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| AN ARTICLE FROM THE 'DAILY MAIL' TUESDAY 20th AUGUST, 2002. |
| A corn circle has appeared in Sparsholt, Hampshire, which appears to show an alien holding some sort of CD. Scientists are even now trying to decipher the disc's markings. But DAVID THOMAS has beaten them to it. It is, in fact, a letter to his superiors from a young alien sent to spy on Earth. This is what he discovered... |
| Commander Zargon, As you know, our people last examined the planet Earth some 30 solar-cycles ago. We noted that the planet's primitive inhabitants still picked, peeled, boiled and mashed potato tubers, when seeking carbohydrate-based nourishment, instead of opening a packet of instant, freeze-dried, starch-substitute Smash, like intelligent space-beings. This finding caused our observers considerable amusement. On reaching Earth, and landing on the territory known as Inger-Lund, I asked to be taken to the people's leader. The local tribe, or Brit-Ish, are ruled by a male-female pairing, whom they call Tony-An-Cherie. Sadly, they were elsewhere on the planet. I was thus taken to meet Tony-An-Cherie's underling, Pres-Cott. As per orders, I was carrying my Pan-Galactic Translator, which enables me to communicate with any creature in the known universe. Sadly, even the device was completely unable to decipher the meaningless, garbled voice-noises made to me by Pres-Cott. Perhaps he was talking code. I later discovered that I was wasting my time, in any case. Tony-An-Cherie are a purely ceremonial couple. The Bri-Ish are in fact ruled by the great lord Yer-Rup, whose palace can be found in the city of Bruss-Els. I hope to visit there soon. My visit to Inger-Lund coincided with the Earth-month 'August', which is when Earthlings go on 'holiday'. For 11 months of the year, the Brit-Ish stick to a strict routine. Adults shuttle between their small, box-like living pods -- or 'houses' -- and their larger, box-like work-pods, or 'offices'. Immature Earthlings perform a similar series of to-and-fro journeys to kiddi-pods, or 'schools'. Unlike colleges on our planet, Brit-Ish schools (also known as 'bog-standard comps') have no educational purpose. Young inhabitants of Inger-Lund learn no history or geography, find it impossible to complete the most elementary calculations, and communicate with each other in a primitive, abbreviated language called TXT MSGs. Every summer, the young take tests called GCSE, AS and A. Though they know nothing, their results always improve. In fact, there will soon be more passes than there are young people, or exams. This is called 'progress'. As with work, education ceases in August, so as to allow time to travel to another part of the planet, which Eartlings believe will provide 'a nice break, away from it all'. Many months are spent planning these 'holidays', and saving the financial tokens required to pay for them. Once aboard a jet-powered transportation vehicle, the holidaymakers are all jammed into seats that were clearly designed for a different species, since they allow no space for an Earthling. Please note: the Brit-ish are famed for their concern for other carbon-based life-forms, known as 'animals'. Thus, they protest vigorously if sheep or cows are transported abroad in cramped or airless circumstances. They pay large sums of money to travel even more uncomfortably themselves. Having arrived at their destination, the Brit-Ish lie down on thin, waterside strips of mica-based micro-granules or 'sand', which they call 'beaches'. The majority of them possess an external covering of pale, flabby 'skin' (quite unlike our own, healthy, attractive green scales). Skin is extremely sensitive. By the end of a day lying on the beach, it has turned a vivid scarlet and appears to be the source of much discomfort. Remember, Commander, the Earthlings have paid many tokens for this. At the end of 14 Earth-days, the holidaymakers return home. They are exhausted, impoverished and their skin is pre-cancerous. At their work-pods, colleagues ask 'Nice holiday?' to which the accepted reply is: 'Yeah, brilliant.' Then they start planning the following year's 'holiday'. In August, Earthlings gather in huge numbers to watch young, adult males wearing brightly-coloured shirts and shortened leggings move an inflated plastic sphere around a patch of grass with their lower limbs. The greatest of these 'footballers' is known as 'Becks'. The Brit-Ish worship Becks and reward him with more money, every day of his life, than a young female health-worker, or 'nurse', recieves in a year. In their bizarre health system, a sick human will not be seen by a doctor for weeks or even months. But the animals that live with them can get an appointment with their 'vet' almost immediately, recieving a service that is prompt, efficient and reliable. None of which can be said of the transport system in Inger-Lund. The Brit-Ish show little interest in getting from one part of their territory to another at any sort of reasonable speed. They eschew the rail-based transport modes that move a large number of Yer-Rupeans. Instead, males in particular spend hours talking to one another about four-wheeled, internal combustion-powered machines, comparing their respective powers of speed and acceleration. Then they get in their machines and congregate in vast, open-air gathering-places known as M25, M6 and Spaghetti Junction. They sit there for hours, completely motionless, becoming ever-more angry. On the rare occassions when the Brit-Ish move their cars, they immediately set off monitoring devices, known as speed cameras. In the evening the Brit-Ish sit around a primitive cathode-based communication device. This broadcasts just two forms of programme. The first is football (see above). The second involves a round-up of the planet's most dim-witted young males and females, seven of whom are herded into a sealed house. There they sit, mate, and attempt to speak, so far as they are able. The entire Brit-Ish population watches these young people doing nothing. Then they remove the inhabitants from the house, one-by-one, becoming ever-more excited with every eviction. I seriously doubt whether there is anything more primitive in the entire solar system. Oh, one more thing. The Brit-Ish still mash potato tubers by hand, even after all these years. We can safely assume that the principle of evolution does not apply on this planet. Live long and prosper, Space cadet Zog |
| Crop-circles are ever-popular in the surrounding countryside where I live. Every year the circles are becoming more intricate, and every year someone new admits to knowing what they mean, and who designed and produced them. Obviously many of them are fakes. However, you have to admire the time, effort and thought that goes into designing and making some of the more fascinating and awe-inspiring circles. This year (2002), the main attraction in crop-circles appeared in Sparsholt, Hampshire, and I couldn't resist showing the article here. I hope you enjoy the humour, and find the actual crop 'circle' as awesome as I did. |
| AN UNUSUAL CROP-CIRCLE FORMATION DISCOVERED IN HAMPSHIRE, UK. |
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