The UFO

A UFO was spotted over Holland recently and some interesting footage was recorded culminating in its rapid exit from the skies. What has not been released, however, is a transcript of its communication with Amsterdam air traffic control. Although the content was heavily encrypted, a translation code was sent by the UFO. The content can now be revealed....

"Communication medium - Earth language, common usage categorised English.

We came, we looked. For you, you measured time... something called thirties, forties, sixties... decades you say. For us, it was a moment, contained in light travel. We scanned your planet. You called us UFOs in all that time. In your limited system no doubt we are. But that is unimportant. What is important is why we came. To seek other inhabitants of this universe. It is vast so we know that others exist. Already we have found others in distant galaxies. We discovered you, people of the place you know as Earth. We wanted to interact with you, to create what you call friendship and we call the ‘Amicitia Programme.’

But we cannot pursue this with Earth, for you are still not civilised and will be unable to blend with our principles. You fight, you kill, you have deities, numerous deities and you cannot agree on why. And you kill one another because of this. You have many timeframes to pass until you can relinquish this behaviour and, until you do so, you will deplete your planet, the only place you have in this universe. You try to explore. You go to your moon. You want to go to asteroids in your system. You will never know the universe until you open your eyes. Your physical formation is known as homo sapiens. You are the all the same on this planet. But sapient you are not, for you display no wisdom.

If you look to what you call the ‘sky’ and wish to go there, relinquish your petty beliefs in things that are not real. For if you do not, you will destroy yourselves and not see the grand vista that is above you. Your ‘gods’ do not exist. You made them, created your existence around them and subjugated your species because of them. This is not behaviour that will see you advance as a species. This is not behaviour that will open your mind to the universe as it really is. For as long as you see your gods as the beginning, creators and rulers, your minds will remain limited and you will continue to destroy each other.

We will make no more contact. You do not fit. We will look to see how you develop over time and if you develop higher wisdom, we will return.”

Humans

I overheard a conversation the other day between two spiders. (I have acute hearing.... can hear things that even dogs can’t hear!). It went like this.

First Spider (FS): I have a confession to make. I have a phobia about humans.

Second Spider (SS): Humans? Why? They're harmless!

FS: You sure? I saw one the other day and it was HUGE. That size!

SS: Don’t exaggerate. They're never that size.

FS: I’m telling you. It was..... and the legs.... uuurrgh... it only had two legs and was moving so fast.

SS: They do move fast especially when they see one of us. Did you know they're scared of us?

FS: Scared... of us? Don’t be stupid. They're waaay tooooo big to be scared of us.

SS: Trust me. They are scared. That is why they move so fast when they see one of us. Some of them even stand on those chair things when they see us. I am always worried they're going to try jumping on me.

FS: Blimey.... I often wondered why humans do that. My cousin tries to put them outside when he sees them but can never catch them.

SS: Yeah, it’s not easy. They run so fast. Always scurrying. I thought about trying to trap them in a box and put them outside, but to be honest I could never find a box big enough. And the other thing is, if you do manage to put them out they always seem to get back in again.

FS: I know. It’s creepy. If I had a spine it would make it shiver... uuuurgh. I can’t bear to think about them.

SS: Have you tried therapy?

FS: No... do you drink it or eat it?

SS: No stupid.. It’s a learning thing. Learning how to overcome your fear of humans. They teach you that your fear is irrational because humans are just as scared of us spiders. They even get you to a stage where you can happily pick them up.

FS: Pick them up? Blimey! What, do they send you on a weight training course for four years?

SS: No. It's a mind over matter technique. They show you how to cope with your fear. You could always try hypnosis... and, no, it’s not another drink.

FS: I don’t know. I don’t think anything could make me overcome my fear of humans. You know what I hate most?

SS: What?

FS: Their houses. They build these places they live in that trap you in them. Very cunning I think. I mean, why can’t they have webs like we do?

SS: Yes, you're right about that.... hang on.... here comes a human now.

FS: Oh... god... I've gone all shivery. I know it’s bad but I think we should just stamp on it!

The Seventh Day

It had been declared a Public Holiday. The seventh and final day of the creation. God had sent one of his angels to announce it, so pleased was he with the results of his efforts over the previous week. Now animals of every species were lined up awaiting the news as to what their role was in this new world and what tasks they were to be given.

A family of beetles stood in anticipation as the alpha male beetle walked back to the group after his audience with God. His slow gait was unnerving one of the older females, anticipating some less than exciting news, but the young ones were hopping about excitedly as youngsters do when even a short period of waiting is about to be completed. A couple of the older adolescents stood slightly to one side, feigned moodiness on their faces not fully hiding their eagerness to hear the news too.

"So? What we got? What'll we be doing in this new world?" asked the female, stepping forward.

The male scratched his brow with one of his spindly legs, slow to respond as if contemplating his answer.

"Well…it’s like this –"

"Just heard that big yellow thing with the long hair saying he's been made king of the jungle," interrupted one of the young ones excitedly. "What’s a jungle dad?"

Ignoring the question the adult male cleared his throat. "Well, we… uh… we're not quite going to be kings. We're… uh, dung beetles, apparently," he said, looking up and taking in the faces of the family.

"Dung? Dung beetles?" queried one of the spotty adolescents, "What’s dung?"

"Dung is… " the alpha male beetle paused, looking around him as if seeking some sort of assistance. "You see that big hippopotamus over there," he said pointing with an antenna at the large beast to his left that had its tail raised high in the air. "Well that stuff falling from under its tail is dung."

"Whaaaat" You're having a giraffe," cried one of the adolescents, a look of incredulity on his face. ‘That’s dung? You're telling us that that is dung? It stinks!"

"What’s a giraffe?" queried another voice.

"It’s that very tall thing over there that keeps banging its head on the trees,’" said the female. "So take no notice of your brother. He overheard God say he was going to have a laugh ‘cos he had loads of DNA left over and he’d make a giraffe. Only trouble is it seems he had quite a lot of it and used it to make that long neck. He thinks it’s funny –"

"Yeah, we think this God geezer’s mucking about," piped up another younger looking female. "He painted them horses over there with black and white stripes. Don’t even go with anything. Anyway, this dung thing, dad. You aren’t serious, are you? What are we supposed to do with it?"’

The alpha male beetle stroked his chin this time, as he carefully chose his response.

"Well, we'll be recycling it. Use it to live in…err, eat it and…well roll it up into balls and push it about a lot."

"Uuuurrrgh, eat it," several voices exclaimed at once.

"Look, don’t panic. God told me it was good for us and we’d be doing the whole animal kingdom a useful service. We’d be very important in the big scheme of things. Think of it as a... a… well… a community recycling animal project. So us dung beetles would be really useful."

The younger female stepped forward.

"Well I don’t fancy that dung thing. Not good for the image. I mean, you seen that stuff? What did you say they called it? Community re…re…whatever you said, dad."

"Community recycling animal project. It’s the name for the role we have been given. The name of the work we will be doing so – "

"CRAP then! Community recycling animal project. CRAP is easier," said the older female. "We eat crap, live in crap and push crap about all day. We got the CRAP job!"

"I s'pose so," agreed one of the adolescents. "Could be worse I reckon. That baboon over there has had his arse shaved and painted red! and ain't nobody told him why yet!"

An Ordinary Night Out

It was just an ordinary night out with a good friend until we decided to visit an old haunt for nostalgia reasons. A trip down memory lane to an establishment which, for reasons that will become apparent later should you decide to persevere with this narrative, shall remain nameless. I had been to a formal black tie evening earlier and was dressed in a dinner suit, although I had now removed the bow tie. My friend was dressed smart and casually as you do for a Saturday night beer.

It was midnight when we made the decision to visit a club we had not been to for over ten years. That’s the point of trips down memory lane. To revisit and see what has changed, if anything, and bring back the feel good moments that we have stored in the mind having completely blotted out all the crap nights we probably spent there too. The first thing that had changed was the security. On the approach to the club the pavement was strewn with an array of metal barricades set out in that ridiculous way that you find in post offices where they decide to filter you around the room in a snake like manner instead of letting you take a direct walk straight to the counter. Another form of crowd control that we accept, I guess, just like religion. Anyway, the pavement was set up in the aforementioned post office style queue control method, although the general imagery was that of preparation for a riot rather than an inviting entrance to a desirable establishment where a convivial evening was to be had. Stationed at various points along the circuitous metal walkway were a number of bouncers dressed in what appeared to be riot gear topped with fluorescent jackets, headphones clamped to their ears and radios crackling importantly on their shoulders. Each of these guardians of the metal walkway were just under seven feet tall, the same width as the pavement and sporting commando haircuts, although ‘haircut’ is perhaps a fatuous term since none of them actually had any hair.
Our first direct encounter with one of the walkway beasts was when we were stopped and told it was a ‘mixed night’.
‘A mixed night,’ I said, more out of trying to comprehend the term rather than actually asking what a mixed night might be.  Helpfully, the bouncer’s method of explaining what he meant by a mixed night was to repeat the phrase saying, ‘Yeah, a mixed night.’
I had visions of men, women, aliens and animals all turning up for this innovative mixed night.
‘Do you mean that we should be with women, or something,’ I said by way of trying to get an explanation.
‘Yeah, women,’ was the response. It was clear we were not with any women and this was just another barrier, to support the physical metal ones, designed for making entry into this establishment more difficult than the Twelve Labours of Hercules. At the moment he said it I spotted a group of girls negotiating the complex security system in the distance, led by a young lady in heels that could only be designed to aerate a lawn, a dress that was just about keeping her neck warm, purple hair and enough dark makeup to make Cruella De Vil envious.
‘Err...that’s my wife,’ I said, optimistically pointing out the lead lady.
‘Are you with a party?’ the bouncer responded as he tried to come to terms in his head with the possibility that the guy in the dinner suit in front of him could possibly be in some sort of matrimonial relationship with the girl from a science fiction movie walking towards him. Fortunately my friend had the presence of mind to say that we were with a party and they were already inside.
‘You got any ID?’ the bouncer asked.
ID? ID, I thought. Why would he ask us for ID? Was it not apparent that both of us were not far short of 107 years old for god’s sake?’
The bouncer saw the quizzical look on my face. ‘A passport or something like that with your picture on it,’ he said to clarify matters.
Who brings a passport with them to go for a beer on a Saturday night in suburbia? I thought passports were for allowing you to get on aircraft and fly off to some exotic overseas destination. Not for allowing you entry into Club Guantanamo. I fumbled in my wallet and was relieved to find my driving licence. It had now become a test to beat the system, hence my relief at being able to find the licence and match the next test. He looked at my picture for several seconds.
‘That’s not you, is it? He said.
Of course it’s bloody well me, I thought. Who were you expecting to see? Did you think I’d be carrying Muhammad Ali’s driving licence with me? I know that we often make a split second decision to have a formal photo done in one of those station booths and we don’t always look our best, and I know on the day in question that I had had a stressful day at work and it was pleuting down with rain as I ran to the booth, but you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that the picture did bear a passing resemblance to the owner of the licence.
In jest I replied, ‘Of course it’s not me,’ and that seemed to appeal to his sense of humour. He turned to my friend who did not have a driving licence with him nor, oddly enough, a passport but was holding out a credit card to identify himself.
‘It needs you picture on it mate,’ the bouncer said, a look of self-satisfaction appearing on his face at the realisation that he may have found a legitimate reason for preventing entry. My friend pointed out that if he flipped the card over he would see it did indeed have his picture on it. It was one of those gold plated credit cards for which you would normally need two police motorcycle outriders accompanying you, to be allowed to take it out in public. From a Swiss account, that required it to have a photo, my friend could have actually bought the whole building that we were trying to get into, such was the card's credit limit. It was no lightweight ID.
‘It doesn’t have your address on it, ’ was the next impediment to our passing go, ‘I will have to check with my boss.’
Of course it doesn’t have his address on it, I thought, otherwise Neanderthals like you would be straight round there looting the place. As we stood awaiting the decision from on high as to whether we would be ‘lucky’ enough to be deigned entry into this salubrious establishment, it crossed my mind to pack up and go home. Who needs the aggravation? Just as I was about to make the suggestion we were given the green light by the ‘boss’ to proceed to the next round.
 
On we went, around a corner of the building, to encounter the next stage of entry. An airport style security scanner complete with trays to put all your personal affects in, was positioned straight ahead of us and manned by two more flak jacketed, florescent coated bouncers. My wallet, phone, coins and everything else I had in my pockets had to go into a tray and I walked through. Inevitably something, it could have been the cuff links on my shirt, set off the detector and I was frisked down, criminal style, by one of the wannabe militia. I had nothing to declare nor had my friend and eventually we  were allowed through to the front door of the club. After a tortuous screening process we had made it to the point of a trip down memory lane. Entry cost us £8 each when in reality we should have been given £8 each, in compensation for being treated like terrorists.
 
Inside much was the same. The same carpet after ten years and the same lay out. What was different was that beer was now served in plastic bottles, presumably so that my friend and I could not smash each other to a pulp should the contents of the bottle interfere with the normal hardwiring of our brains and we, uncharacteristically, suddenly developed a propensity for extreme violence. The clientele was different too. The average age was now somewhere just over twelve or so it seemed. It wasn’t that they all looked young but just that they all behaved as if they had just got out of primary school after a tough first day sampling acid. The women were dressed as if they had run out of cash on a shopping trip and could not quite afford the whole outfit. That is not normally a complaint from a bloke but it was clear that some of these ‘ladies’ should wear a lot more clothing, just to avoid some of us suffering post-traumatic stress after being exposed to such visual discomfort. The general standard, which at one time, given its original varied and mixed age group, had been easy on the eye, had now slipped to several degrees below ogre level.
 
Once we had managed to negotiate a bar melee several bodies deep from end to end and walk away with our plastic bottles, my friend and I decided to find a quieter location in the bar and stick to it. I wasn’t quite prepared for how literally that intention would play out. After several minutes I realised I could not move my feet. I attempted to lift my right foot and then my left and quickly became aware that, as I did so, the carpet was rising with them. Over the years the club had, unwittingly through a combination of spillage and body fluids, invented a very powerful form of adhesive that, if they can only realise its potential, will enable them to shut the place down and enter a new market selling industrial super glue. With some effort I managed to unstick myself from the carpet, with the realisation that I would at some point need to have both my shoes resoled since I could now feel the floor with my socks. I placed my plastic bottle on the bar, beckoned to my friend and we headed for the exit.

Sometimes curiosity makes you go back but sometimes going back should just be in the mind!

Bad Boy

I sometimes exaggerate! My date had advertised for a ‘partner in crime.’ I tried to ignore the only naughty things I’ve ever done that could be classed as minor crime (uh… nicking Lovehearts from a sweetshop when I was 7 so I could give them to Valerie Humphrey*… who was 6 and three quarters) and tried to use my imagination to come up with something more… uh, gangster! I guess that sort of ‘criminality’, nicking Lovehearts, was never gonna be up there on a Sam Giancanna rap sheet level. So, I… yeah, I suggested that I had a darker background than the, uh, altar boy image I’ve tried to create over the years. 

I put the word ‘organised’ in front of crime. She was intrigued. Women seem to like ‘darkness’ but marry ‘wholesomeness.’ Sorry, guys, if you’re married. You might be reformed, so… ! Anyway, since I was BSing I was frantically trying to think of some plausible criminality that I might have got away with, but criminality that was acceptable… you know, maybe ripping off a hedge fund where nobody appears to get hurt. However, since I’ve never done anything naughty in my entire live (refer back to the altar boy thing…), it was tough. So, I thought, blag it with subtle suggestion. I mean, big time crims are never gonna come right out and brag about ‘jobs.’ So I just made references to where I get my balaclavas from. She seemed intrigued! I seemed nervous… I’m gonna reconfigure that as edgy! I will update! 

*Post Scriptum. Valerie left me! The Lovehearts didn’t close the deal. The first one she pulled out should have contained the legend, ‘Hot Stuff’ but since the packet had been in my pocket for six days as I built up the courage to present my gift, some of the candy had worn off and it now said, ‘Ho tuff.’ She didn’t seem impressed! 

Oenophilia - or not, as the case may be!

I don’t often complain but I had good reason to. I'd bought a bottle of wine in a well known up-market supermarket (bit of overkill there… it's probably enough to be just ‘super’). Anyway, I got it home and realised it had ‘2008’ printed on the label. I was incensed. I’d paid the best part of eighty quid for it too! 

I took it straight back and asked, no... demanded, to speak to the store manager. Eventually, a guy in a sharp suit with a gold bordered badge, that had the letters ‘GEOFF’ on it, apppeared. Not sure what the word meant or how it’s pronounced so I assumed it meant he’d achieved some sort of knowledgeable status within the wine trade, you know, like a Sommelier. He looked mildly put out as he saw me approach with the wine bottle in my hand.

I ignored his attempt to introduce himself and just went for it.

“I bought this wine here earlier and it’s way out of date,” I said, thrusting the bottle forward so that the GEOFF couldn’t avoid it.

He stared at the bottle for a moment and then said, “Sorry? Out of date?”

“Yes! Out of date. Look.” I pointed at the label.

He stared some more. Then he looked at me… kind of condescendingly, I thought.

“That’s the date of the wine, sir… the year it was produced. It’s a Château de Beaucastel, Châteauneuf-du-Pape Rouge.”

I felt a rush of blood - we can’t all have GEOFF knowledge, and I prickled at the way the ‘French’ just rolled off his tongue, heightening the condescension level - but I took a deep breath and calmly said, “Uh, yeah, maybe, but, uh… it’s not acceptable. It’s, uh… confusing. It could be the ‘use by’ or ‘best before’ date, you know? I mean, I’d take a chance on a ‘best before’, even though we’re talking nearly fourteen frigging years later, but ‘use by’... I mean, I don’t want to get poisoned!”

He smirked. I didn’t like it. I wanted to punch him but you shouldn’t really punch people in supermarkets… well, maybe if they’re not wearing a mask or doing that blocking the aisle with a trolley full of unhealthy food while they chat with somebody they know, somebody they haven’t seen since ten frigging minutes earlier on Facebook.

Anyway, the GEOFF caught my attention again but before he could speak I pulled out my ‘till’ receipt and held it out accusingly. I kind of felt I had nowhere to go, the GEOFF held the high ground and the knowledge.

“Look, seventy-nine pound fifty. That’s a lot of money. The least you could do is be clearer about these things… uh, the date thing.”

“Sir, this is a perfectly good, high quality wine. It is renowned for its elegance, balance and ageing potential. In fact it matures with age. There is no issue.”

My face felt redder than the wine. Customers we’re staring. I wished I was Basil Fawlty… “get on with your shopping, you half wits!” Nothing worse than having your dimness called out in public. Time for a get out. “Uh, okay… uhm… could you recommend some crisps to go with it?”

A Quiet Drink

I was sitting at a table in a bar. On my own. Three empty seats. A fella comes up with two women and says, "Sorry. Anyone sitting here?"

I looked for his white stick but he didn't have one. No dark glasses either and he wasn't humming 'Very superstitious, writing on the wall...' So I dismissed any thoughts about why he might be sorry and replied, "Yes, actually. I'm sitting here." And with an expansive gesture towards the remaining seats I said, "And the Invisible Man and his invisible wife are here ...oh, and their invisible child, whose sex I am unable to determine because he/she is invisible, is occupying this seat just there." He seemed slightly taken aback and glanced at one of his companions who decided she should intervene.

"No need to be rude. He only asked if anyone was sitting here."

"Madam, I am not being rude," I said. "I am aware of what this gentleman asked. I realise that that was his only question as you so expertly point out. I realise he didn't ask if I could explain Fermat's Last Theorem and nor did he ask if it was currently raining in Cambodia. Hence I answered his only question. Now, if you will be so kind as to accept my answer I would appreciate it. It isn't often I get to go out with my invisible friends, mainly because when we arrange to meet I never know whether they have turned up."

The woman took a deep breath and then whispered something to the other woman. Then she said, "Err, okay... I'm sorry. I understand. My friend and I work in the psychiatric department of the local hospital and we... we understand. No offence... if there's anything we can do..."

"Thank you," I said. "Apology accepted. Perhaps you'd get three gin and tonics... oh, and a cigar for the kid... by way of showing some good will."

She's at the bar now!

An Accident That Wasn't My Fault!

 Yesterday I had the following 'phone conversation:

"Hello."
"Good morning. I understand you have recently been in an accident that wasn't your fault. Is that right?"
I hesitated, about to cut the call. Then I changed my mind. "Oh yes. That's right. The one in Wiltshire?"
"I see. Whereabouts?"
"At Longleat."
"Thank you. I just want to check on the details of the accident. Is that okay?"
"Sure."
"Could you just explain what happened."
"Well, you're right, it wasn't my fault. It just ran out."
"Ran out?"
"Yes, right in front of me."
"What did? The other vehicle?"
"No, the giraffe."
"The giraffe? Is that another make? Like the... uhm, the Panda?"
"Not exactly. There's a big difference between a panda and a giraffe."
"I see. I'm not familiar with... was it head on?"
"Hardly! More like... between the legs."
"Sorry? Between the legs? You were injured then? Did you get the other party's insurance details?"
"No, I didn't think many giraffes would have had the foresight to have taken out insurance when relocated to Longleat and anyway I didn't have a pen and applying an educated guess, I assumed nor did the giraffe."
"Sorry. The giraffe driver, you mean?"
"Driver?"
"Yes, was the giraffe driven -"
"Well, it certainly had attitude after I hit it."
"I'm confused, sir. Can we clarify... did you say a safari park?"
"Yes, Longleat is a safari park. The giraffe that run out in front of me was an inmate and the collision that resulted was an accident that wasn't my fault, which is what you rang up about wasn't it?"
There was a pause, then, "Sir, are you wasting my time?"
"Me... wasting your time? You called me...."
The line went dead!

Prophets

Before prophets I presume there were no prophets. Then one day a chap came along (this was well before female prophets like Deborah, Miriam, Huldah, Anna and the like got involved) and said, “Listen up!” (For it was likely that he was an early American). “I am a prophet.”

And the multitudes (early gangs) said, “Err, wot? A profit?”

“Nah... a prophet with a PH.”

“A PH?” queried the multitude.

“Ain’t that a figure expressing the acidity or alkalinity of a solution on a logarithmic scale on which 7 is neutral, lower values are more acid and higher values more alkaline and wot ain’t even been invented yet?”

“Well it ought to be invented soon,” a voice amongst the multitude said, “the Dead Sea’s on it’s last legs.”

“Course it is, nob. That’s why we’re calling it the Dead Sea,” the multitude responded.

The chap that claimed to be a prophet held a hand up and said, “Look, I ain’t getting this scientific stuff mainly cos science ain’t been invented yet... well, unless you count all that stuff them Young Egyptians (for they were not yet Ancient) and Greeks are up to... talking of which, that Thagorus bloke confuses the hell out of me with his Theorems. When he’s not eating all the pies he’s always bloody spouting theorems. And that’s my point.”

“What is?” the multitude cried.

“I’m a prophet. He’s all.... theorems. I'm different I tell it like it is.”

“Like what then? What’s this profit thing with a PH?”

The chap drew himself up to his full height and said, “A prophet, such as I am.... err, prophesies.”

“Prophesies?” the multitude queried in unison.

“Yeah... tells the future.”

“Right. But how come we never had them before? How come nobody said you was coming?”

“Simple, innit. That’s cos there was no prophets before me.”

“So you’re the first profit with a PH?” the multitude said.

“Yeah, I am... and why are you all speaking in unison?”

“What? We’re a multitude, innit. Anyway, what you saying about the future?”

The chap who claimed to be a prophet stroked his hair and said, “I prophesy that... that... there will be one.”

“Be one?” the multitude gasped, causing the Dead Sea to create a sudden tide.

The chap that claimed to be a prophet threw his hands in the air and loudly proclaimed, “There will be a future. And the future will be cursed.”

The multitude was silent, quizzical looks passing between them. Then, the voice that had warned of the Dead Sea’s plight shouted out in irritation, thus creating the world’s first expletive... “Fukdisshit.”

Brave New World

In a bar in the North Sector called Xcdfertyiioprdfet, which is normally quite exclusive. I guess it's because it's so cold outside, great swathes of solid ice blocking up the sector channels, that made them take pity on me and let me in. There are two pterodactyls at the bar and both have just ordered neat Malibu. I thought that was quite odd. Who drinks neat Malibu? 

The SB Service Biotric behind the bar merely absorbed the request and seconds later both drinks appear holistically on the bar top. I pull up a mushroom and sit down. A Tyrannosaurus Rex is getting a tad loud in a corner, banging on about the referendum that will see a vote on whether to ban all Dinosaurs over seven feet tall from the Yourolandis Union of Countries. He's wearing a silver t-shirt that has the message, 'No To Rexit. Not in My LifeTime,' emblazoned across it in black, six foot lettering. I ignore him and ask the SB for a pale ale. It hesitates, lights on its chest flashing several times. This is followed by a plume of smoke. One of the pterodactyls pulls out a cigarette and holds the end against the SB's head. The cigarette instantly lights and the pterodactyl sticks it in a cigarette holder and takes several drags. I just fancy a pale ale. 

This Yourolandis dream sucks. Automation is fine until you want something they can't deal with. Maybe Yourolandis isn't all it's cracked up to be. My Stellerpak is out of charge. Nothing charges up properly anymore. Not sure how I'll get home. The sub-zero temperatures that have been steadily dropping for months are not helping. Impassable sector channels blocked, in many cases by sheer cliffs of ice. Even the nationalised transport conglomerate, Oooba Ooober & Ooobah is losing customers. And more and more dinosaurs are moving to the city. 

The SB seems to have gone to sleep. I press a light button on the bar surface and a gin and toxic appears, complete with mint and a straw, but no ice. I smile at the irony but one of the pterodactyls mistakes it as a friendly sign. I feel uncomfortable. I neck the gin and toxic and collapse the mushroom. I walk to the dimension lift. Time for a brave new world.

1962 Moon Project in Brexit Terms.

Venue: Oval Office, Washington DC

“You wanna do what? Go to the moon? You told the public and a TV audience that we’re going to the moon!”

“Yup, I did. That’s exactly what I said.”

“You must be outta your mind.” Laughs. “So, how we gonna do that then?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

Disdainful look. “You don’t know?”

“That’s right... yet. All I know is it can be done. You have to have ambition and a positive outlook.”

“Optimism and hope, then? You don’t even know what your programme looks like, yet you insist it can be done.” Raised eyebrow.

“Yup, but optimism and hope breeds action and determination and that way things get done.”

“Okay, so how you gonna finance it? No sponsors are gonna go for such a crazy shit idea. Businesses will be scared they’ll lose money if they back such a hare-brained scheme. They like what they know. They ain’t gonna back you. They won’t make deals with you.”

“Then we’ll finance it ourselves... without their goddam deals.”

Laughs and more eyebrow raising. “That’s crazy. No deals? It’ll cost billions! You risk our economic stability, loss of jobs... freakin' Armageddon!”

“What you’re not seeing is the big picture. You’re like the rest. You can’t see past tomorrow. You worry too much about yourself and the here and now. You have no vision. Think about the future benefits of discovery, new ideas, new inventions, new technology, new partners. Once people see these benefits. I predict that in fifty years time we’ll have technology as a result of this moon project that sc-fi writers couldn’t even make up.”

Frowns. “You think? Anyway, even if it was possible, it’s too dangerous. Lives could be lost, what if the whole thing crashes out... literally?”

“Crashes out? What’s the matter with you? All your negative crap. You don’t wanna do this? You don’t wanna discover new worlds?”

“Listen, there’s nothing wrong with what we got. We’ve had it a long time. Why go risking everything?”

“Okay, so you wanna remain where you are, yeah? That right?”

“It’s safe, it’s what we know. Why change things? Why get involved in something that hard?”

Smiles. “I’ll tell you why. Because remaining where you are means you stay in one place; people get used to just being there, they get complacent and then they get taken advantage of. Before they know it, things get changed so even though they got used to what they have, one day it’s changed, subtly, but changed none the less and you, the sucka, haven’t even noticed that it wasn’t what you started out with. So you either get ahead of that and drive your own ambition or forever suck up to somebody else. And as for safe, try telling that to Columbus, Magellan, Pasteur, Edison... they weren’t goddam staying in one place just 'cos it's easier. We do things, not because they’re easy, but because they are hard.” Turns away. Then... “One other thing, buddy. I’m sick to the back teeth of politicians like you who spout negative, unambitious drivel about how things are gonna be tough, how disastrous the future will be, how we are heading into a black hole. You know what? That’s the easy option, being a naysayer, telling us how tough things are. The hard option is doing something about it. Now take your lily livered, spineless ass out of my fucking office. We’re going to the moon.”

Weather Chat

I recall last summer on a particularly warm afternoon, my car display showed twenty-eight degrees. It meant nothing to me other than it was a bit hot. I'm old skool. Still buy beer by the pint, milk by the pint and drive at 'miles per hour'. But, anyway, twenty-eight degrees and I'd heard people whinging about it being 'toooo hot.' Really? It's the British mind-set when it comes to the weather. If the next day the temperature drops to half that and the clouds hover (maybe some cumulonimbus) the very same people bemoan the British summer, banging on about how cold it is and that 'yesterday was our summer.' God help us if they have a 'bbq' planned.

Footnote: I often wonder what camels have to talk about since, most desert dwelling camels experience the same weather day after day after day. Presumably, eons ago, they had that conversation that went, "nice out, ain't it," but that quickly became the norm and so, with nothing to talk about, conversation didn't evolve. However, monkeys were a whole different thing. Living in rain forests they had ample opportunity to develop 'chat'...

"Pissing down again."

"Yeah, but it'll ease off. Oi... that's my banana!"

"Awright... keep yer hair on.... hang on, sun's out."

"Ain't gonna last though. It'll piss down again."

"Might not."

"Yeah it will. We live in a rain forest. Clue's in the flippin' name, ain't it?"

"That don't mean that it's definitely gonna rain, does it?"

"Yeah it does. It always rains in a rain forest otherwise they'd have called it a... a sun forest."

"Okay, but we get the sun too, don't we, so I'm just sayin'." 

"I know that, but it's mostly rain but if we didn't get no sun then them friggin' bananas wouldn't grow."

'What'cha mean? Nah, they're just there, ain't they? Nothin' to do wiv the weather."

'You got nuts for brains? Don't work like that. And stop scratching yer - "

"Wassup?"

"Hang on. Don't look now but... I said don't look, nob. There's one of them camel things over there."

"Camels?"

"Yeah... weird gits with dodgy backs wot got nothing to say."

So... if it wasn't for the weather perhaps monkeys would never have evolved to the extent that we now have the wonders of txtspk.

Fishing

We all have our preferred pastimes but, unless you're a trawlerman, isn't fishing just weird?

Man dangles rod with maggot on the end of a line in water for several days, pitting his wits against... a fish. Eventually after man has been in the freezing cold and icy rain to the point of near hypothermia, fish with the IQ of a... well, a fish I s'pose, grabs the maggot bait (which by now is probably stiffer than a Scotsman's caber) and is undone. 

Man then hoists fish out of water and gets a selfie with fish to demonstrate his superior prowess at duping fish. Then man chucks fish back into water... and does same thing again, namely dangles line in water. Fish lands back in water with cut lip thinking, "Shit, that was spicy. I ain't eatin' one of dem fings again." 

Five minutes later fish forgets his weird experience (he has the memory of a fish, after all) and goes after another of the dangling delicacies on the end of a line. Man, whose fingers are now as stiff as that Scotsman's caber since it is 3 a.m. in the morning and pitch black, feels the tug on his line and reels in exactly the same fish.

Thing is, he doesn't know it's the same fish because a lot of fish look similar (even the fish doesn't know he's the same fish) especially in the dark. Anyway, the two of them pose for another selfie, this time with fish doing a trout pout (even though he's a carp) and then man throws fish back in the water again. 

Of course, there may well be some extremely narcissistic fish that love to have their moment in the limelight and don't mind a few minutes deprived of oxygen for the sake of a moment's celebrity - the Rainbow Fish may well be such a creature. 

And what anglers do with their fish pix? Do they keep a collection on their ‘phones? Do they know each individual fish by sight from the photos? Also, if they do catch the same fish again is there some form of reunion?

   "Hey, buddy. How you doin'? Sorry about that. I didn't mean to yank you outta there so, uh... enthusiastically. Hey, didn't we meet about an hour ago? Yeah, yeah... I recognise you. Wanna another pic?"

Very odd hobby. I guess the only thing that would make this more interesting would be if, just occasionally, the fish threw the angler into the water... but they ain't that bright.

Psychic Cycles

I had a dream last night that I was one of those psychics, you know the type... the ones that take money off the gullible and then tell them stuff that they want to hear, about stuff they already know!

Anyway, in this dream, given that I’d discovered I might be psychic, I decided to have my own show. I even advertised its time and place in the local paper thus demonstrating my new found powers of prediction and being able to see into the future.

I took the stage on my first night as ‘Mystic Paddy’ and I have to say I was nervous - but I knew I would be. The crowd numbered well over 150, which means... there were nearer 200. I started my routine by dimming the light... well, I didn’t, the stage electrician did but the crowd loved it as I raised my hand in a signal to him and somehow they thought I had done something spooky already. They were up for spooky! Immediately I knew I was on a winner.

I then said, “I’m getting a letter... the letter ‘F’. Yes... the letter ‘F’ and there’s a dog... yes, a dog running down a path and there’s... “A simple everyday occurrence. Somebody had to bite. They did. 

Immediately a voice called out, “I’ve got a dog. Fido... he’s called Fido.”

It crossed my mind that this was too easy. People were willing to tell me stuff and pay me to hear it regurgitated back at them! I decided I had to make the performance more intriguing and suspenseful if it was that easy.

“Fido, you say? No... I’m not getting Fido. Definitely an ‘F’ though, and... wait, yes, an ‘E’ as well.”

Another voice from the audience. “My mother’s dog... Fergie... he died in a plane crash over two years ago. Is it....?”

“A plane crash?” A tad unusual for a dog, I thought.

“Yes... he was chasing sheep in a field in Australia when the flying doctor was trying to land and clipped him with a wheel.”

I took a deep breath and then paused for dramatic effect and said, “No, it’s not Fergie... " I raised my arms in the air and spread my hands wide as if embracing the audience. “Wait... yes, I hear something... "  The audience hushed. “... it’s an Irish accent... I closed my eyes tight and began to speak, as if in ‘tongues'... “Feck... get off that feckin postman yer fecker."

The audience was silent. I glanced to my left. One of the stage hands was making a drink sign with his hand.

“A tea,” I said, before I realised I hadn’t muted the mic.

“My uncle Tommy,” a woman’s voice shouted out. “He had an Irish wolfhound that was always attacking visitors. He passed on ten years ago. He was knocked down and run over by the postman.”

I jumped on the information straight away. “Ah, yes, I see him now. Laying there, his tongue hanging out as his last breath left him. A crowd around him, patting his shaggy grey coat -"

“It was summer,” the woman said. “Tommy never wore a coat in summer and sure I never remember him havin' a grey one anyway. And the bloody stupid dog was lickin' his face trying to get him to wake up.”

“Uh, yes... Tommy... " I had to style it out. “Tommy sends his love to you and your family and is glad the dog is well.”

The woman looked surprised. “Does he? I hated the bastard and I can tell you he was no family man. And I had the bloody stupid dog put down a week after the funeral. Sure if I hadn’t I’d never have seen any post again.”

I swallowed hard. “No, you’re right. It’s the dog that’s... yes, uh... sending his love and hopes you and the family are... you know, keeping well. Sometimes these messages get mixed when people and animals are close.”

I had to move on. “I feel a lot of energy in this room tonight.” I paused again. Then decided to proceed cautiously. “I’m getting a... the name Smith... yes, Smith. Is there anyone here by the name of Smith?” There wasn’t. “Wait... it’s definitely an ‘S’... Sue... Susanne... Sues... anne... ,” I said, which suddenly gave me three name options.

“Anne,” a voice said from near the front.

I wiped my brow and tried to focus. “Yes, Anne. I’m seeing... a mother... a father... they... "

Anne was nodding. She was around seventy-five years old so it was safe to assume her parents were not in the audience. “... they were close,” I said. I guess they had to have been at one time if they had a daughter.

Anne nodded again.

“Uh... a grandmother and grandfather...” I said, pushing it further. They definitely couldn’t be in the audience.

Anne smiled and nodded some more. I had a connection but needed to know what to do with it. “I see a bicycle... ". One of the family surely had to have had one. The connection spanned well over a hundred years which took us past the motor car. “Your parents or grandparents had a bicycle, Anne. I sense it. They are sending you energy and kindness.”

Anne wiped a tear away. “My father... he had a bicycle... for work.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes... I see him now. He loved his bike and used to ride it all -"

“But they took it away... when... when he was jailed,” Anne said.

“Err... jailed?”

“Jailed for running over a customer... he was a postman and... "

Her voice trailed off as she broke down.

I woke with a start. I don’t usually remember dreams that vividly!

(N.B. No dogs were hurt in the making of this dream. Stunt dogs were used. It should be said that no humans were hurt either.)

The Scouts

I was in the scouts when I 'were a lad.' 2nd Wimbledon Scout Group. I have no idea whether there was a 1st Wimbledon scout group or a 3rd Wimbledon scout group. I never saw them but surely there had to be or it would have been pointless calling our lot the 2nd Wimbledon. 

We were allowed to carry knives... in public. Yes, six inch hunting knives, strapped to our waists in a sheath and on full public display. I am not sure why we had these blades as I never stabbed anyone. In fact I never did anything useful at all with it. Occasionally we had to carve a tent peg out of a branch but since I lived in a house in Wimbledon, a single tent peg was completely unnecessary. And the local camping shop, Millets, was in Wimbledon Broadway so if I ever needed a tent peg (when you're 10, you don't) I could have bought one from my paper round money. 

These days I would have been arrested for carrying a knife with intent to carve a tent peg (and probably for wearing stupid baggy shorts, a weird neckerchief and for mumbling bollocks like DYB DYB DYB, DOB DOB DOB.)

So I managed to get through that period of childhood without stabbing anyone, or getting arrested, and completely oblivious as to how I got into the organisation in the first place and what exactly it was for in Wimbledon! With hindsight, I now believe we were a street gang, like the CRIPS and the BLOODS in LA and, with our superior weaponry, we must have eliminated the 1st and 3rd Wimbledon 'gangs' to become the dominant local outfit.

Car Washes

So, I need to discuss car washes. (Discuss as in feel free to comment if you have any views on car washes at all!) Now, when I refer to ‘car washes’, I don’t mean those automated ones where you sit in an enclosed space for five minutes wondering if you have lined your car up correctly and it will come out in one piece. No, I mean the ‘hand wash’ ones where only one person speaks English and everything is conducted in hand signals.

You get beckoned forward and you creep slowly along to a point where suddenly the guy shoots out a hand in a firm STOP signal. You switch off the engine and sit back while people start spraying your vehicle with high powered jets of water; then it gets soaped up using giant sponges. At that point you get beckoned forward again, but after moving just seven inches you suddenly get the abrupt STOP hand-sign again. Nobody in the world knows why you have to move forward only seven inches and then stop again. After more vigorous soaping, water bombardment and random spraying - some weird stuff contained in a giant flask is sprayed all over the vehicle windscreen, bodywork and wheels, and you have no idea what it is because you can’t wind down the window and ask as you might end up with a ‘facefull’ of it and then have to watch in your rear-view mirror as your skin peels off - you get beckoned forward again 

By now you’re really nervous because you don’t know whether you should be going seven inches or driving forward positively. However, the expression on the ‘beckoning bloke’s’ face as you are inching along - a kind of ‘FFS, mate, get a move on, ain’t you ever driven a flippin’ car before’ look - encourages you to be a bit more ambitious until he pulls out the STOP hand again. You stop, switch off the engine while the car gets jetted some more, but just as you are beginning to relax, you get the ‘seven inch’ manoeuvre thrown at you again. You ease forward, stop again but then you don’t know whether to switch off the engine or leave it running. You leave it for a minute and then decide to switch off but just as you do, you get the hand signal to move forward. This time you pass through a giant ‘hairdryer’, not sure at what speed you should be going. Once through there, an army of blokes with chamois leathers descend on your car like war zone rioters and begin flanneling it down. You realise the ordeal is nearly over and begin to chill… until you spot the missed bit - two droplets of water just waiting to trickle down your side mirror. 

You watch the chamois bloke on your right side and you’re thinking, “C’mon, mate. You gotta see that… surely, you must. You can’t miss it.” He continues to chamois vigorously but somehow misses it and you say nothing because after all the water that’s been sprayed over your vehicle, it kind of seems ‘picky’ to complain about two solitary drops, even if they are irritating the hell out of you! Then, for no reason at all, someone comes along and starts painting your tyres black! They don’t even ask what colour you fancy. I guess it’s the old Henry Ford legend, “You can have any colour you want as long as it’s black.” 

And then the final touch. One of the guys knocks on your window; you wind it down and he hands you one of those scented ‘Christmas tree’ things that is supposed to make the inside of your car smell nice, but actually makes it smell like somebody’s conducted a chemical experiment in your vehicle that went wrong, and if you did hang it from your rear-view mirror it would knock ten percent off the value of your car the minute you drove away from the car wash! 

In fairness though, these guys do a good job. Not their fault I have no clue what’s going on!!