I Can’t Remember. (2016 Remastered) by CpSingleton © 2010
Life in the Hyde Park area of Leeds was more than its normal self the day “it” happened.
The sun blazed down, which was not altogether normal for a June day in Northern England, on the many young student heads that had decided that it was too nice a day to sit in lectures. Those with a job and no conscience followed the throng of students. Those without a job, conscience or not, tagged along because they could. The multi-coloured statue of Queen Victoria, who stood at the entrance, was not amused.
Twelve O’clock and the park was a hive of virtual inactivity.
The skate-boarders on the quarter pipes rolled up and fell down again. The odd sedate games of cricket and frisbee tried desperately to avoid hitting each other and the lollers lolled impassively. Alcohol and joints were passed around like cocktails before an al fresco luncheon.
Soon, relaxed bodies flopped to the cool grass to mumble, giggle and to point out cartoon shapes in the few clouds that swam across the sky.
It was around this time that several cloud watchers, scattered randomly around the expansive park, mentioned that they were sure that the big plane-like object was getting closer and less plane-like with every second. As the minutes meandered on, it became wholly apparent that the object was not from their world. Though, for most, their world of large pungent cigarettes wasn’t other people’s worlds either; but that didn’t matter.
By the time that the joint they were smoking had passed dutifully from their fingers, around the group and back again, the whole park was transfixed on what soon moved from a one to a five vehicle theatre above.
You see, the R.A.F. in their wisdom had tried to communicate, unsuccessfully, with the inhuman space-ship from the moment that the white coats at Jodrell Bank had called them: their giddy-kipper-tinny-high voices stuttering with split-infinitives.
When they received no discernible answer from the silver craft, except some sort of gobbledegook, the R.A.F. sent forth a cheery reception committee of four F35b’s to gently coax the craft to RAF Church Fenton, in Tadcaster.
The craft was reluctant to follow and, in fact, appeared to acting rather impolite by not answering their cheery calls. And if there’s one thing that the military frown upon with deep distaste it is another fellow being rude.
‘Base, this is Blue Leader. The blighter is being damn right rude! Over,’ Squadron Leader Stan -the man- Mathews called out over the radio waves.
‘Copy that…erm…Blue Leader. Erm…Stan…I thought we were…um…going with animals this week and you were to be Falcon One? Over.’
‘Oh, blast!’ Stan replied. ‘I’m awfully sorry, old boy. It quite slipped my mind. What a complete arse-hat I am. I blame the missus. She made me porridge with shop own oats and not Quaker’s. Over.’
‘Don’t you worry yourself, Blue Leader: mistakes happen. My wife, the silly mare, bought two-ply instead of my favoured three-ply loo roll the other week and I sent a whole squadron into the side of a mountain. Bally shame, but hey oh. Over.’
‘Was that you?! You silly sod! HAHAHA! That was my brother’s squadron that was. Whole lot dead as dodos. Hahaha! Over.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry Stan. Most embarrassed. Couldn’t eat all of my Spotted Dick that evening. Had to give some to the ankle biters. Over.’
‘Worry not, Base. As you so profoundly put it: mistakes happen. We gave them a good send off at at The Dog and Gun. Now what about this ignorant blighter to the port-side of me? Over.’
‘I say, send a few air-to-airs across his aft end. That should wake the bugger up, eh? Over.’
‘A good old, belts off, pants down, Blighty warm welcome, eh? Top drawer. Over.’ This only resulted in the craft persisting to ignore the warm welcome and continue to descend quietly and smoothly toward the Earth below.
Questions were being asked by the wide-eyed audience sprawled directly below the craft. Not many of them were intelligent. For example: “Is that a UFO?”
When the people underneath the UFO realized they were soon to be VERY underneath, if they didn’t act soon, they acted. Mostly by running into each other in an attempt to clear the lovely green area. There was also a lot lethargic screaming.
‘Blue Leader to Base. The swine is still ignoring us and it’s most unsettling. Over.’ Stan called once more.
‘Well, isn’t he a little high and mighty?! Send some missiles to his forward end. Really bat him on the nose. That should sort out Mister Alien. Over.’
Mister Alien took the full force of their merry missiles and then opened his landing legs, before calmly plonking down by the side of the small skate park.
A sole boarder, with big silver headphones, obliviously performed a few tricks until the space-ship caused a shadow. He then screamed, bumped into himself and turned tail.
‘Damn him all to hell, Base,’ Blue Leader scowled. ‘He’s only gone and landed by the skate park. Advise. Over.’
‘Well, I’ll go to my Aunt Peggy’s for a slap up breakfast and a hot shower, Blue Leader. He really is becoming a nuisance, isn’t he? I suggest that you land, menacingly, by his side whilst I go contact the highest. Over.’
Forty-five minutes later the ship was surrounded by a representative of every major TV news company in the world, all asking the same questions in a variety of tongues and accents: How, where, why, when and er…what? No answers were forth-coming.