The end of the world began at half past ten on a Tuesday morning, when a gigantic alien spacecraft landed on the village green in Little Puddleton, crushing three flowerbeds, a commemorative bench and the parish council’s new dog-waste bin.
A hatch opened, and an eight-foot creature with six eyes, four arms and several hundred teeth emerged.
“PEOPLE OF EARTH!” it thundered. “TREMBLE BEFORE THE MIGHT OF THE ZARGON EMPIRE!”
Mrs Prendergast, who was walking her dachshund, looked up.
“There’s really no need to shout.”
“YOUR PLANET NOW BELONGS TO US!”
“Well, you’ve certainly made a mess of the begonias.”
By eleven o’clock, the parish council had convened an emergency meeting.
Reginald Pumblethwaite, a retired bank manager, approached the alien commander with a clipboard.
“Have you applied for planning permission?”
“WE HAVE TRAVELLED TEN THOUSAND LIGHT YEARS TO ENSLAVE YOUR SPECIES!”
“Yes, but you’re obstructing a public footpath.”
“WE SHALL REDUCE YOUR CITIES TO ASH!”
“That would require a separate application.”
The commander, Supreme Overlord Zarg, was beginning to feel unwell.
At midday, the Women’s Institute arrived with refreshments.
“WE HAVE COME TO FEAST UPON YOUR SUFFERING!” Zarg announced.
“Well, we’ve brought scones,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Plain or fruit?”
Zarg examined a spoonful of strawberry jam.
“IS THIS THE BLOOD OF YOUR ENEMIES?”
“No, dear. It’s from Tesco.”
By mid-afternoon, the invasion had become a tourist attraction. Children were taking selfies with the aliens, the landlord of the King’s Arms had offered them a discount, and three Zargon warriors had joined a discussion about the village scarecrow competition.
Zarg summoned his lieutenant.
“WHY ARE THESE PEOPLE NOT TERRIFIED?”
“Unknown, Supreme Commander. They appear to possess a defensive mechanism called politeness.”
“THEN DESTROY THEIR LEADERS!”
“The parish council chairman has gone home for his lunch.”
At six o’clock, the local newspaper appeared.
Its headline read:
VISITORS CAUSE MINOR TRAFFIC DELAYS
Zarg was furious.
“WE ARRIVED IN A WARSHIP THE SIZE OF A CATHEDRAL! WE THREATENED EXTINCTION! AND WE ARE ON PAGE THREE?”
“The front page,” explained his lieutenant, “concerns the reopening of the public toilets.”
The final humiliation came when a policeman arrived on a bicycle and issued Zarg with a £70 parking fine.
That evening, the commander announced his withdrawal.
“WE HAVE CONQUERED SEVENTEEN PLANETS,” he told his officers. “BUT THERE IS NO WEAPON IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE CAPABLE OF DEFEATING A RETIRED BANK MANAGER WITH A CLIPBOARD.”
The spacecraft departed shortly afterwards, leaving behind a formal declaration of surrender.
The villagers applauded politely.
Reginald Pumblethwaite folded the document.
“Well,” he said, “we’d better form a committee to discuss this.”
Three weeks later, Earth received its final communication from the Zargon Empire.
EARTH IS HEREBY DESIGNATED A PROHIBITED PLANET. DO NOT ATTEMPT CONTACT. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ACCEPT AN INVITATION TO JOIN A WORKING GROUP.
P.S. THE SCONES WERE EXCELLENT.
The End.
