In Essex, no-one can hear you scream...

...in fruit stimulated orgasm.

or something.

See, we wuz out (again!) last night, and it came to the usual End Of The Night Taxi converse.

• Pretties (allegedly) Taking An Interest in an oblivious Xym
• Pretties Xym was Taking An Interest In
• Pretties Xym WOULD be Taking An Interest In if they were there
• Obvious Campanologist taking an interest in Xym's bells (Well, Campanologist as in Camp, and more interested in Xym's balls rather than bells. Creepily, dreamingly ogling me up on the dance floor and following me everywhere like a lovestruck puppy. I could understand the Gay Iconage last night, as per yesterday's blog, but I was in me normal getup - what is it that makes Pretties flee and gayboys gather?).
• The name of Xym's autobiography (Xym: A Disabstraction Of The Easily Distra... Ooooh Pretty!) ; and
• Why do I associate Fifers with potatoes?

When we taxi back, we go by Fifers Lane, drop me off, then t'others go on to Sprowston. Now, when we said Fifers Lane, It occurred to me. Potatoes. Why Potatoes?

My Sis & Taxi drivers agreed. Fifers = Potatoes. Why? We can't remember!

Googleage!

Yeah. Not simple. Pipery flutey stuffs with the odd sprinking of Fifers Lane itself, and the occasional mention of muskets, drums, and a nudie soldier* refusing to cop off with some woman coz he has no clothes to put on (said woman having to do something with her chest, not getting a response and tarting him up in her very very best vest. or something. Cross dressing tranny soldiers indeed!)

Anyhoo, talk transgressed from transgender to Trinidadian fruitery (or wherever bananas come from. The Banana Republic probably. or Sainsburys.), and how they might be Fifers. With a little blue label. And how you peel that label off the banana before peeling the peel off the banana, and it being a pointless exercise, because no-one eats banana peel, so why peel the peelable label off the peel in the first place, when you could just peel the peel off the banana replete with sticker, and lob the lot in the bin!

Preferably with the banana.

Anyhoo, it turns out than in Essex, it is a popular passtime to peel a banana and plaster it on your face. Much like the facehugger in Ridley Scott's Alien franchise. 

Perhaps that's all that Aliens is. An analogy for Essex. Ridley was on a trip to Essex, and saw these drunken rowdy folks comatose in gutters with facehugging banana skins raping their drooling mouths, and wondered if the plantain penetrators were insemminating the inebriated revellers by spunking seeds down their throat and into their belly.

See, people say H.R. Geiger-Counter's design is very phallic, and the head of the Alien is just a massive cock. With teeth. Phallus Dentata, if you will. Bollocks! It's just a dirty great big fuck-off banana!

Remember that TV show - Bananas In Pjamas? Two men in costume? I think not - they're real and are the result of some ungodly hyrid that burst out of an Essex belly thanks to a rapey banana peel on a drunken Saturday night out! 

* Y'AAAARRGGH! FLASHBACKS TO LAST NIGHT'S END OF PROPER GANDERAGE, AND THE BUNCH OF SLOW-WITTED FOLK WITH THE GINGER CAPERING-IN-CIRCLES DWARF WHO, UPON THE CONCLUSION OF THE SONG "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER" REFUSED TO LEAVE THE VENUE, PREFERRING TO STAND IN FRONT OF THE DJ CHANTING "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER" AD INFINITUM. ANNOYINGLY SO. MORE ANNOYINGLY BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING ANNOYING PHRASE "I GOT SOUL, BUT I'M, NOT A SOLDIER". FUCK OFF! FUCK RIGHT OFF! LIKE THAT DUMB GINGER DWARF THICKO - IT'S NOT BIG AND IT'S NOT CLEVER.  MIGHT A WELL SAY I GOT TOAST, BUT I'M NOT A TOASTER! I GOT FIRE, BUT I'M NOT A FIREPLACE. I GOT HEART, BUT I'M NOT A HEART RATE MONITOR. SOUL AND SOLDIER LYRICS MY BEST HAT! THAT SAID, ONE SUPPOSED ONE SHOULD FORGIVE THE "STRAWBERRY BLONDE" PERSON OF DIMINUTIVE STATURE, FOR AS THAT FAMOUS YOUTUBE ANGRY GINGER RANTER SAID: "GINGERS HAVE SOULS TOO!"
BUT HE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT A SOLDIER, BEING TOO SMALL TO MEET THE BURLY SOLDIERMAN TYPE. UNLESS THERE IS AN ELITE MILITIA OF MIDGET MUNCHKINS PUTTING THE WIND UP THE TERRORISTS BY PERFORMING WILLY WANKER AND HIS CHOCOLATE STARFISH OOMPA-LOOMPA SONGS BEFORE SLIPPING UP A JYHADDYWADDY DJBELLA AND BITING A BEHEADERS BELLEND OFF. 

Solway First...

So, today is the 50th anniversary of the Solway Spacebloke!

Now, way back in The Sixties, tree hugging hippies were all the rage, and were often found high off their nut drawing down the moon all nudified on mountaintops.

And on 23rd May 1964, the smoking of certain substances and the strumming of sitars invoked ye muʃik of ye ʃphereʃ, opening up a gateway by invoking the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter (precipitating a flexi-tagenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters) and allowing interdimensional picnickers to photobomb human picnickers having a picnic!

And here we see the Visitor From Beyond, all hot and sweaty after translocating into a new realm.

And caught on camera scratching his bollocks.

What an embarassing moment - you travel all the way to an alternate dimension, and your wang sits uncomfortably within your spacesuit, and as soon as you adjust your hose to a more relieving position, someone takes a photo of you!

On the other hand, of course, it could be some interplanetary pædophile. Cruising the celestial highway for the youth of the species like a grooming galaxian Gary Glitter alighting on the nearest habitable humanoid planet and getting their jollies by pleasuring themselves behind underage indigenous lifeforms, their excitement heightened by the risk of photographic fathers capturing their onanistic orgasm on camera.

And what recompense does the child get for being forced into having to cockblock cock from camera?

An ice-cream!

Well, a naff bunch of flowers masquerading as an ice-cream! That look says it all, really. "Yeah, thanks for that dad. Dumped in a field with some craptastic flowers in the heat instead of a Funny Feet lolly whilst a perverted pædo from Pluto pleasures his penis and jizzes all over the back of my head. Can we go home now. Please?"

Of course, the Greybeards of today will poo-pah the teleporting terror from Titan, and claim that there are no invisible spacepervs clad in spacesuits lurking being underage kids picknicking in the park.

"Of course, your average person will see a black muslim immigrant trying to invade our towns and cities with their halal invisibility cloaks that only white British cameras can see. However, after subjecting the image to rigorous scientific testing, taking into account apertures, focal distance, 1960s cameras and film, it is quite clear that the pop-up terrorist is clearly her mother standing up, and facing away from the camera. You can see details that match her dress and hair. Due to the exposure and soft blur, her hair appears to look like a visor, and the light blue dress washed out to near white. We believe the first shot, with no 'spaceman' was taken with the mother sat behind at a short distance. In the second shot, she stood, and because the father was focused on the child, he didn't notice her in the background...

...in essence, what we have here, is basically a parental picknicker picking the knickers out of Uranus her anus hungry arse after being sat on the grass."

Bollocks! What about the Men In Black? Men in Black? Mysteriously materializing Men in Black burkhas bukkake bombing bambinos with their halal ejaculate out on a picnic more like! 

Solway Firth! Only pronounced like that coz the bloke who named it had a lithp. It's actually Solway First - standing up for Solways fight against the rising tide of Muslim Ray Guns.

When will Britain First, The BNP and UKIP put a stop to these foreigners from outer space? Coming over here in their spaceships and gang-raping underage abductees whist claiming asylum because of mistreatment on Mars and claiming a second colony whilst they get free treatment on NHS for their syphillic hentai raping tentacles and getting over £50k Neptunian Nuggets A DAY in benefits because they can't work because they're on disability because they're allergic to the common cold, whilst raking in hundreds of Venusion dollars by illegally working three jobs taking up several BRITISH jobs with their multiple multitasking tentacles and we can't celebrate Christmas now in case it offends the Saturnalians and you're not allowed to deport them back to Jupiter just in case it breaches their 'Human' rights. This country is a JOKE, and I can't wait until I retire so I can leave and move to a sensible place like Altair IV #Proud2BHuman

Right, that's it - I'm off to complain to The Daily Fail - at least THEY take this problem SERIOUSLY!

And I bet that this so-called Solway Firth Spaceman Sniper shot Diana, and this was a practice run to see if he could jump through points in time before dealing the death blow and making a clean getaway to Unga Bunga land, or wherever these teleporting terrorists train these days. 

Of course - I jest. The girl in the photo is clearly sporting a "fascinator" in the shape of the top, six-packed torso of Buzz All-In. Or Louis Armstrong. Or the other bloke. One of them was doing something with her moon before they buggered off back to the lunar surface 4 years later, because it was The Sixties and things were different then. You were allowed to jingle-jangle your jewellery. 

or something.

At midnight, on the 12th of August...

..., I mean, 6th of April, a huge mass of luminous gas erupted from Mars and sped towards Earth.

So quoth Liam Burton in Jeff Wayne's Musical Version Of H.G. Well's Novel Of Pearson's Gazette's Serialization of H.G. Well's Tale "The War Of The Worlds: The Nude Generation" UllaDubUlla Special Anniversary Extended Deluxe Collectors Edition (live on stage) Remix.

or something.

Remember t'other week, when I was debating making a mocking video of tin-foil hatted wearing loons spotting sports cars on Mars via the Curiosity Killed The Cat Rover?

Well, now they've found evidence of the space monsters attack fleet launch!

Here's a photo from the navcam:

Alien campfire as tentacled terrors in tents terrorize abducted Hillbillies? The fire from the thrust of a launched tripod filled cylinder? Martians raising their arses out of Clanger holes and farting to keep the stench out of their subterrainean warrens, but one witty space monster has lighted his mates flatulent emission? The ghosts of Martians wandering the empty wastes of their long-dead planet? The projectile snot from the sneezing Face On Mars in Cydonia?

Who knows?

NASA knows!

And they're only releasing the image in Black & White, rather than the usual colour images, so they've tampered with it to obfuscate evidence of alien civillization!

...hold on...

...let me zoom in on that white flare...

Gahh - call out Bernard Quatermass before the tripedal insectoids return for The Great Hunt, and kill off all the fucktards...

...NOOOO! TOO LATE!!!!

I ain't got time to read...

So, yesterday I met one of my top, top, hotter than hot Pretties in Starbucks for coffee and a muffin, and ended up discussing Conspiracy Theories.

As you do.

Much as I like Destination Truth, Finding Bigfeets, Fact Or Faked, JFK shot by Roswell Space Monsters, I now have a new favourite.

For I've been introduced to Conspiracy Theory With Right Old Jessie "The Arsechin" sorry, "The Body", no -scrap that; "The Governor" Ventura (not to be confused with Arnie "The Governator" Schwartzanegger or other actors of a similar moniker nom-de-plums).

"Still ahead: HAARP invades Jesse Ventura's brain"...

Well, if HAARP can do that, can they invade my brain and remove the image of Captain Freedom's aerobics and replace it with a nice Pretty Lady please...

Mars attacks...

Now, one thinks one shall have to invest in Video Bloggage, as one cannot convey the subtle nuances of martian moving media by paragraph based textual descriptives.

For I has been getting addicted to gormsters on t'internet, who are uncovering the Hidden Truths NASA are hiding from us.

To whit; The pictures being beamed back from the Mars Curiosity Rover, and the lengths NASA go to, so that alien presence is obfuscated by digital manipulations!

For it is quite clear, that although these photos are evidently photoshopped to hide evidence of Space Monsters, Bigfeets, Martian Cities, Planes, Buses and Motor Cars, they are so hit by ObamaCare stealing all the cash, they forget to cover up all of it.

And you can easily pick out the fallen statues, hidden bases, killer lizard monsters and Electrical Components For Mechanical Appliances by simply...

...zooming in to 400%
...blurring the image, because pristine pics are so crap
...sharpening the image
...reblurring the image
...blur it a little more so you can now see some detail
...sharpen it
...Recolor it
...Invert it...

...and...

BANG! Obviously what you're looking at is a modern car buried under sand! Compare it to a parked car after a night of snow... they're identical! You can even see the wheels, windscreen, and passenger window!

Yeah, so, the space monsters all died zillions of years ago, but they did have an uncanny knack of building stuffs that look suspiciously like modern day stuff here on Earth!

But then, I'm not wearing my tin foil helmet, so they could be beaming skeptism directly into me brain tank with the Air Loom, further hiding their hidden agendas!

God waits for Norman...

Right, Virgin Media gave me some new channels recently, including...

H2!

Which means I now get lots of new Space Monster Conspiracy bobbins!

Yay!

So, this morning, they were talking about the Ark Of The Government, which holds a wormhole though which Space Monsters travelled to do the nightshift when cutting out the temples at Lalibela (ancient Sumerian for Labia) before Stephen King put it Under The Dome Of Castle Rock on Temple Mount. Apparently the dayshift was performed by humanoids, whilst the Space Monsters put their feet up at Mecca Bingo.

Which naturally reminded me of Frank Hornby, the Christian Zealot who wanted schoolboys to build Weapons Of Mass Destruction in their own home and fight the Muslim menace and drive it from our shores.

Unfortunately, his first attempt of suicide bombing using the rail network failed, and his Hornby Trains ended up as Weapons Of Mass Distraction as boys became obsessed as expected. But instead of driving trains into Mosques, young boys stayed in their bedrooms constructing convoluted networks, before growing up into nerdy Trainspotters or Pop Moguls who (unlike Simon Cowhell) fail to bed their workmates.

(OK, YOU CAN FORGIVE SONYA, BUT PETE WATERMAN DIDN'T EVEN NOB KYLIE OR MICHAELA STRACHAN. EVEN COWELL MANAGED TO BED THE OTHER MINOGUE... AND EVERONE ELSE ON THE X-FACTOR PANEL. EVEN MY CLEAN ARSE, AND SHE COME FROM GALL STONE!) 

Anyhoo, getting back on (or rather off) track, Hornby quickly learned from his mistake. So, the trains were discarded, and the track modified into a form of supportive strut... and lo and behold, a few tools, nuts, bolts, gears and different lengths of perforated metal struts and you have a DIY construction kit!

Perfect for builing WMD in your own home?

But what to call this home defense against Islam?

A rallying cry for all good Christian Boy Scouts...

Mecca? No!

But that sounded a bit racist, but if you run it together...

Meccano!

Racist Meccano! Hidden in plain sight!

I just don't think Xym understands...

Nooooooo! Make it stop!

Now, if you were a Space Monster abducting hillbillies in the forest, the last thing you want is to beam up a rapper & Billy Ray Cyrus.

Let alone force them to privately perform the crapfest that is "Achey Brakey Heart 2" with Billy Ray looking like Snake Plissken in shades.

No, you'd mutilate the alleged "musicians" by eating half their face off, ripping their knackers out, and dropping them on bemused farmers farms with the rest of the cattle.

Or abduct Miley Cyrus instead, Wrecking yer Balls with inter-species sexual experimentation (with a dose of intergalactic Rohypnol for the Betty & Barney Hill hypnotic recall later).

If anything's going to start The War Of The Worlds on Independence Day during First Contact, it's being subjected to this example of our cultural excellence. If I was on the Sulaco listening to this, I'd nuke Kentucky from orbit. It's the only way to be sure...

'coz some damn fool accused you of being a pest...

Street Theatre.

In Norwich, we have Puppet Man and Charlie Chaplin.

Well, we did until this weekend, since when we have been infested with some trumpeteers trumpeting on their trumpets, honking out the Admiral Insurance pop hit¹:

♪ Go direct, Jack, 

Multicar can save you more, save more!

Go direct, Jack, 

Multicar can save you more! ♫

Multicar? Gimme Leeloo with a Multipass! I could stand to sit outside Primarché all day ogling her in her skimpy bits of bandaging blowing on a pink oboe...

Anyhoo, where we have men painted grey standing motionless (occasionally twirling a cane or tipping his hat), Birmingham has much more terrifying terrors.

Predator!

Predator, lurking about the City like in Predator 2... well, the Bullring Shopping Centre. Hunting with his predatory axe, prowling for prey.

But luckily for Birmingham, Danny Glover's in town!

Or is it Dillon? He ain't cut his cheek with a razor and isn't all baldy and gay for Jesse "The Arsechin" Ventura like Mac. Dis bredren has probably some seen some bad-ass bush before, so yeah, Dillon it is!

And as Birmingham's not as tropically hot as the Amazonial Jungles, he's had to put a jacket on over his oiled biceps.

Not even the lack of the M134 General Electric Minigun (7.62mm, full clip capacity of 5793 rounds-per-minute, 7.62 x 51 shells, 1.36kg recoil adaptors, muzzle velocity of 869m/s - the huge amazing rotary machine gun like what Blaine had in Predator) daunts him and puts him off taking down the trophy taking terrorist from beyonde ye starres.

So, as the Predator looms over some poor underage girl with his oversized chopper like some 70s sex-starved superstar², Dillon comes to the rescue!

Not even pausing to daub himself in mud, with a whisper of "I guess I picked up some bad habits from you, now get your people the hell out of here!" he circled the Alien Beastie, and in true hero fashion dives on it from behind.

WHAM! Just before Predator delivers the Killing Stroke, Dillon has it on the ground. And learning from past experience, has it away on his toes before he gets his other arm blown off.

As the victor fled the battle, he shouted out "Wagwan", which some commentators believe to a war cry of "What's Going On?". The fools. That was a hit by hippy popster Pretties 4 Hot Non-Blondes. "Wagwan" is actually Deep Cover Expendable Code for "Go! Go on, go! Get to ze chopper!"

Or something of Betty Boo's I would very much like to check out. :

♪ Checkin' out mah Wagwan, wagwan, wagwan
checkin' out mah foof, foof, foof 
checkin' out mah Wagwan, wagwan, wagwan
checkin' out mah mammaries, mah mammaries, mah mammaries ♫

Unfortunately for our Black Ops Special Secret Services Saving Us From Space Monsters Who Prey On Our Children And Abduct Them To Nick Off With Their Spinal Column And Skull, assaulting Alien Visitors is bad for intergalactic tourism. As well as being extraterrestrialy racist.

So he's been labelled a thug, and the rozzers want to bring him to justice. The rotters.

¹ LATER REWORKED BY PERCY MAYFIELD AND RE-RECORDED BY ART RUPE, BEFORE BEING RE-RE-RECORDED BY MARGIE HENDRICKS (MOTHER OF LANCE) WITH RAY CHARLES SERVING AS HER 12 INCH PIANIST. OR SOMETHING.

² WHAT WAS THAT POPTASTIC HIT AGAIN? OH YEAH - IT WERE THE CHEMICAL [KNOWN AS CHLOROFORM] BROTHERS

♫ NOW THEN LITTLE GIRL
NOW THEN LITTLE BOY

SEVENTIES SUPERSTAR DJs

THEY'RE PÆDOS! ♫ 

(in some cases. allegedly)

There's a she-Worf in the closet...

Well, glue a cornish pasty to my head and call me wo'rIv!

Them greybeards have only gone and created a perfect cloaking device THAT ACTUALLY WORKS!

Although it has one flaw.

It only works in One Direction.

Which is an added bonus if you ask me!

Apparently, it all works on Microwaves. So, of you look at someone from the front, you can't see them. However, if you walk round the side, you can.

So, might as well just hang a telly in front of you, displaying the output from a camcorder strapped to yer back!

Oh, and the microwaves need to be projected onto a pyramidal cone to create the invisibility cloak of Deadly Hallowness.

So, that's tonight sorted! I'm off to scrape the exploded Iceland Meal-For-One two-for-£1 BOGOFF Admiral's Pie off the inside of the microwave oven, and get me down the ladies showerblocks down the gym!

It'll work as they just look at the front of the microwave, and not try to find the plug...

And yet you start to Recall..

Heavy words are so heavily thrown about my internal cranium right above me right eye

Seems like I took a flying bullet for you.

Right in the bonce.

So no blog today, for there appears to be a contingent of jobbing jackhammerers jackhammering away in me cranial cortex.

OR...

It could be the tracking device wot them Space Monsters implanted after invading my bum with their probing prober yesterday!

Now I'll have to get a Mars Bar, a Rat, and a nasal sticker-upper to disarm and extract it.

So. No Blog today.

They saw the whole of my moon...

Well, I would bore you on more synchronicity of location based happenstance, or the curious case of the cute caterer, but all that pales into insignificance with the latest escapade...

...abduction by bumrapey monsters from outer space!

Possibly.

See, the Alarum went of this fair morrow at the usual time. Not a problem so far.

Washy washy, clothe up, check the time - 6:51... hold on... the VCR is 5 mins behind the tellybox! Where's me chronograph? Ah, now, let's see. OK, the VCR has lost time. Go off the telly & watch, and hit the road!

Travelly travelly... hmmm... I hit the Magdalen Street Circulatory System and it's a tad busier than usual. Bugger it - just because it's slightly spitting a teensy bit of drizzle, everyone has to get into their car and drive!

So, crawl up Grapes Hill... oooh, THAT'S why it's all slow - paramedics, broken buses all buggering up St Stephens Roustabout!

Get's past that... bit of a queue for the car park this morning...

Hold up... there's loads of cars here! There's only every 3 or 4!

*checks watch*

WTF - 8:17? I'm an hour and 10 minutes later than usual! Timestorm - I've somehow lost over an hour without realising it!

It's Betty And Barney Mound-Of-Rubble all over again! Missing Time = Anal Probeage and mindwipe so you don't remember the horror of being inseminated by randy Space Monsters on a Club Eighteenterrestrial-To-Millenia holiday for Space, Solar Seas, and Sex with earth women. And blokes. Because they'll shag anything, them space monsters with their breeding program.

Even cattle, coz they have to core out their bungholes and quims so we don't find Alien Spunks.

That said, I think I was caught lucky during my Lost Time, for I arrived with an unsore bot. However, I do have a bit of a sore throat.

Which means although they thankfully saved my posterior from forced entry, I probably got throatraped, and am now harbouring one of them their Xenomorphs in my belly.

Xenomorphs! Terracotta plasticine stop-motion extratesticles, biting through my belly then rampaging across the Earth with double claymation extracting double jaws!

There was always something a bit dodge about Chas, being all white plasticine... I reckon it was one of them white Greybeard lab coats, and he engineered it all! Why couldn't he engineer Xenamorphs? Creatures that somehow morph into scantily clad Warrior Princesses, high kicking in short skirts, skimpy pants, leather boots and battle-y unsuitable bikini-tops covered in silver.

But noooooo - I has to be abducted by Dreamcatchin' Mr Grey and his shit weasel (and by shit weasel, I mean hairy brown eye poker, as in cock. perhaps)... Oh no... I mean.. .OH MY!

"A cracking tome! It had me on the edge of my seat... mainly because the alien rectal examination of my own Black Hole had spoilt my botty, so I couldn't sit down properly for a week. Perching on the edge was my only relief." ~ Toadface Harsh on page 3 of The Daily Jugs

"Totes Amazeballs! This is so representitive of our readers experiences! BUY NOW and savour the delights of hentai tentacle reproduction methods from outer space" ~ Jordan Titwank in The Sunday Spurt

On the other hand... I suppose I could have turned the alarm off, fell asleep for an extra hour, and misread 7:51 as 6:51... but that seems rather unlikely to me...

Chew, chew, chew. C'mon and chew my cobra...

Well, still feeling all bleurgh, but strangely must have given me The Edge last night - for many Pretties (and blokes) were "checking me out" - much to the chagrin of Jealous Partners with an eye to defending their roaming maiden's virtue with fisticuffs to The Xym's visage. Why, I barely escaped downstairs with my life!

Many a compliment on the barnet and the evil 'tash of melodramtic curlyness... although I was blanked (again) by my alleged stalker, but on the plus side I accrued another major Pretty!

Anyhoo, today, as I bewail my sickly lot curled up on the sofa wrapped up warm, I was cheered up with a most preposterous documentary on SyFy.

Incident In Varginha!

I think you can probably guess where this is going... well, I DO have a reputation to live down to!

This was a feature on the Brazilian Roswell... except it's the Brazilian Varginha!

Something crashed, and was recovered by the military. That's the undisputed fact. However, it's claimed that, as per Roswell, it was a spaceship, and several Pod People From The Planet Mars fled the scene and/or were captured alive/dead. Evil interplanetary invaders, neither man nor woman (which is clearly a lie, as if that was the case, they would've crashed in Manginha...) 

And some of those soldiers involved in recovering the space monsters died of some form of toxic shock...

Not only that, three young girls claimed to have been exposed to the devilish Pod Peoples. There they were, slutting it out alone at night in skimpy outfits in the foresty outskirts of Varginha^1.

As you do.

And they were suddenly confronted by a big veined horny head from outer space! No doubt intent on abducting them and insemmenating them with it's interstellar sperm.

Or was it the bloodsucking mammarial support of huge moob'd rappers motorised vehicles - to whit; The Tupak's Car Bra?

But what of the strange alien Beastie - captured and taken to hospickle? Described by witnesses as three fingered, red eyed creatures, all swollen veins and tri-horny and covered in 'orrible oil?

Well, I'd've said they'd brought in one of them tellybox slatterns off the Babestation! But no - The Government Of Brazil has a much more convincing scenario.

By coincidence, a pair of dwarves were giving birth in the hospickle, and the eye-witnesses mistook the gnomic couple and their midget baby for a deformed space monster from beyond the stars! UFO flap? Load of old mingeflaps, they say! Unidentified Flange Orsomething, they scornfully disparage.

Well, that's got me convinced.

Big veined horny heads from outer space invading Varginha near their Brazilian forestry and giving them toxic shock...

...and they thought ME MAD... 

¹ALTHOUGH WHAT THEIR VARGINHAS WERE DOING OUT OF THEIR SKIRTS WITH THEIR FORESTRY ON DISPLAY, I DON'T KNOW. AND BY FORESTRY, I MEAN BRAZILIANS. NOT THE THREE BRAZILIAN STRUMPETS - THEIR PUBES. OBVIOUSLY. WELL, THEY WOULD BE QUITE OBVIOUS, WHAT WITH BEING OUT OF THEIR SKIRTS AND ON DISPLAY. AND EVERYTHING.

Watch out, beadle's a lout...

Watch out, beadle's a twat
You'd better watch out
Watch out, beadle's a right fucking cunt!

Now, at work we were discussing space monsters first contact situations.

As you do in IT.

Some were saying futuristic spacefarers would be highly advanced, and thus all peaceful knowledge sharing harmoniously living vegan hippy loons.

Other that our future intergalactic overlords would be highly advanced, they'd think of nothing other than striding about in their tripods, raping the women and putting the menfolk to the tender mercies of the laser gun.

Of course, some fool pointed out that perhaps we were the Space Monsters. Crashed here millions of years ago, zapped The dinos with their ray guns, nobbed the cavegirl pretties in their skimpy sabre-toothed tiger bikinis¹, and their progeny became modern personkind.

Naturally, one of our resident experts put this believer of prehistoric generic meddling in his place, as such ridiculous claims have been refuted by the fossil record and DNA analysis.

And analysis has Anal at the start? Anal probes? Space monstery anal probes?

A-ha! (obliterating a Manhattan Skyline with their death beams, probably fuelled by the trans-perambulation of pseudo cosmic anti-matter, inevitably precipitating a flexi-tangenitial spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters of existential functionalism)

Of course we're the offspring of... Pod Persons From The Planet Mars! One Professor Bernard Quatermass and his mate Dr Roney proved this with the excavations at Hobb Lane, and the subsequent cleansing. Oh, the purging! The terrible, terrible purging!

But Xym, what of the fossil record?

Well, if you're somewhat mental, you probably believe in God. And before you go off serial killing or murdering your offspring, you probably go around duffing up teachers of Darwinism as a pre-cursor to your maniacal murderous rage. Putting a faithful Jesus sandal into forceful contact with the Unmentionables That Begat Offspring of the scientific community, decrying Darwinism in favour of creationism.

To whit, that the Fossil Record is a load of arse. It's ole God having a bit of a laugh with some old bones Cerberus left lying about. Chapters excised from the edited Book Of Genesis make this very clear.

And after a 7th day of rest, God named himself. And his name was The Lord. And it was Creator. And It was Love. And it was Jeremy Beadle.
And lo, Lord Beadle noticed the gnawed bones he's tossed at Cerberus
"Heh heh heh" chucked Jeremy God, "I tossed my bone. Heh heh heh. Must remember that for the 1990s AD. I'll call it The Book of Mike Judges!"
And Jeremy God looked upon The Earth. And Looked upon the bones. And because The Lord was bored shitless after doing buggery sod all yesterday, on the 8th day The Lord gave forth a mighty chuckle.
"I know. I'll bury these bones. Then, in the future, some fuckwit will dig 'em up. Then, because I'll give him Free Will (so I can blight him if he uses his Free Will and not My Will), I'll make him think they're from great big feck off beasties called Dinosaurs! Ha ha ha ha!"
And thus did The Lord, Thy Prankster, place the bones within The Earth. Job Done, he dusted of his grubby earthy mitts and retired to the Alehouse for a booze up with the other gods.
"You'll never get what, Thoth" said God, as they downed a tankard of Ambrosial mead, "I've planted a load of monster bones in the back garden."
"What the fuck did you do that for?" cried Odin, "Bloody stupid thing to do!"
"Ah! Therein lies The Great, Ineffable, Plan! It's a test, see! To test their faith"
"Like my fat arse it is!" said Buddha. "I sent a priest to recover some scrolls with a Monkey, a Pig and a Water Demon with a dragon transformed into a horse. I set many perils before them before they could recover the scrolls and recieve enlightenment. That's a fuckin' test of faith - not digging up a load of bones!"
"But, " quoth Jeremy God, "They'll think they've found dinosaurs! And then... then, I'll jump out, pull off my stick on beard, and catch them looking all foolish on camera! Remember when I did that to Abraham? Got him onto the top of the mountain, and he almost sacrified Isaac. Oh, the language when I turned up - Bleep Bleep Bleep all over the audio track! Ha ha ha"
"Hold on, " enquired Zeus, "you already have a beard? Why put a false beard?"
"Well, duhhhhr - it's FALSE BEARD - it's a disguise? Christ, you're thick"
And lo, Perseus took exception to his dad being called thick, and mightily smote Beadlegod.
"Oi, Mohammed" called Thor, "you're not drinking, are you. Drive this fucker home and put him to bed. Oh, and make sure he's not laid on any more absolutely "hilarious" japes to catch you out on camera with"

And you know the rest. Jeremy had a beardy wierdy son called Jesus "Matthew Kelly" Christ with the virgin Mary "Sarah Kennedy" Magdalen. Then up rose Lucifer "Henry Kelly" Morningstar, and rebelled with a false show called Going For Gold. And for this shite show, Henry Kelly was renamed Satan and cast into the Pit to torture the anguished souls of Inferni for all time, subjecting them to incessant re-runs of his quiz show.

And not happy with near sacrifice and false dinos, God continued his pranks upon mortal man. The Car Being Knocked Into The River With All The Business Inside As The Owner Grasped His Baldy Head Shouting "NOOOOO!" On The Side, The Council Officials Digging Up The Patio Under A Ridiculous By-Law And Putting The Willies Up Fred & Rose West, and best of all...

..."crashing" a balsa wood spaceship in some dozy woman's back garden, and popping up a ludicrous inflatable green balloon spaceman, convincing the gormstress that a real life space monster had smashed her back doors in, prompting the silly mare to make First Contact and offer it a cup of tea.... only for God, posing as a passing bearded policeman to whip his beard off to reveal himseld as the bearded Jeremy Beadle.

Which brings us full circle!

or should that be... saucer...

Duh duh DUUUHHHHHHHHHH!<sup>2

1</sup>ACTUALLY, THAT'S ONLY IN THE MOVIES, INNIT. MORE LIKELY, THEY'D FASHION A SABRE-TOOTHED TIGER ONESIE. AND EVEN IN 10,000BC, STILL LOOKING LIKE A RIGHT TIT. ONESIES IN PUBLIC INDEED! THERE WAS SOME TWATETTE ON SATURDAY, WADDLED INTO STARBUCKS IN A FULL PENGUIN ONESIE! WHAT A TOTAL TOSSPIECE! AND THERE WAS ANOTHER WANKSHAFT LOITERING OUTSIDE CHAV'LLTHIEVE MALL IN A LEOPARD ONESIE! BUT DID THE LEOPARD AMBUSH THE PENGUIN AND DINE UPON IT'S STEAMING OFFALLY INNARDS AS IT LEFT STARBUCKS? DID IT BUGGERY SOD AS LIKE! MISERY ARSE TIGERS - YOU'D THINK THEY'D PUT SOME EFFORT INTO THEIR PREDATORY ANTICS, WOULDN'T YOU!
²DRAMATIC SCI-FI EMPHATIC THRILLING EXCLAMATORY MUSIC!

Oh say can you see...

...by the Dawn's early light...

That's no dawn...

Gaaaah! It's the headlamps of invading spacemonsters hell bent on exterminating mankind!

On the 4th of July, no less!

So it's up to the Americans to save us all!

As long as they get lasered up first - the only reason we're under attack by betentacled beasties from the outer rim is because them damn Yanks kidnapped stranded crashees and repeatedly play 5 musical notes at them. Still, could be worse, could be playing the music of 5ive at them! Or worse, breach the Geneva Convention with torture by the playing of the alleged "music" of C******y. Imprisoning the intergalatic castaways in some Roswellian POOS (prisoner of outer space) camp, it's up to some Rampaging Rambos from beyond the stars to rescue their comrades in multiple arms.

And by arms, I mean tentacles, what all proper space beasties have.

It's Rambo II all over again.

"Ag ak ak ag! Ag ag ag AAAARK!" [go to Earth. Find any missing POOS]
"Ag ag. Ak ag aga! Ak ag ak $^XL34E ag Zorbak ag ag" [There's a big jobbie in the bogs. Just wont flush. I blame $^XL34E and that Zorbian curry he has last night.]
"Ag. Ag. Akkak Ag. Ak ag ag ak." ["ha. ha. fucking ha. Fuck off and don't get caught"]
Finds missing POOS, recovery craft flies off, Space Rambo is caught!
"Yo, alien dude! I say we nuke your planet, yeah? Contact your ship, you space terrorist"
"ak ak ak ak" [Captain, you fucker]
"Ag, ak ag ag ak! Ak aggggg - Ag ak ak" [Hey, you weren't supposed to find anything! But nooooo - you had to find them, and try and bring one back"]
"Ak. Ag ak ak AG" [Captain. I'm coming for you!]
Cue theft of UFA from Hangar 19. Space Rambo shooting up Vietnamese American soldiers. Rocket lasers blowing up bridges¹. Space Rambo enters Area 51 - his comrades tortured and vivisectioned! He finds a cell of skeletal aliens, and leads them back to his aircraft.
"Agak AKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!" [Space ADRIANNE!]
Blowings up of Wright Patterson Air-Force. Cue Major Martian, Space Rambo's SAS (Space Alien Squad) Instructor
"Ak ag akkag Johnny. Ag ak ak ak" [Give it up Space Johnny. You can't win.]
"Ag ak ag ak". [Don't push me, Sir]
"Boys, while them Muslim Monsters from Outer Space are arguin', nuke their ship. And get me a Burger and Fries. And a Coke. And go Large on it, or I'll go large on your ass. You hear me private! Fire up that cannon, and blow their Islamic Invadin' asses to Hell. Gahd Bless Amerikah"

♫It's a long Road♪Well, not so much a road♫More a wormhole♪That tears your ship apart♫

Or something...

¹JEFF BRIDGES. PROBABLY.

Is there shite on Mars...

...asked David Bowie.


Why do people always call a spaceship piloted by betentacled shape-shifty beasties a UFO. It's an IFO. An Identified Flying Object. Identified as martian invasion crafts intent on blowing us all to Hell with their death rays whilst blowing their noses due to martian-man-flu before their inevitable demise.

"No Xym, it's a UFO - an alien craft scouting for hillbilly bottoms to sexually experiment on"
"UFO? No, YOU F.O. you illiterate minge with mange! You just said it was an alien scouting craft. Therefore not unidentified at all!"
I'll tell you this, though. They may be from the Rings of Saturn, but if any of them bring their probes near the ring of Uranus, implanting their interplanetary implantery tracking devices of implantment up me bum again, there'll be Hell to pay!


Coming over here, mutilating out cattle and sexually experimenting on us. Well, on our hillbilly's in remote forestry high on moonshine, anyways. How the tables turn - with them Satyrnalian's playing the interplanetary equivalent of tentacle-adapted banjos, whilst asking their abductees to 'squeal piggy' for the probe as they extract the purty teeth of humanity.


Well, I'm no intergalactic racist, but they can just take their dome topped saucers with triple-legged stand and retractable ramp, and go back where they came from, instead of wasting NHS resources on flu jabs and claiming all manner of benefits because they can't be deported back to Jupiter due to the torture regime in place, then marrying John Cooper-Clarke so they can legally live here and bring their entire family over to sponge off the system at The Taxpayer's expense.

Just because they're pod people from the planet Mars who look like people, doesn't make them peoples - just insidious infiltrators of colonization.

And that's colon-ization, hence the now legendary probeage.


Probably.


Or something.

"But Xym, space monsters and alien craft don't exist - it's all a load of shite! Aliens can't travel through space - space travel is impossible!"

Well, answer me this! There's some black & white grainy footage of a spacecraft landing on another planet in 1969. And there's these space monsters, all in big white interplanetary suits, claiming the desolate planet as a new Homeworld.


Amazingly, The Invaders clearly are of advanced technology, as they have also invented flags. Either that, or they just copied them from catching eathly transmitted TV rays on their crystal televisual holographic prisms.


There are some that say this footage is a hoax, and pooh-pooh interplanetary travel. But if intergalactic overlords are landing on the moon, I don't want them poo-pooing all over it! Who wants to telescopically see trans-dimensional Wateryboy types baring the whole of their moon at Earth and dropping their defacations on the lunar landscape.


Not Patrick Moore, that's for sure!

Eye to eye - CONTACT...

Oversized three-lobed burning ocular to brown eye, more like! Never mind them Wateryboys - THEY saw the whole of YOUR moon... and shoved a GPS sensor up it.

You know them abductees - then folks what are whisked up in a shaft of light¹ into a starship² before the space monsters shove things of a probing nature up their bottoms³.

Well, they often claim to have implants inserted so the Pod Perverts From Planet Mars can keep track of them for further future nobbage.

But a strange thing about these so-called implants - they're always in the arm, leg or brain.

Obviously, these tracking devices made from some form of alloy unknown to man transmitting brainwashing plans of world dominatrixtion turn out to be fake, made up of bits of broken Casio calculators and meccano.
Any genuine abductee would know right where the space monsters hid the implants...

... right up the bum, that's where!

Why else use an anal probe, if not to stick a homing device inside the one place you'd rather not have probed!

"But Xym," you cry, "why would a space monster shove a tracking device up the bunghole? Surely it would be most unpleasant to retrieve for data collection. And covered in poo."

Well, firstly, the space monsters don't require rectal retrieval, for the implants transmit data via wifi. However, is such a shitty situation did arise, for example, the abductee going to have their chocolate canal irrigated and risk being flushed out, then they're hardly going to be worried about it being smothered in excrement.

For what's the one thing everyone knows about space monsters (apart from them being green).

They have great big feck-off bug eyes.

And what has bug eyes?

Flies!

And flies are reknown for their gatherance around poo.

And, from what these Travis Walton types say, them space monsters are always abusing rednex for sexual breeding programs. Hence the proboscis up the posterior, injecting their digestive juices up yer ringpiece and glueing a homing beacon to your prostate so they can find you for another night-time foresty bumming amongst the stars.

And now them space monsters Walk Among Us in surgeon suits. Ever heard of a Pretty going off to have implants put in? A-ha! Con the ditzy blonde into thinking she's more prettified by having behemoth bazookas, and the lecherous arse probers have a chance at nork gropeage whilst installing their tractor beam.

A tractor beam being the beam from her headlamps, making Norfolk types think it's an oncoming tractor and getting all aroused.

And by Headlamps, I mean titties.

¹ BILLY-BOB'S TORCH
² J0E-BOB'S SHACK
³ BECAUSE JIM-BOB THINKS THE ABDUCTEE HAS A PURTY MOUTH AND LIKES THE SQUEAL OF PIGGIES AS CLETUS PLAYS SAME 5 NOTES OVER AND OVER AGAIN ON HIS BANJO STRING.