I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch recently, but something quite extraordinary happened to me.
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It was on a perfectly normal sunny afternoon and I was strolling along a little used road, making a visit to one of the outlying local shops to purchase some items for a mouth watering recipe I had mentally concocted the night before.
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I was only vaguely aware of my surroundings, my mind being concentrated on the shopping list of Vinegar, Marshmallow, Heinz Baked Beans, Whiskas and a teaspoon of Baking Soda.
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When . . .
(Pardon me, it is at this point that your computer screen should, for effect, go all grey and wobbly-wiggly, before returning to full colour and sharp focus, to reveal myself stumbling and shuffling along the roadside in carpet slippers and striped flannel pyjamas. – So, to continue . . . )
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. . . I became aware that a flying saucer was slowly following me. It came alongside and hovered to a halt.
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The pilot’s door whirred open and out stepped what I can only describe as a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She was scantily clad in skin-tight Lycra shorts and a minimal, but equally tight T-shirt, which emphasised her full breasts and made her nipples stick out like Chapel hat-pegs.
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“Bun chewer, mon sewer, silver plate” she said, addressing me in what I immediately recognised as impeccable French.
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It was then that she noticed the UKIP sweatband adorning my brow, and immediately changed her speach to English.
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“I think I have a puncture,” she said, pointing to the rear of the craft, “could you take a look ?”
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I made my way to the back of the intergalactic vehicle. She followed. I remember thinking how relieved I was that I was wearing my bum-bag which, I hoped, would conceal the embarrasing camel-toe formed by the cleavage of my buttocks sucking in my P-J bottoms.
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Suddenly, previously unseen doors were swished open. From within, a dozen female hands grabbed hold of me and hauled me inside. The doors were swiftly closed and electronically locked. Escape seemed impossible.
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“Please remain calm,” came a female voice, “we won’t hurt you. All we want is your sperm.”
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There was a short silence as they allowed me time for this to sink in.
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Then, “We are from a distant part of your Galaxy. Our people are on the verge of extinction. The male populace of our race have been rendered impotent by the continual fumes of your unecological plastic carrier bags being incinerated on your rubbish tips and polluting our planet’s atmosphere.”
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“From, precisely, whence thou comest ?” I enquired.
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“Uranus” was the reply.
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“In order to avoid extinction,” she waffled on, “we must mate with a Human. Not just any Human, but one that is physically and mentally superior to all other earthlings. With such demanding criteria, you, undoubtedly, were to be the chosen one.”
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I wanted to throw my hands in the air, but it would have been a futile gesture. They had definitely done their homework. I resigned myself to giving them an understanding nod.
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“After the selection process was completed, we tapped into your brainwaves and located the area where your masturbatory images are stored and we have, consequently, morphed ourselves into exact replicas of the subjects of your sexual fantasies,” continued the Angelina Jolie look-alike.
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“Here, hear” said Uma Thurman and Halle Berry in unison from over the top of the headrest of the passenger seat.
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“Quite so” said Prince Charles.
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I felt my flannel pyjama-covered loins begin to stir.
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“We hope that you will comply with our demands” said Angelina Jolie.
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I was on the verge of saying “No probs” when she interjected with “otherwise, we shall be forced to put you in a drugged state by the continuous administration of 18 year old single malt whisky.”
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Nipping my accedence in the bud, I immediately shouted “I protest, dammit. I won’t be your sex slave, I won’t !”
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“To keep you in peak physical condition,” she continued “we shall feed you three Cornish Pastys a day. On top of which, we shall reward you with 100 Earth pounds Sterling for each and every copulation.”
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I did a quick mental calculation and came to a, very conservative, estimate that I could easily rake in a couple of grand a night. (Cough).
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Each morning since that initial encounter, and just as the shops open, my alien female captors lock me in the spaceship, where I am attached to an intravenous drip of “Laphroaig,” leaving me to eat my breakfast pasty while they hobble, wide-legged and complaining about my “whopper,” to the nearest Chemist’s shop where they purchase various soothing lotions to apply to what they refer to as their “overstretched lady gardens.”
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They think I have no contact with the outside world. They would have known differently if, at the point of my abduction, they had had the foresight to search my camel-toe-concealing bum-bag. For, in there, carefully secreted away in case of an instance such as this happening, was my desktop tower PC and 50″ monitor.
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I know from experience that the round trip to the Chemists that the alien girls make, takes exactly 11 minutes and 30 seconds. Enough time to set up my pooter and contact you and inform you of the reason for my absence.
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Carefully, I put my pasty to one side (for later) but not wasting time (cough) on unplugging my intravenous drip, I rapidly assemble my PC and power it up. Two minutes and 79 seconds have now passed. The screen springs into life
– and a message comes up :
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WORKING ON WINDOWS UPDATES
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DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR PC
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THIS WILL TAKE A WHILE
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YOUR PC WILL RESTART SEVERAL TIMES
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Damn !
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By now three minutes and 120 seconds have passed. Come on, come on.
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Finally, I’m through. I have just one second left to type out this message to you and pack everything away again.
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There are female voices close by. I hear the lock being electronically operated, and . . .
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SEND ✔
