The Natives at Play

Observing the natives in their natural habitat, is an important part of settling in on a New Planet. Instead of going to the zoological gardens to observe other species, I prefer to sit in a cosy room with a hot beverage, observing some of the strange rituals practised by the natives. It affords me much amusement and I am beginning to take these strange aliens to my heart.

The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.

I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.

And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.

There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).

I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...

Under attack

It has become apparent to me that the New Planet has a number of unpleasant elements floating about in its atmosphere (and no, I'm not talking about large-mammaried celebrities). Although I have been on this planet for a number of years now, I continue to be attacked and struck down by these dastardly bugs. Surely a being should build up a resistance after a time? They lurk out there, waiting until I am tired and vulnerable, and then they swoop in and attack and leave me feeling as if I have been run over by a herd of woolly mammoths. And since my stomach is now churning after another assault, I shall retire to my chamber to contemplate, scheme and plot about the best way to take over the world.

Couch Potatoes...

On the New Planet the nights are drawing in, darkness descends in the late afternoon and the air is frosty. And in the gloom, when shopping is manic with present-hunters pushing and shoving and jostling to get the best deal, traffic building up making easy travel nigh impossible, the only retreat for a sane traveller is the couch, in front of the picture box...well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. But I'm not going to ramble on about the endless repeats, no, I have something much more important to mutter about.

To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.

Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.

And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.

Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).

So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.

Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...

Feeding frenzy...

As mentioned in my last epistle, food on the New Planet plays a big part in every one's lives, so I'll continue on this delectable topic for now...

Once a traveller has mastered that great institution known as 'the pub', and fallen prey to the monstrous carvery with its soggy carrots, undercooked meat and runny gravy, one can explore the other delights that the New Planet has to offer. Seldom will a being leave a Sunday lunch at the pub with enough energy to do anything more than collapse on the couch with trousers (not pants because these are what one wears under clothes) undone and stare at the telly. Last (or first depending on how you look at things) Day of the Week dinner is a big thing on this planet and you can’t get more traditional than roast beef and potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas, sprouts, carrots and gravy, followed by the ubiquitous sticky toffee or banoffee pie pudding. Of course, there are still some brave enough to actually cook this meal 'from scratch' and serve it up from the comfort of their own homes. Even one such as myself, who grew up in the Southernmost Colony, was inducted into this ancestral right back on the old planet as old and new ways merged to create a new species of being, the Britbok. Obviously this was before discovering the delights of charring dead animal flesh on a open fire built inside half an oil drum, an activity that would not be well received by the ''ealf an' safety' dictators (or the 'No, you shall Never Have Any Fun Again or Use Common Sense to Prevent a Ridiculous Accident Police', as I like to call them) that reign supreme here.

Of course there are the usual speedy-cuisine outlets, the golden arches, the genial grey-haired man with his deep-fried, cholesterol raising fowl and assorted places that serve dead animal flesh skewered on a strip of metal, but let us not forget that famous New Planetarian institution, the faithful 'chippy', often creatively named (In Cod we Trust, Almighty Cod, The Frying Machine). Ah yes, white fishy flesh wrapped in a heart attack, I mean batter, and slices of deep-fried root vegetable wrapped in newspaper…actually in a polystyrene non-biodegradable container or soggy packet, smothered in salt and vinegar and loaded with fat. Yum.

There is a very odd tradition here that I have yet to make sense of, the fondness for what they call "mushy peas". This is not as exotic as it sounds. They are really squashed and battered peas with the same texture as green peanut butter and the same coarse, dry stick-to-the-top-of-my-mouth-making-me-feel-like-I’ll-never-be-able-to- talk-again properties as the brown stuff. Usually a large dollop is served up on top of the strips of root vegetable, turning them green and leaving little lime coloured rivulets of liquid for the cod or hake to wallow in. I’m sorry, but I can’t take them seriously.

Fed up...

For any calorie counting, sugar watching, fat-free-food-obsessed traveller, the New Planet is a land mine waiting to explode and cover the unsuspecting being in creme filled chocolate. Walking down the streets of any small town or village, the nostrils are assaulted with a variety of smells guaranteed to drive any moderately hungry person off their head. Sweet and salty, nutty and nasty, fruity and fantastic, there is something about the mixture of aromas that meander about narrow lanes that cannot quite be described. For someone coming from a Southernmost Colony where thousands teeter on the brink of starvation, there is an almost wanton array and selection of culinary delights on display at this stage of the planet's orbit around the sun.

The vast displays of cocoa-bean delights that appear at Yuletide served up in industrial strength sized boxes, are surely designed by some skinny sadist monster from the depths, as who can resist the shiny wrappings, the bows, the bangles and the spangles that beckon from every shelf as the festive season draws near? Not me, that's for sure. Boxes and bags and bow bedecked nut, nougat and caramel filled treats lurk and call very loudly to any cocoaholic brave enough to enter a shop at this time of year.

How will I survive the tempations; the dairy products so artistically arranged on small wooden pallettes, the skyscraper-sized displays of every kind of alcoholic beverage known to mankind (ten for the price of one as if every being is intent on getting so inebriated they fall head first into the trifle), the arrays of sauces and snacks, frozen mini-cupcakes, sausages rolled in pastry, skewered sea creatures dipped in bee nectar, immense fowls of every form stuffed within one another, and don't even get me started on the expectations of the undeveloped beings who appear to think that their parents' treasure is unending and that whatever their hearts desire will be bought, packed, wrapped, bedecked and be-bowed and placed beneath the yuletide bowers. How can beings resist the multipacks of powders and potions and paints that appear on the shelves of retail outlets at this time of year? Well, I'll tell you, they can't!

And let me not forget to mention the often garish multi-coloured strings of illuminations that twine and twirl and dangle around lamp posts and trees and garden fences, that drip off eaves and strangle mantles. Small, large and gigantic fronds of fir (or plastic) hang heavy with the weight of the glass baubles and bells and strings of silver or gold or green or pink, a veritable overdose of glitter and glow and yes, it does warm the cockles of one's heart (unless one is particularly cynical and annoyed at the disappearance of the TRUE meaning of this season). In the dark damp nights, amidst the twinkles and sparkles and festive cheer, a traveller from the Southernmost Colony longs for the bright sunshine of nature and family and friends, and experiences pangs unlike any that occur during the previous rotations of the moons.

Fortunately, this season does not last too long (although it certainly begins far too early) and once the geegaws and niknaks are packed away once more, life on the New Planet resumes once more, normal and natural...until the first cocoa-clad bunny comes hopping into view...

Nasties and heroes

I have discovered to my dismay, that even on the New Planet, a place I thought to be safer and securer than the Southernmost Colony, there exist felons intent upon the destruction of my small content sphere. These dark creatures lurk in gloomy rooms, their many tentacled hands tapping furiously upon their keyboards, breath foul and reeking, bodies unwashed and crusted with dirt as they try to separate me from my ever dwindling treasure (or so I imagine).

I find myself filled with rage at these purpetrators of crime and wonder what misfiring synapses inside their small brains enables them to assume they can lay their grubby fingers on that which does not belong to them. Perhaps it is the anonymity of these felonious beings that makes me so irate.The unmitigated gall to think what's mine is theirs simply because they will it so. But, despite finding my limbs weak with fright and anger, I am delighted to discover that within mere hours of these dastardly devils attempting to plunder my wealth, they are being tracked through the cybersphere and will soon, no doubt, find themselves in shackles and, oh if it were only so, in the stocks where others like me could pelt them with rotten fruit and sodden clumps of mud! And I am eternally grateful to the heroes behind the scenes that are seeking out these felons...

Round and round I go...

And then we have that great invention called the roundabout, which the New Planet seems to have created deliberately to annoy travellers. Now, these are not to be confused with the pimples in the road that they have in the Southernmost Colony and call a traffic circle. They range in size from small circles with four roads converging, to massive, congested, five lane confluences with nine or ten roads converging like spaghetti throwing a tantrum. Woe betide if I don’t know which exit to take. I have ended up going round and round and round trying to find the correct exit, get into the right lane and avoid being squashed between other drivers who do know where they’re going and are not at all sympathetic towards lost foreigners.

The exits are not always that clearly sign posted and I have discovered after many a tearful journey, that it doesn’t help to only know the name of the town I am going to, but I also need to know the names of the nearest big town, and at least five or six villages en route. I also need to know in which direction I am headed. It’s all very well to be on what the New Planetarians call 'motorways', but if you're heading North instead of South, matters become even more confused. When you think you're heading for The Great Capitol City and end up at the Severnth Bridge leading into a nearby planetoid where they speak in sing song accents and eat leeks, a newly arrived traveller can end up feeling a right twit (well I certainly did).

I am only now beginning to make peace with the road systems, but at least I finally know how to find my way home if I get lost. I once found myself trapped in a jungle of winding alleyways and narrow, never previously before discovered lanes bordered by impenetrable hedges for three and a half hours because I just didn’t know which way to turn as nothing was familiar (and it was pouring with rain, which is does from time to time as I might have mentioned previously).

There is definitely something about coming from the Southern Colonies…not only does the water go the wrong way down the plug hole, but for the directionally challenged left feels like right, North feels like South and all directions make absolutely no sense at all. And a local cartograph is not necessarily helpful. You might find the building you're looking for on page 94, but how you actually get to page 94 is another story. Sitting in a layby as you flap through the pages of the cartograph like a demented butterfly, is no fun at all, especially when you decide to turn left at the crossroads and you should have turned right and are now headed in completely the wrong direction, something you only discover when you see the lights of a large metropolis ahead.

Being told in a serious voice to “Go straight down the Motorway, take the Portageway (which is not sign posted or I can’t see the sign because there is a large truck blocking it just at the crucial moment), then go round the roundabout past the post office on the left, then go straight after the sixth set of traffic lights and veer right at the mini roundabout, then go under the bridge and cross over the small lane but don’t take the first left fork, go past that fork and at the next left fork go straight and take the fifth left fork then keep right but bear left as you round the bend, which curves to the right just before you turn left as you pass the tall oak that was stuck by lightning in 1265, and if you carry on straight you can’t miss it. But if you’re leaving before the sixth moon rises above the horizon, I suggest you rather take minor route 416 and in that case go….” does not make it any easier.

And it's not only the road system that needs to be learned, there is also vocabulary, which can lead to confusion not to mention embarrassment. For instance, a robot is a mechanical thing that walks around making beeping noises intent on taking over the world. The thing that goes from red to amber to green, which I find at intersections, is called a traffic light and running over a sleeping policeman is not an incident of manslaughter after all, it’s only a speed bump.

Ah, the joys of traffic. The transportation routes are like overfilled sausages, stuffed to bursting with strange, well maintained craft beetling about. I notice at once that all of them have four wheels with the appropriate amount of tread. They are all on a mission and know exactly where they're going, unlike myself, who is still, despite these many years, devoid of any kind of navigational skill. But at least I can find my way home now, so that's comforting...