The chances were that it was an alien.
When you are sitting in the garden of England, most totally unremarkable field in the world, watching the corn grow, and a large spinning plate-type object spins down from outer-space carving an almost perfectly circular pattern in the crops. You can be reasonably sure that the item you are dealing with has not “popped down from London for a look at your quaint scenery”. This is a quite different type of alien. “Crimanettly” said our illustrious hero, in a manor not dissimilar to that Vulture in the Disney Robin Hood thing.
Let us look at out hero for a moment.
He is just under 6 feet in height, he has mousy brown hair, or would
have if he washed it more often, which is plastered backwards over his skull in a manner that patently doesn’t suit him. You get the sense that the reason for this is that no one has thought to tell him it doesn’t work, because as a general rule is he background scenery. You could know him for years and forget him in an instant. We shall call him Simon. Because that is his name.
Simon was sitting in a field bewailing his lot. He was good at it. Ever since he had read about it in some book or other he had discovered it a useful way to pass the time, and by now his bewailing of his lot was that of an all star performer. Simon could bewail for England.
Currently he wasn’t bewailing his lot, because, as was hitherto mentioned (and yes, he uses words like hitherto, which is one of the reasons for his social isolation, and therefore to the bewailing of lots) a large alien space-craft has landed in the corn field in front of him. From the craft, an alien appeared. He was green, or she was green, or it was green.
I’ll start again.
The Alien was green in colour, and appeared as a large ball of slime. It appeared to face Simon for a moment, before oozing into the appearance of one of his own kind. Well, not strictly of his kind, more of a female type of his kind. An exceedingly nice example of the female type of his kind in fact, so Simon’s brain wasn’t working well as she asked him:
“What are you?”
Simon blinked a few times
“I’m sorry?” he answered.
“What are you?” repeated the alien
“I am a human being.” Said Simon.
“A human being what?” Said the alien
If this was a cartoon, you would probably see the gears turn in Simon’s head as he tried to work this out. But it isn’t, so you don’t.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Human being what?” Said the alien
“I don’t follow”
“I, for example, am a Sgfjxxafg being what ever it is that you are” replied the alien(she pronounced the xx very well for a throat that was never designed for it)
“Oh, Homo Sapiens” said Simon
“A Human being a Homo Sapiens?”
“No, it’s…” was as far as Simon got before the alien, exasperated beyond measure, drew it’s laser and shot him. A few minutes later the space ship left, rising over the Elm Tree Pub behind it, leaving a perfect crop
“And that’s why we haven’t seen Simon for a while” said the new bloke at the bar.
At a signal, John got up for the next round.
“How do you know all this then?” asked Jim
“I saw it all, I was behind a… er… tree” replied the teller of tales, looking out the window at the sign.
John came back, holding a tray loaded with the nectar of the sods,
“There ain’t any trees in that field, and anyway, even Simon would be able to explain the phrase ‘A Human Being’” decided John, as he handed the tale-teller his newest measure of large.
“A Human being what?” said the alien, as he accepted his pint.
Nicholas Avenell, March 15th, 2000