Alien vs Unfreend



Warning, serious stereotypes 🙂

Lurking on the edge of reality in outer space some 37,000 kilometres above Scotland, hangs a spaceship slowly spinning and turning end over end. Up there tidy parking is not yet an issue.

This massive metal monster was once the command centre of a mighty alien invasion fleet. Due to cutbacks it’s now a humble research base that has studied the people of one terrestrial landmass, made no sense of the populace and moved on for further studies.

Almost invisible robotic craft come and go to the land below, snatching the unwary for observation.

Deep in the spaceship’s echoing metal bowels a voice rings out.

‘Oh illustrious master of intergalactic stuff. I got two.’

‘From where?’

‘The least important place. No one will have seen: we’re safe.’

‘Least important?’

‘Aah, the rules are strict. In this island the people get more important the further south you go.’

‘Who says?’

‘The people of the south. When you get to the southernmost end people may have not heard of or believe in anything north of a thing called Watford. Let alone… Er … sorry … I can’t pronounce that place name without losing most of my face.’

‘Are they human? worth studying?’

‘Oh, clever master of all the best questions, the scans say they are derived from monkeys. Ginger ones by the look.’

‘Are these specimens male or female?’

‘Male but wearing skirts. We’ve seen that occasionally before in where was it? The last place … yes … the Untied Stilts but not the six-metre-long stick in one hand and the bottle of brown fluid in the other.’

‘Brown fluid? That may be a chemical weapon.’

‘Most perspicacious master, it so is. But they use it on themselves to blow their brains out.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Let me see … running checks now … from what our silicon demons compute these people are really into tradition and currently the inhabitants of England aren’t blowing their brains out for them. They must miss it.’

‘England? Do they speak English like the people from the Untittied Stakes?’

‘Um … processing … yes/no.’

‘Is that an answer?’

‘Our demons are doing their best.’

‘Let me hear the human speak; the one that’s standing up and not making that fearful noise.’

‘Dear leader of the great space exploration. May I advise against this – in a most againsty way?’


‘OK, your most asking for it wonder.’

The said human in the transport bay waves a bottle at the walls, floor and ceiling like he’s not sure which is which.

‘Whe’s gaun an? Whaur’s this? Ah dinnae ken. Ah wis aspar n biggin a brucken dyke n whoosh ah’m in a tinnie. Whet?’

The master says, ‛Aaaaaarg! Turn that eargrater off! Did I ask for that? Say yes and I’ll kill you.’

‘Master you did not ask for that, my mistake, yes.’

‘You said yes.’

‘Oh most perspicacious, that was meant only in context. In reality it means no, yes?’

‘Did you say yes again?’

‘Only in a way that confirms your intellectual superiority. I am so slow with words.’

‘As long as we know where we stand.’
‘Or hang onto walls and ceilings, your slimy gloopiness…’

‘You know what I mean. I have a good grasp of English now we have studied the Untitled Stoats. DagnabbitcoladoohdadayOKMucknuggit, see? What did the abductee just say?’

‘Computing … I have no idea.’
‛That’s an odd thing to say.’

‘No, my galactic wonderosity, I meant “I don’t know”. My spell check demon just committed suicide. I’m having to go to Gargle Transmute… Uh … here comes the translation.’

‘What’s happening? Where am I? I don’t know. I was astride and re-building a broken (sorry, not sure about the next word – this is my best shot) lesbian and … something … I’m in a beer can. What?”

‘So, these people make as much sense as the last lot. Tell me more about the chemical weapon.’
‛Master of things and other things, it is named after their national drink, uisge or whisky. Not that they can afford it. The real stuff goes abroad. What he has is vodka made in China with a teabag thrown in. Ooer, he’s thrown that big stick.’

‘Ach, nae luck, glaikit caber. Ah’m tae wabbit, oor pushed on this wabblie shite. Eh…. eh…? Whet? Am I abraid? on an airieplane? Conflummix! Richt leesome… Ah bin catcht by eeliens! Auchten days in New York n ah wasnae shot, catcht by aliens, didnae sie ane wee coo laddie. Bluidie connach o guide mony. Sud’ve bidden hame n gat i hoddin.”

‘Stop him talking!’

‘Master, with this people that’s impossible. That all translates into, “No luck. Stupid stick. I may be too tired or intoxicated on this weak … er, poo.” I think he was disappointed with his stick throwing, sir. He goes on to say, “Am I on an aeroplane? Bad surprise of a big nature. I’ve been abducted by aliens. 18 days in an Upended Stunts town and I wasn’t shot, abducted by aliens and didn’t see a single cowboy – waste of good money. Should have stayed at home and got abducted for free.”.’

‘He’s haverin, sir, … what did I just say?’

‘What is that weapon in his belt handbag? Looks like a bomb.’

‘It’s food, my master of observation. They make sheep eat things and then sort of turn the animal inside out.’

‘What’s the one lying down saying?’

‘Nothing, that’s the noise they make when they’ve consumed too much whisky and fallen asleep.’

‘They both sound the same to me. Bloody useless. Send two battleships down, drop those two weirdos off and abduct more.’

‘As you command, most decisionating master. I’ll send the first back to Glasgow and the second to Edinburgh.’

‘Whatever. Just no sticks, skirts, whisky or inside-out animals.’

‘They all have them. We’ll have to confiscate on arrival..’



‘Ah, master … of the smaller fleet. We’ve been pyked. Oh, not agin. Hic… Sorry, merely running necessary research into whisky. We’ve lost both shittlebaps … bittleshaps…’

‘Not even you could lose a battleship ninety kilometres long! let alone two. Explain.’

‘The one we sent to Glasgow … it was left unlocked for a nanosecond. Apparently that is gypit … dyte … inadvisable.’

‘And the other?’

‘Worse. The local authorities stuck metal things, hic, with locks all over it and issued parking tickets that currently amount to more than the value of the ship itself. For auld lang syne…’

‘Shut up! Are you unwell?’

‘Och, dinnae fesh yersel. Ah’ll be stottin the morn’s morn, ye ken. Hic.’


©Gary Bonn 2013


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.