felt like asking him what he meant by ‘radio stations being less than good mannered’ but thought (for the sake of my sanity) better of it.
“Can I go inside your space craft?” I asked Zog.
“No, I’m afraid you cannot be doing of that,” he answered.”
Feeling very disappointed at being told this, I said, “Why not?”
“It’s nothing to do with us not trusting of you on that matter,” he assured me, “for I can see that you are a man of great excellence. It is simply a matter of measure.”
“A matter of measure?”
“Yes,” he answered. You see, you are taller by far to allow you to enter our space item”
“Oh...I see,” I replied. Moreover, he was right; the flying saucer was made for little green men, not six foot high humans.
“I hope you are not taking the fence,” he said apologetically to me.
“You hope I am not taking the fence?”
“Yes, that the refusal of entry is not hurting of you.”
“Oh, you mean taking offence!”
“Is that not what I have already been saying?” Zog rather innocently replied.
Moving on, I said, “Is there anything you want while you are here?”
No thank you,” he replied. “We have all that we want to have. However, there is an item that we are needing to have.”
“There is?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Tea,” he told me.
“Tea?”
“Yes, tea of the most notable variety would be most pleasing to us.”
“You drink tea?” I curiously asked Zog, because that was last thing in the world I thought aliens would drink.
“Symbolically pushing the tea away from him, he replied, “No, we never drink of the tea!”
“Then why do you want it?”
“To pour down our boots, of course,” he told me.
“To pour down your boots,” I said, quite in surprise.
“Yes,” he answered. “We never travel with our boots empty – it’s the truth!”
You pour tea down you boots?” I said out aloud. “What does it do, make you fly like a bird?” I said mockingly, because I truly thought that he was joking.
“It does,” he answered. “How did you know that? Was you mother or father from Fart – or even your cat?”
Just then, I heard something, someone calling me. “Gerrard, wake up. It’s morning; here is your tea.”
Opening my eyes, I saw Breda my wife, offering the cup of plenty, tea; it’s my life. Where are my boots? I fretfully asked, though still half asleep. “I want them, I need them; oh where are they please?
“They are under the bed,” Breda answered. “Here, she said, handing them to me. “Why do you want them?
Accepting the boots, I sat on the side of the bed, and then I poured the tea into them. I smiled approvingly as it splashed its way down them.
“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “You have just ruined your best pair of boots! Why on earth did you do that?”
“Gazing serenely at her, I said, “I don’t go anywhere before filling them first.” Handing her the empty cup, I said, “Can I have some more. I want to fill them to the brim, only then can I drink some.”
“But why do it?” she asked, scratching her head, bamboozled by my strange antics.
“It’s not a whim or some fleeting fancy,” I explained. “It’s for real. Let me tell you about Zog...”
The moral of my story is this;
Avoid Ballykilduff; give it a miss,
For strange things are happening there,
Like aliens wearing boots filled with tea, so rare.
THE END
Aliens Landed in Ballykilduff Poem
Aliens landed in Ballykilduff,
Aliens landed; that is a fact,
In the dark of the night it happened, it did,
At the end of my garden they landed, then hid.
*
Breda, dear Breda, wake up, will you please?
Something is happening, and I am all in a tizz!
Leave me alone, she answered, I’m beat,
With those words on her lips, she fell fast asleep.
*
Donning my gown and slippers I left,
Her sleeping soundly as into the kitchen I crept,
Searching for light; a torch, my best friend,
Then into the garden I stealthily went.
*
Down the long garden, man and torch progressed,
I climbed over the fence, into the field with its guests,
Pointing my torch at the little green men,
I saw Aliens a plenty around a flying saucer, broken.
*
What are they doing? I mused out aloud,
Signalling my place, my location – and how,
Pointing their guns, the Aliens zapped me with rays,
Blue, yellow, green, orange and grey.
*
Thinking my time was finished, all gone,
I fell to the ground, awaiting the final anon,
Sorry about that, one of them said, helping me up,
We thought you were a cow, wanting to gobble us up.
*
What are you doing? I asked, with curious eyes,
Seeing them cutting the grass, then taking it inside,
We are refuelling our spaceship, he told me aloud,
We get a light year per armful, he told me quite proud.
*
That’s amazing, I said, can I go see inside?
Sorry, he answered, it’s too small for your like,
Laughing, I said, is there anything you need?
Yes, he told me forthrightly, can we have some tea?
*
Tea? I asked, you drink tea way up there,
In outer space, with its atmosphere rare?
No, silly, he replied, it’s to pour down our boots,
We never travel with them empty; it’s the truth.
*
You pour tea down your boots? I laughed out aloud,
What does it do, make you fly like a bird?
It does, he answered, how did you know that fact?
Was your mother or father an alien, or even your cat?
*
Just then I heard something, someone calling to me,
Gerrard, wake up, its morning; here is your tea,
Opening my eyes, I saw Breda my wife,
Offering the cup of plenty, tea; it’s my life.
*
Where are my boots? I asked, though still half sleep,
I want them, I need them; oh, where are they please?
Under the bed, here, she said, then she gave them to me,
Why do you want them before drinking your tea?
*
Accepting the boots, I poured in the tea,
What on earth are you doing? she asked warily,
I don’t go anywhere, I told her, without filling them first,
Can I have another cup, I asked, I sure have a thirst.
*
The moral of my story is this:
Avoid Ballykilduff, give it a miss,
For strange things are happening there,
Like aliens wearing boots filed with tea – I swear!
Bolf
Once upon a time, there lived a troll called Bolf. He was not a happy troll; in fact, he was the most dejected troll you could ever have the misfortune of meeting. How could he have been happy, when he had what he truly believed was the worst name in the entire troll world?
He did try changing his name, though. In fact, he tried changing it a number of times, but every time he tried doing it, something terrible happened that stopped him from taking on the new name. The first time this happened, when he chose the wonderful new name of Nork, there was an almighty earthquake, which left everything in a shambles, with renaming ceremonies put far down the agenda. The second time he attempted to take a new
name (he chose an even stronger one this time, he chose Firelie), an enormous forest fire broke out nearby. He took this as an omen of terribly bad luck in the offing, so he abandoned his plans for that name. On the third occasion, there was a huge explosion in the local fertilizer mine. With all hands needed, there, to offer assistance, he abandoned his plans for adopting that name also. In the end, after trying to change his name on fourteen different occasions, Bolf begrudgingly accepted the fact that he was stuck with it, that he would most probably never be able to change it.
But life goes on, and the unhappy troll – Bolf – lived with his dreadful name, struggling from one day to the next, seeing no rhyme or reason as to why he should be anything other than unhappy. He remained unhappy for four utterly miserable years, and he would have remained unhappy for another four if it had not been for the appearance of a beautiful female troll.
When he first set eyes on her, Bolf was so mesmerised by her beauty, he wanted to run up to her, and tell her that she was the troll of his dreams, but he didn’t. No. Instead of doing that, he skulked away, dismally forlorn, allowing his terrible name to hold him back from true love and happiness.
Bolf did ask his acquaintances about her, though, but when they told him her name, he barked, “Gaalf? That’s a worse name than mine!” Moreover, he was right; in troll circles, to be named Gaalf equates to being called dung. I ask you, would you like to be called Gaalf?
Thus it went on, for day after day and week after week, with Bolf admiring the beautiful female troll, from afar, yet denying himself the right to meet her simply because of her name.
One day, as Bolf was sitting outside the local convenience store, as all trolls do, watching out for scraps of food discarded by humans, things like banana skins, orange peels and empty cigarette packets that he could munch on, he spied a packet on the ground, not far away from where he was sitting.
It was one of those new types, made of shiny, stiff cardboard, with fancy scrolled lettering upon it. They were the best tasting ones, Bolf thought. Strolling across to it, Bolf whistled nonchalantly, pretending he wasn’t in the faintest bit interested in it. Then he reached down to grab hold of it.
BANG! Heads collided.
“Ow! That hurts!” Bolf groaned, rubbing his head, trying to sooth the soreness