The big guy with the perma- tan and cigar stared at me. We know you. He asked us if we thought it strange that when ever anything alien happened, we were always around. They told us about our road trip when the spooks followed us to Jersey on the ferry. I remembered at the time thinking we were being followed. That day at St Malo was strange. We didn’t say anything. However, they said. It started long before that though didn’t it? We said no, of course, as much as we would like to help, we can’t. They brought up the night John was taken into the local psychiatric hospital after a few aliens visited him. They had out-stayed their hospitality, John just wanted a couple of nights sleep. It was all quite reasonable. I said I was shocked that his mental health should be used in such a way as to be used against him. I also said this was despicable treatment of two British citizens who just happen to be caught in the crossfire of Brexit. We could hear town officials slosh about in green slime on the other side of the door. Slime has a greasy smell, much like Friday night at the chippy when the fryers need a good clean. It was totally minging. The weird looking Spaniard with blue eyes and red hair with brown skin took up our alien stories. Do you remember when you are at home and you have your little “visitors”? Well no, how could we? They actually blamed us for our little village just off the A1 having a power cut at 5o’clock one Saturday night! I looked at this crazy man, I had to ask him, are you suggesting we harbour aliens in our home? You’re off your head mate. We go along the club about six o’clock for the bingo. We remember the night they were talking about, but we couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with that. It’s not our fault the army were drafted in when it was suggested to the locals the club had to be shut down. The locals said you can lock us in but you’re not locking us out. They refused to budge, seemingly that’s their right it being a private establishment. Maybe that was made up, I don’t know. Anyway, however, we got blamed for all that. They said they were working out what to charge us with. It’s going to be a difficult job for them without informing the public about the possibility of aliens in our midst. The upshot of all this is we are now under house arrest. We have been locked in our apartment for two days, the past few hours of which we have no drinking water. Tenerife is going through a mini heatwave and the air conditioning is broken. We are sweating quite a lot. It’s not a pretty sight but the two honchos wearing suits standing guard are sweating bucket loads. I can’t have sympathy, but I do feel sorry for their poor wives who do their washing. It must be minging.Our apartment looks out over a side street and it is now over-run by the global press. We are not allowed onto the balcony, as the two honchos attest every hour or so. I’ve said, look mate, I’ve got human rights, one of them being you can’t deprive me of air. I’m just not having it, would you please call the British Ambassador, we’ll soon get this sorted out. I’ve made threats. I am ashamed, but John and I have been pushed to the very limit. I am sat here now, keeping this diary, in case I don’t get out of here alive. I am writing a letter to the public to tell them what’s going on in their name. I want everyone to know about our alien friends. Why should we hide?
Herb has just slithered through the draughty gap in the door. I can see him out the corner of my eye. He’s yellow today. He jellies on to the wall with slime coming out of his backside, this slime as I said is something to smell. Without them knowing, Herb sprays the honchos with a potent venom under their noses with a flick of a tail that I didn’t know they had. You find out new things every day. Anyway, the two of them drop to the floor in rapid succession. John and I ran to the patio doors, we open them, and all hell is let loose. The rapid shuttering of cameras assault our ears while the flashes make us hide our eyes. John has the napkin I had been secretly writing on. He says, to all the world; We are being kept here against our will. Under house arrest. We are being accused of colluding with aliens. They have accused us of being aliens. We are being held here on trumped up terrorist charges. My mental health is being questioned. They blame us for the carnage that happened in the hotel foyer two days ago. How could we possibly cause so much damage when all we asked for was internet access? We are just two perfectly ordinary holiday makers. We have asked the British Consul for help. We are told because of Brexit, we have no rights here and the British consulate are redundant. They can do nothing. Please please, you law abiding citizens of the world, plead for mercy on our behalf.
Just at that we are hauled in the door and thrown onto the sofa. Our wee alien friend is nowhere to be seen. The honchos have no idea what just happened to them. They started to shout at us about what we had been saying to the press. We told them we had said nothing about anything from another planet and that you two honchos are keeping us hostage. John and I had considered telling all about our wee friends but decided against it. It may cause more trouble. Global trouble. They’d all fall out with each other, wanting to do experiments on them and such like. It wouldn’t be pretty. Also, what if the Daily Mail wanted an exclusive? What kind of money would be paid for our knowledge? Would the money be enough to buy us that wee bungalow in Pathead we’d been eyeing up for the last three years? What about a book deal? The possibilities are endless, but we couldn’t do anything to put our wee pals in danger. All hell would be let loose if their Mum’s and Dad’s came looking for them. Honestly, it’s better for us all just to leave things as they are. I’ve got so many scenarios going on in my head I’m taking a migraine.
John and I have been locked up in the apartment for a week now. The place is stinking. All our meals are eaten here, brought from the dining room. There is a strong odour of raw fish accompanied by rotting cabbage. I haven’t pooed for a week and John’s IBS has flared up with the stress of the situation. You can imagine. The honchos don’t seem to wash much and with them having smelly oxters, we can’t take much more. We just need some help. The press are getting bored, they need to be fed a morsel to keep them going. All this is going through my head when a Man in Black comes in. He wants to know what the green aura is on the horizon every sunset for the past week. How the hell are we supposed to know? Shouldn’t you just look it up on Wikipedia like everybody else? According to him, we are being sent messages from the dark side in code. I told him to go away. We know what the green sunset is all about. We haven’t seen it, obviously, but it’s scaring the shit out of them. The last time we seen anything like it was a couple of years ago when Alien Mum and Dad came to take them home. They are really nice and apologised to John and I on behalf of their wee monsters. I’m sure that was the time John was hospitalised. Mum and Dad are on their way!