It began entirely innocently.
A Sunday afternoon.
The coffee was still warm.
There was no plan, no goal and no reason whatsoever to improve the world.
Only a conversation.
The way good Sunday afternoons begin.
Someone said something about Pinky and the Brain. A few minutes later, someone said “Moo”. Then it became “Quack”. After that, “Pffff”. And from that moment on, the irrassociation module silently took over.
Via skûtsje sailing in Langweer, a cellar with an imaginary car collection, a John Deere that eventually turned out not to be a John Deere, Meghan Trainor, a Müller organ, Excel formulas and a duck who surprisingly turned out to be called Bram, we arrived at Horsewei.
But Horsewei did not remain Frisian for long that Sunday.
First, a Mini with a roof tent appeared.
Then Hyacinth Bouquet, who immediately considered H11 far too simple for a “mobile residence with a view”. Richard hid behind the camper with a tea towel over his head while Bram filed her name under B for Bouquet. Not because he had to, but because it felt administratively correct.
Then Basil Fawlty arrived.
He tried to repair a ride-on mower that would not start with a birch branch. Bram calmly consulted the manual and pointed to the dead man’s switch. The mower started immediately. Basil was entered into the records under:
Category B – Unauthorised Diagnostic Equipment.
Officer Crabtree reported for duty with his usual enthusiasm.
“Good moaning!”
Nobody understood him.
Not even he entirely understood himself.
Still, he was given coffee.
That helped.
René Artois appeared with a painting that kept going missing, Herr Flick searched for it and somewhere The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies ended up neatly recorded in Bram’s matrix beside the coffee service.
Sherlock Holmes tried to open a new case.
“The game is afoot!”
Bram looked at his watch.
“No.”
“It’s after ten.”
“The game is over.”
Holmes had little to say to that.
Meanwhile, James Herriot examined a perfectly healthy duck as though it were a medical breakthrough. Siegfried called out instructions from a folding chair and Tristan slept through most of the examination.
Mr Humphries was cheerfully doing the washing-up.
“I’m free!”
Mrs Slocombe was mainly worried about Pussy.
Hyacinth about her Royal Doulton.
And Bram?
He kept track of the washing-up liquid budget.
Even the Queen briefly stopped by.
She looked out across the Frisian meadows and merely said:
“Quite peaceful.”
Prince Philip crawled out from underneath H11.
“I’ve seen newer Stonehenge.”
Bram looked up from his clipboard.
“MOT valid until April.”
Philip nodded.
“Carry on.”
By evening, the entire British television archive seemed to have gathered around the campfire.
René.
Crabtree.
Basil.
Holmes.
Elton John at the pianola.
James Herriot.
Siegfried.
The Queen.
Prince Philip.
A few corgis.
And somewhere, Mr Bean silently walked towards his Mini with roof tent, carrying Teddy.
Everyone talked.
Everyone made a fuss.
Everyone played their part.
Except Bram.
He poured coffee.
Looked across the grounds one last time.
H11 stood where it belonged.
So did the mower.
The ducks were calm.
The fire was burning.
He picked up his fountain pen.
And wrote the final line of the day.
Nothing to report.
Arie looked up.
“Nothing to report?”
Bram shrugged.
“The coffee is warm.”
“The grass will grow by itself again tomorrow.”
He closed the folder.
Click.
And that was how Horsewei became Britannia for one Sunday afternoon.
Not through an invasion.
But through a cup of coffee, a few good stories and an irrassociation module that knew exactly when to take the wrong turning.
According to Bram, everything had been administratively settled.
And honestly…
he was right.
🦆☕🌾🇬🇧