The Day the Aliens Landed in St Helens Uk full story

A funny story based on a true Bang at 7.30 am on a Tuesday morning in the Uk

The Day the Aliens Landed in St Helens

One almighty bang, a town full of nosy neighbours, and a Wigan meat pie that changed interplanetary history.

It was half past seven on a Tuesday morning in St Helens, Merseyside. The rain was pouring down, the wind was howling, and somewhere down the street, somebodys washing had escaped from the clothesline and was heading towards Warrington. Then it happened. Bang. Not an ordinary bang, not a dustbin lid falling off or somebody slamming a car door. This was the sort of bang that could wake the dead, frighten the living, and make a perfectly respectable woman jump out of bed with her nightdress tucked into her knickers.

Every car alarm in the street started screaming. The house alarms joined in too. Dogs barked, cats disappeared, and somewhere in a nearby bedroom, a man named Albert fell out of bed and landed headfirst in his slippers. What the bloody hell was that? he shouted. His wife Doris appeared at the window, wearing six curlers and a face full of night cream. Lightning, she announced. Lightning does not make my false teeth jump out of their glass, Albert replied. But Doris was not listening. She had spotted something enormous, something blue, and something that definitely had not been there yesterday.

Hovering above the rooftops was a strange looking spacecraft with flashing lights, a crooked aerial, and what appeared to be a toilet seat attached to the back. Inside the spacecraft, Captain Zoggle was having a terrible morning. Where are we? he demanded. His assistant, Lieutenant Wibble, consulted a complicated looking computer. Earth, Captain. England, Merseyside, St Helens. St what? St Helens, sir. Never heard of it. Are the inhabitants friendly?

Before Wibble could answer, a woman appeared below, waving a tea towel. Oi, you up there, are you coming down or what? I have just put the kettle on. Captain Zoggle blinked his three eyes. What is a kettle? Some kind of interrogation device, sir, Wibble whispered. Good heavens, we have landed among savages.

They landed in a small car park beside a row of shops. Within three minutes, seventeen people had gathered around the spacecraft. Within five minutes, somebody had photographed it. Within seven minutes, the whole of St Helens knew about it, and within ten minutes, Doris had invited the aliens into her house for a brew. Now then, she said, putting three mugs on the table. Where have you come from? Planet Zog. Where is that? Beyond your solar system. Is it near Blackpool? No. Have you got family? Yes. Are you married? Er, well. Any children?

Captain Zoggle began sweating green liquid. Why does this woman require so much information? he whispered. Wibble leaned towards him. I think she is working for their intelligence service. Doris produced a notebook. Now, how do you spell Zog? That was enough. Retreat, shouted the captain. They ran for the spaceship, narrowly avoiding Albert, who was still looking for his false teeth.

As they prepared to leave, a policeman knocked on the spacecraft window. Excuse me, sir, you cannot park that there. We are leaving. Well, you will still need to move that toilet seat. It is blocking the pavement. The spaceship shot into the sky. Where to now, Captain? asked Wibble. Somewhere the inhabitants are not so nosy. The computer beeped. Wigan, sir, approximately a short flight away. Is it safe? The inhabitants are famous for making pies. Captain Zoggle considered this. Pies? What are pies? Unknown, sir. Then we must investigate.

They landed outside a pie shop in Wigan. A cheerful man wearing a flat cap approached them. Ey up, lads, fancy a pie? Captain Zoggle stared suspiciously. Will you ask us where we come from? Nah, lad, meat and potato or steak? Will you demand information about our planet? Only if your planet makes better pies than Wigan. The captain relaxed. Two pies, please.

Five minutes later, he took his first bite. His antennae stood upright, his knees began trembling, and his three eyes filled with tears. Wibble. Yes, Captain? This is the greatest discovery in the history of space exploration. He ordered six more pies, then another twelve, and then a pint of beer.

But when the pie man presented the bill, Captain Zoggle reached into his pocket and produced three glowing purple stones. Will these cover the cost? he asked. The pie shop owner stared at them. What are them, lad? Diamonds from the moons of Zog. Extremely rare. The shopkeeper examined them carefully. Have you not got any English money? No. Well, I do not take foreign currency, lad. Captain Zoggle sighed. How many pies will three diamonds buy?

The shopkeeper scratched his head. Tell you what, lad, I will give you six pies, a couple of sausage rolls, and a pint of beer, and we will call it quits. Deal, shouted Zoggle. And that is how a Wigan pie shop became the first business on Earth to accept intergalactic diamonds. The following morning, the shopkeeper would discover he had exchanged six pies and a pint for diamonds worth four million eight hundred thousand pounds. And the worst part was, he had forgotten to charge for the carrier bag.

By lunchtime, Captain Zoggle had announced that he was resigning from the Intergalactic Exploration Service and becoming a Wiganer. I am not going home, he declared. I am staying here. The pie shop owner looked at the two strange creatures sitting at his table. Now listen here, lads, if you are planning on staying in Wigan, you will need to get yourselves jobs. You cannot keep paying for meat pies with coloured pebbles. They are diamonds, protested Captain Zoggle. Aye, and I am the King of England, replied the pie man.

He was convinced these two idiots were pretending to be from another planet, and he could not imagine anyone in their right mind giving them a job. Tell you what, lads, get yourselves down to the Social Security. The Jobcentre is just round the corner. They will sort you out. Will they give us employment? asked Wibble. They will give you something, lad. Whether it is a job or a headache, I could not say.

Twenty minutes later, Captain Zoggle and Lieutenant Wibble were sitting in the Jobcentre, waiting for their names to be called. Next. A woman behind a desk looked up. Name? Captain Zoggle, Commander of the Seventh Intergalactic Fleet. Previous employment? Commander of a spacecraft. Reason for leaving? Disagreement with management over the invasion of Earth. The woman stopped typing. Have you got any qualifications? I can travel faster than the speed of light. Can you drive a forklift? No. Then you are going to struggle, love.

She turned to Wibble. And what about you? I can communicate telepathically with seventeen different species. Any experience in customer service? Not with humans. Well, that is no good, is it? Captain Zoggle leaned forward. Madam, we have travelled across seven galaxies, survived meteor storms, encountered hostile civilisations, and landed safely on your planet. The woman sighed. That is all very well, love, but have you brought your National Insurance numbers? Our what? National Insurance numbers. We have not got any.

Proof of address? We live on a spaceship. Postcode? Planet Zog, Sector Nine. She stared at them. That is not a Wigan postcode. We know. Well, without identification, proof of address, and the correct paperwork, I cannot process your claim. Captain Zoggle stood up. Wibble, we are leaving. Where to, Captain? Jupiter. But Captain, we have only just got here. I do not care, I have had enough of Earth.

And with that, the two aliens stormed out of the Jobcentre. Unfortunately, they had forgotten one important thing. They had left their spaceship on a double yellow line, and there was a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen. Seventy pounds, pay within fourteen days. Captain Zoggle stared at it. Wibble? Yes, Captain? We are never coming back to Earth again.

But before they could take off, another man appeared carrying a clipboard. Excuse me, sir, is this your vehicle? Captain Zoggle closed his eyes. Unfortunately. Well, according to our records, your spacecraft has not got a valid MOT. A what? An MOT. Has it been tested? Tested? This spacecraft has travelled through black holes, survived meteor storms, and crossed seven galaxies. Aye, but are your brake lights working? Captain Zoggle stared at him. We do not have brakes. Well, that is an automatic failure then, is it not?

And where is your insurance certificate? We do not have one. Road tax? No. Vehicle registration? Intergalactic Starship Zog Seven. The man scribbled something on his clipboard. Right, no MOT, no insurance, no tax, and you are parked on double yellow lines. He looked at the strange vehicle. And what is that toilet seat doing on the back? It is our warp drive. Well, it looks like a toilet seat to me, lad.

Captain Zoggle climbed into his spaceship and slammed the door. Wibble, start the engines. Where are we going, Captain? Anywhere that does not have a council. The spaceship shot into the sky, leaving the parking attendant holding his clipboard. Well, he muttered, that is another one doing a runner.

As they travelled through space, Captain Zoggle sent an urgent message to every spacecraft in the galaxy. Warning to all interplanetary travellers. Do not land in St Helens. The inhabitants will give you tea and interrogate you until Christmas. Wigan is much safer, excellent pies, but beware of the Jobcentre, parking attendants, and MOT testers. Recommendation, four stars.

Then they headed for Jupiter. At last, sighed Captain Zoggle. Somewhere peaceful. But as they approached the planet, Wibble began making strange noises. Captain? What now? I think you had better look out of the window.

Standing on the surface of Jupiter were approximately four hundred little green creatures. Some were wearing underpants on their heads, one was eating a sock, and another was riding a giant frog backwards. Three were dancing around a dustbin, while an enormous purple creature was playing a trumpet with its backside. Captain Zoggle stared. What sort of lunatic asylum is this?

A little green Martian approached the spacecraft. Welcome to Jupiter, he shouted. Would you like to join our annual underpants festival? Captain Zoggle slowly turned towards Wibble. Wibble? Yes, Captain? Get us out of here. Where to, sir? The captain thought for a moment, then he smiled. Wigan. Again, sir? Yes, Wigan. At least they are normal.

But Captain, what about the parking ticket? We will pay it with diamonds. And the MOT? We will tell them the toilet seat has been repaired. And the Jobcentre? We will get jobs in the pie shop. And so the spaceship turned around and headed back towards Earth.

Somewhere over St Helens, Doris was still standing at her window. I told you it was not lightning, Albert. Albert looked up from his newspaper. What is that, love? Aliens. Do not be daft, woman.

Just then, another enormous bang shook the house. Bang. The car alarms started screaming again. Doris dropped her teacup, and Albert lost his false teeth for the second time that morning. And high above the clouds, Captain Zoggle could be heard shouting. Show me the way to Wigan, I am going home for my tea.

And to this day, nobody in St Helens knows what caused that mysterious bang. But somewhere in Wigan, there is a little green man sitting in a pie shop, wearing a flat cap, drinking a pint, and telling everybody. Best decision I ever made. I came for the exploration, but I stayed for the pies.

And the pie man? Well, he is now a millionaire, having sold the three diamonds. He still runs his little pie shop, though, and if two strange looking fellows come in wearing silver spacesuits, he always asks the same question. Usual, lads? Six meat pies and two pints, please. Paying cash? No. Diamonds again? Of course.

The pie man smiled. By eck, lads, I wish we would get more bloody aliens in Wigan.

The End.