I’VE been thinking a lot, as ever, about aliens.

After the Pentagon released footage last week of three unexplained, unidentified flying objects recorded by the likes of the Navy and the Air Force, my imagination has been running wild. It’s been the highlight of my lockdown experience so far

I’ve been imagining what it’d be like if an alien appeared in front of me, demanding answers about life on Earth.

I like to think the alien would be standing at the bottom of my bed when I get up in the morning. Maybe it’d be clapping the dug.

“Can I help ye?” I ask the thing as I sit up, assuming I’m still dreaming. In my head, all aliens are about seven feet tall, big eyes and dead skinny and grey.

“I want answers,” it says.

“Tae wit?”


“Right, well, let me have a cup ae tea first, big man.”

I get up and head to the kitchen wearing just my boxers. The alien follows me.

“How does that work?” it asks me, as I pour the boiling water from the kettle into my cup.

“Aw, mate, how am I meant to know that?” I reply.

The alien looks disappointed and I feel bad. It’s probably travelled unfathomable distances to get here, just to be stuck with a writer in a bad mood.

“Right, well, the kettle’s plugged into the wall, that gives it electricity, it heats up a thing inside it and that boils the water.”

“How does the wall produce electricity?”

“I don’t know. Here,” I hand

the alien my phone and show it how to Google stuff. It spends hours sitting tapping away at the screen while I try to write on my laptop.

I consider asking the alien some questions of my own but I’ve got a feeling it’ll fry my brain. Plus, I’ve got a column to write.

The alien jumps up as the dug starts barking, heralding the arrival of the postman. I race to get to the letters before the dug but I’m too slow and the dug is already ripping them apart.

“Just an overdue gas bill,” I say to the alien. “Nothing important.”

We go back to the living room so I can sit and stare at my unwritten column some more.

‘This thing here,’ it says, pointing to the dug. “It’s very loud. What is it?”

“Aw, that’s my dug. He’s a wee animal that hings aboot wi me.”


The dug looks at me as the alien says this, his eyes brimming with disdain.

“Dunno. It’s just nice having him aboot. I take him for walks an play wi him an stuff like that.”

The dug lets out a horrible wet cough. The alien continues his questioning.

“No, I mean, why does he hang about with you?”

This is a good question, one that I’ve never actually thought about the answer to before. Does the dug actually like me?

“Well I feed him, wash him, look efter him, take him oot an aw that.”

“Hmm,” the alien looks sceptical. “So you’re his servant?”

“Naw, I’m his owner,” I get a bit flustered here. This alien is the master of the bam up it would seem. An intergalactic wideo.

“Seems like a bit of a toxic relationship to me,” the alien holds up my phone to reveal it’s been reading relationship advice columns.

“He’s my pal and I’m his pal! It’s no toxic, Jesus Christ, man.”

The alien lets out a sardonic laugh. “Okay, mate.”

Seems it has already figured out the best ways to get me raging.

“Listen, why are you here?” I ask, getting fed up of his nonsense now.

The alien stands up as if it’s about to leave.

“I’ve seen enough,” it says. “There’s nothing of interest on this planet. I can tell from just this interaction. Even your ‘dug’ has no respect for you, human.”

“Wit wis the point in you coming here? Why me?”

“Well, I was hoping for stimulating conversation, to share some knowledge with each other that could help our respective species, but all I’ve been with is a dour-faced man who sits and taps away at a primitive computer all day hoping to string together some vaguely coherent sentences. I’m impressed with the dug though, he has manipulated you very well. Maybe me and him can work together one day.”

The dug jumps on to my lap and licks my face.

“Look!” laughs the alien. “He’s so patronising, I love it!”

“So that’s it? You’re away noo?”

“Yes. I’ll be off now. Good luck with that ‘novel’ you’re supposedly writing.”

“You better go before I wring yer scrawny neck.”

“You could barely wring 800 words out of this encounter for your daft wee column, pal!” it says before departing.

Aliens? Load of rubbish if you ask me.