.  What happened?  Did you hit traffic, or an accident?

You didn't take into consideration the changing back to Greenwich Mean Time, putting me in Dover at seventeen thirty.  The trip to the hotel was four hours long, I replied.  I headed east instead of west at that accursed rotary on South Circular Road, turning around when I finally realized it, and found my way across the Thames at Westminster.

If you Yanks didn't drive on the wrong side of the road, you would have made the correct turn, she said.  How are you feeling, by the way? 

I'm bushed after only running on barely a couple of hours of shut-eye from last night.

Not sleeping well?

I'm sleeping fine, but was out partying with Skylar and Kaatje into the wee hours of this morning.  You remember them, don't you?

Of course, I do.  How is Skylar's father?

He's scheduled to have triple-bypass surgery on Monday, but took a turn for the worse yesterday and lapsed into a coma.  Skylar didn't think he was going to last the weekend.

How horrible; but  Skylar doesn't seem to be too upset about it if she was up partying with you and Kaatje all night long.

She didn't want to be left alone, Pamela.  Besides, how do you know she wasn't hurting inside?  Kaatje and I felt getting her blasted was the best medicine.

I'm sorry, Michael.  I was rude for saying that and really hope everything is going to be all right.

I do too.  I have to e-mail her and Kaatje to find out.

So, do you still want to get together with me tomorrow morning?

I've been looking forward to it since you left Amsterdam.  Would you care to join me for breakfast downstairs? I replied.  You can leave your car two streets behind the inn.  I saw plenty of spaces there when I parked the Fiat tonight.

Cracking, I know exactly where the hotel is.  What time shall I meet you, say, between eight fifteen and eight thirty?

Make it eight thirty. I'll be waiting for you in the dining room.  We chit-chatted for about another ten minutes before hanging up.

After setting up the laptop, I checked my e-mail and found the standard aggregate of offers to enlarge, or keep my manhood up; please my lover by taking a little blue pill while impressing others with a fake Rolex watch; obtain a university degree earned by my life experience; and not to mention, the ten million pounds for which I had just been named beneficiary by someone in Nigeria who shared my cognomen.  The notification was sent to the wrong person evidently, as my name was not Undisclosed Recipients.

Chantal and Angelique, my Parisian cohorts who joined me in the Netherlands, both sent messages that stated they had arrived home safely. I sent each of them a note announcing my arrival.  Writing an e-mail to Kaatje, a good friend made in Amsterdam, I mentioned my trip to the UK was very straight-forward (excluding my potential lockup in the Port of Calais Jail), thanking her for making my stay in Holland most memorable.  My final communication went to Skylar, the owner of my favorite coffee shop in the Dutch capital.  I asked about her father's condition and how she was holding up, admitting in closing to having said a prayer on the way out of Europe, wishing for some good news about her papa.  Before logging off the Internet, I brought up UTube to see how my video was doing.

For those who hadn't read Part Two of this saga, I was eating breakfast at my hotel in Amsterdam on the past Monday, when a clumsy head waiter had slipped in a slick spot on the floor as he was transporting a tray with two large pitchers of fruit juice.  The nincompoop did a great job of remaining upright in the meantime, although he danced quite a jig and ended up by the booth at which I was sitting.  Both serving vessels tipped over and poured their contents straight down atop my head.  Kaatje, the daytime desk clerk at the hotel, helped me find footage of the breakfast-room melee, digitally recorded  in the security control room by the closed-circuit cameras in the dining hall.  I dubbed the hysterical scenes and made a short movie by using the editing software on my laptop, uploading the finished production to UTube, where it had become and overnight sensation.

The clip appeared now on the main page of the Web site and had accumulated close to three hundred thousand hits, with several hundred outrageously humorous comments listed.  The following were just the tip of the iceberg:

Splish, splash, he was taking a bath, long about a  Saturday night;      

Bloody hell, that twit was fast on his feet; 

This has to be the best gunging ever;

For some odd reason, I'm suddenly craving a screwdriver!          

Is this some kind of juice fetish?

Brilliantly executed, arse over tit.

A couple of days had passed since the last update to my travel log.  I took advantage of the next couple of hours and began to fill in the blanks, sorting through the photos taken of the sensational events in Amsterdam and my travel to London.  The photos were priceless artifacts, as far as I was concerned.  Their value could never be recouped if they were ever destroyed.

I finished my second minibar-bottle of wine before setting the alarm for seven o'clock, turning in for the night; but the hotel-room phone rang shortly after I had dozed off.  The clerk at the front desk called to say a woman named Pamela was wishing to come upstairs to see me.  Don't you have a spare card that visitors can use to swipe through the readers to enter? I inquired.  One's room card was needed for operating the elevator and opening the doors from within the stairwells to gain entrance inside the hotel corridors.

Yes, we do, Sir.  There's a penalty fee of twenty-five pounds charged to your room if the card is not returned to us.  I need your permission to give it to her.

By all means, send her up.

Straightaway, Mister Slickster, he replied.   At least I didn't have to go downstairs and retrieve her.  Giving me enough time to throw on my trousers and shirt, my unexpected guest began knocking at the door.

Pamela Hyatt

Pamela, this is quite a surprise, I said upon opening the portal.  She was grinning from ear to ear, like she had just won the British lottery, standing in the hallway with an oversized bag slung over her shoulder.  Please, come in.

I'm not an early-morning person, especially on my days off, she commented as we hugged and smooched.  I didn't think you would mind it if I stopped by to spend the night.  It'll spare me from getting up at the crack of dawn.

Not at all, I'm so happy to see you.  Put your stuff on the dresser and take off your clothes.

Thanks, Michael, I will in a bit.  It's grand to see you too.  Here, I brought some bubbly to welcome you back to London.   She handed me a bottle from her bag and took off her overcoat.  Actually, I couldn't wait to see you again and thought it would be nice waking up together in the morning.

Splendid idea, I said and popped the top off the  sparkling wine, pouring some into a couple of glasses found atop the minibar.  Cheers, Pamela, here's to us.  We clinked our goblets and sipped the champagne.

I see you've stopped wearing your bandages, Pamela noted.  I can hardly tell you were injured.  When we first met, I was nursing seven stitches acquired after an earthquake in Rome had caused a lantern to fall and crack open the side of my head.

Yeah, it's such a relief not having to mess with keeping my head dry and covered.  I sat down on the bed next to her.  You are looking as lovely as ever.

Thanks, that's kind of you to say.  She gave me a peck on the cheek.  Did you enjoy the rest of your stay in Amsterdam?

"Yes, I did.  I took a tour of the city on a canal bus and stopped to visit the Anne Frank House, a very somber, yet inspiring experience, I said.  Skylar invited me to her flat on Thursday night, and we indulged in eating truffles.  Have you ever heard of them?"

Assuming you are not referring to the chocolate variety, I've eaten black truffles in pasta a few times.  They had a heavenly aroma and were very tasty.

Those aren't quite the ones we ate.  The truffles Skylar had were the outgrowths from magic mushrooms, or psilocybin.  The spores were quite hallucinogenic.

Oh, those kind of truffles; no, I've never tried them.  Was it fun?

It was crazy, but not something I would like to do on a regular basis.  I felt out of sorts all day yesterday as a result.

My favorite was the Space Cake.  I wish pot was legal here like in Holland.  I'd always be baking some.

Guess what I was able to smuggle into your country?  I'll give you a little hint.  It's green and smells like a skunk.

Michael, you didn't.  You could have been arrested if they found out.

I almost got busted, I said and told her about getting pulled over by the border patrol in Calais before