Alien Invasion

[Oskar]

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket... No!

Find a travel bag and throw a few essentials into it. Jump into a car - ideally your own - and drive away like a seventeen year old 50 Cent fan who's just passed his test.

Admittedly not a particularly convincing lyric, but a much more practical response to a very large piece of space rock, the size of Newport Pagnell, hurtling towards you at incredible and apocalypic speed.

Furthermore, quite apart from the devastating anatomical damage that attempting such a manoeuvre would incur, the chances of finding a pair of trousers with a waist band and pockets large enough to hold such an immense piece of space debris, must be considered, to say the least, remote - unless you live in certain parts of the burger belt of the United States.

Perry Como himself must stand accused of propagating dangerous nonsense. The recent case in Vilcabamba, Peru - where Como's album sales continue to top the charts - is a tragic example of how the intoxicating power of 'Middle of the Road' music can still influence the impressionable minds of school children doing science projects. All the local police were able to retieve from the death scene was a smouldering plimsole and a badly charred publicity photograph. On it was written - 'Cheers mate, stay lucky, Perry Como'... What a git.

Interested observers of such phenomenon, well a bloke called Ken who still lives at home with his mother and is a member of the Dr. Who Appreciation Society, believe that such cosmic episodes are the precursors of inevitable alien invasion. Going out occasionally and regular sex would, no doubt, encourage a more realistic belief system in people like Ken; but with the advent of satellite television and it's pernicious off-spring, the Sci-fi channel, a whole generation of former school prefects and WH Smith weekend staff from the 1970s sit alone in upstairs bedrooms, in Bacofoil Cyberman overalls watching endless re-runs of the space opera, with hope and their personal hygiene all but gone.

But what if Ken is right? What if a race of alien creatures, not too dissimilar in looks to Moira Stewart, have formulated a plan to invade and colonise our planet? How would the people of Earth respond?

Imagine the scene. Everywhere you look, couples lying in post-coital heaps, shagged out all over the pavement. They've mistimed their last moments on Earth by several days. Only Peter Stringfellow and Jordan seem up for more...

All roads out of major towns and cities are jammed bumper to bumper with 1950s pick-up trucks overflowing with chickens, furniture and elderly relatives. They're heading for the hills... well, all except the unfortunate residents of Norfolk, who drive around looking for any sort of incline.

There's a clamour to wear clothing designed by John Galliano, as people try to disguise themselves as beings from a different planet. Dads are sent up in to lofts to bring down the green lycra bodysuits, matching hand-knitted balaclavas and Deirdre Barlow-sized sunglasses that have been up there since 1983.

The reanimated remains of Charlton Heston become President of the World after an inconclusive phone text vote results in a televised shoot out between him and Arnold Schwarzenegger on the 18th hole of the Augusta National golf course.

Jordan rushes through her divorce of Peter Andre and immediately puts in a proposal of marriage to Professor Stephen Hawking, who is now the world's most eligible bachelor. Hawking, however, has been given a megaphone and wheeled up to the roof of Canary Wharf, with instructions from government officials to challenge the aliens to a game of magnetic travel chess; winner takes all, best out of three.

Back on the ground, there's a breakdown in law and order. Trolley mayhem grips our supermarkets, which instantly run out of Cadbury's Smash and Volvic water - I'd personally need to know whose vulva it came from before I'd drink any of it.

But it's not all bad news. Richard Branson's space programme receives a welcome boost as thousands queue for a place on the roof racks of his fleet of Virgin space shuttles, flying out of Burnley and Beijing at regular intervals.

David Bowie albums sell like there's no tomorrow - which is probably correct, especially as Professor Hawking has just gone one down with two to play.

Meanwhile, Proffesor Hawking has called for a toilet break to play for time. While his bag is being emptied, a warehouse full of Faye Wray look-alikes are being auditioned to lure the alien battle fleet to a park and ride just outside of Welwyn Garden City, where a group of local youths are standing by to break into their spaceships and torch the lot.

Hawking is now on first name terms with the alien commander and soon discovers that he and 'Moira' share a mutual love of early '80s electro music and Sparky's Magic Piano.

The Professor is offered a place on the commander's spaceship, on a leather-look bench placed in front of a Wurlitzer organ which ascends slowly out of the floor of the control room. Forearmed with a copy of 'War of the Worlds' and a large bottle of Lemsip, the alien vessel vibrates to the strains of The Who classic, 'Won't Get Fooled Again'.

Hawking uses his new found friendship with the aliens to persuade them to postpone their mission until after the Whitsun Bank Holiday weekend. This done, he's off round to the Dorchester to book a couple of nights bed and breakfast and a bit of wheelchair access with Jordan.