A Year with the Brighouse Stars Walking Club (May Part 2)

Can the Brighouse Stars Save the World

May

Part 2 (of 2)

St John addressed the lads. ‘What have you brought?’ he asked, opening a bottle of Timothy Taylor Knowle Spring with the bottle opener attached to his rucksack.

‘Leeds Yorkshire Gold’, said Heathcliff.

‘Vocation Roll With It. Keeping it local’ said Wolfy.

‘Shouldn’t you be working on your presentation?’ asked Lionel, ‘after all we’ll be there in less than ten minutes’.

‘If we don’t sup it now it’ll be too warm’, explained St John, ‘Would you like one?’

‘We do not consume liquids’ said Lionel, ‘in our natural state our bodies produce all our requirements synthetically and with no waste, but I have to say that I like the look of that Knowle Spring’.

St John removed the top from a bottle and handed it to Lionel. His first tentative swig was quickly followed by the draining of the bottle.

The lads surmised that the craft had reached its destination when an opening appeared displaying what they assumed to be the exit.

They all looked in the direction of Lionel for further instructions. Lionel had a smile on its face as it exited its recess and walked – rather unsteadily it has to be said – towards the exit aperture.

St John looked at the other two, winked and mouthed ‘Lightweight’.

The other two smiled and nodded.     

One by one the lads passed through the exit opening and came face to face with three further humanoids. In the semi darkness it was difficult to make out the space in which they were located, but all were seated in what looked like command chairs from an early series of Star Trek, and they all had a metal chip in one ear.

The middle humanoid – whom the lads assumed to be the commander - spoke, ‘You must now make your case for the survival of your planet and your galaxy. Your words will be heard, translated and by a series of algorithms, ranked alongside the submissions of the other 187 billion galaxies we have already seen’.

Wolfy thought his head might explode at that point, so he took another large swig of the Roll With It.

Lionel addressed the executive, ‘It seems that earthlings have created something that none of the other galaxies have. They call it alcohol. Of course, as a liquid, it is extraneous to us, but I have to say that it is very tasty and refreshing. Perhaps you should try some before they speak’.

At this point, St John wondered if Lionel was listing towards the starboard edge of the space station as well as slurring his words a little. On reflection he thought perhaps that could have been its internal language convertor trying to come to terms with the Yorkshire dialect.

As St John was a well-known tight arse it was Heathcliff who shuffled forward and offered the three members of the executive each a can of the Leeds Yorkshire Gold.

‘Yes’, said the commander, ‘very refreshing, just give us a few moments to assimilate’.

The few moments passed.

‘Not being funny, but do you have anything a bit more hoppy?’ This from the committee member seated to the right of the commander. Heathcliff thought that perhaps his assimilation process was already in overdrive.

Wolfy ventured forward and passed him a can of Roll With It while muttering ‘£4.75 a can that bugger’ under his breath. He couldn’t care less how these clever sods’ language convertors interpreted that.

It has to be said at this stage that the executive committee (and Lionel) seemed more concerned about the consumption of further liquid than any presentation that would invoke either life or death for the planet earth. Heathcliff could have sworn he heard the commander telling the committee member to his left the joke about when God visits Lancashire and Yorkshire.

A few more minutes passed and a few more drinks were consumed.

Suddenly, the commander leaned forward and as his elbow slipped off the arm of his command seat said, ‘Sod it, I don’t think we need bother with any presentation.  If you wouldn’t mind leaving behind a beer for each of us then we can send you on your way back to your planet. What was the name of it again?’

The lads shuffled along back into the craft and each positioned themselves in a recess. Lionel wobbled up to St John and whispered in his ear ‘I bloody love you. Give me a mo and you’ll be on your way.’ He then staggered off through the hole that passed as an exit and shouted at the Exec, ‘I’ve had the word toilet come into my head. What’s one of those exactly?’

It must be said that the lads spent most the next 15 minutes - or 950,000 light years if looked at from an alternative point of view – dozing. There was the odd philosophical reflection.

Heathcliff,  ‘All those chuffin’ other galaxies and only us that likes a pint. Who’d have thought it?’

St John ‘Aye, and it’s a good job we didn’t bring Lucozade like we sometimes do’.

It was only when the light appeared through the exit hole that had suddenly appeared that they roused themselves and wandered out into the cave. Having relieved themselves in the undergrowth outside they peaked back into the cave to see, well, absolutely nothing there.

Wolfy broke the silence, ‘Well that’s the last time I drink anything above 4%’.

And in fact that was the last time any of the lads made any sort of reference to the events of the previous couple of hours. The commander had ensured that as soon as they started breathing the earth’s atmosphere again then all extraplanetary knowledge would be wiped from their memories. No harm done, although the following December they did lose the West Yorkshire Walking Clubs pub quiz final by one point when the tie break question was the first team to shout out anyone with an acting credit in ET.

The lads trudged on towards Stoodley Pike. There was little in the way of conversation. In some respects to be expected when they’d (unknowingly) had a partial lobotomy administered on them by a space alien, but additionally as cagoule hoods were now tightly fastened up against the driving rain brought on by the increasingly inclement weather.

Whether or not the next moment was brought on by the sudden bolt of lightning appearing not more than 10 yards in front of him or by some sort of supernatural intervention, but the word ‘Todmorden’ seemed to etch itself into St John’s barely conscious mind.

‘Right lads’, he said’, ‘Stuff it. We’re going directly on to Todmorden, and we’ll catch the train back from there’.

There was little by way of dissention. That would have meant summoning up the energy to argue and there was little appetite for that.

After a couple of minutes Heathcliff piped up, ‘St John, you know when you said Todmorden just now? Well, I had the strangest feeling. It was like my body was moving forward but my head had detached itself and floated off somewhere. And I was looking down on myself from somewhere that I didn’t recognise. And I was saying to my body ‘Don’t go there, don’t go there’. It’s frightened me St John’.

‘Don’t be so soft lad’ St John replied, ‘It’s not that bad. It’s reported some missionaries have recently made it out of there alive’.

‘Mmm, strange though all the same’, said Heathcliff, ‘and what’s even stranger is that I still can’t remember polishing all my beers off before lunchtime’.

Now that even stranger thought did seem to resonate with both St John and Wolfy at the same time.

En route back to Todmorden the sky grew ever darker and the rain bounced down ever harder. By the time they reached the Short-Sighted Labrador in the village they were drenched to the bone, cold and hungry.

‘I have to say, weather notwithstanding, today seemed longer than seven miles’, said Wolfy.

St John ignored him.

The three drowned rats entered the pub. Wolfy and Heathcliff pushed off to the loo leaving St John to make his way to the bar with his hood still tightly tied and his glasses all steamed up.

‘I’ll get them in then shall I’, he muttered to himself.

He extricated his head from his hood and taking off his temporarily useless specs, tried to make out the names on the beer pump clips.

‘I’ll try the Interplanetary Craft’ he said, now trying to focus his vision on the someone who was serving behind the bar.

‘That’s new on tap today. Will that be three pints then?’, the someone asked.

At hearing that voice something in St John’s mind stirred and seemed to be trying to make sense of something that was outside his current field of knowledge. A bit like one of Donald Rumsfeld’s unknown unknowns.

St John cleaned his glasses best he could on a semi sodden tissue. He didn’t want to look directly at where the voice had come from. It had triggered something primeval in him. For the next few seconds he contented himself with the sights in his peripheral vision. He took in the usual trappings of a Todmorden pub. A group of men were skinning rabbits in the corner; the Upper Calder Valley ladies arm wrestling championship was in full flow; a Golden Retriever and an Alsatian were going at it in the hearth making a breed that would never be recognised at Crufts.

Above all the someone behind the bar seemed to arouse zero fear and most certainly no interest from anyone else in the pub.

‘That will be £12.30 my good man’, said the someone.

St John looked up. Was the one large eye in the oversized head winking at him? When there’s only the one eye that would forever have to remain a moot point.

‘Card or cash?’, asked Lionel.