Not according to Spock


Last Thursday wearing the Roswell T-shirt at my 37th Wetherspoon pub fittingly The Man in the Moon I’m accosted by this bearded old geezer jovially eager as a tack asking Have I been there even before I’ve managed to put in a Curry Club order and have a first sup of the Abbot’s


[I’ve noticed some of my T-shirts attract more attention than others Mount Irishmore for instance and notably Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem 1189 (surely one of the better hostelries in this seat of Mars) invariably galvanises Nottinghamites in connection with which another acquaintance of the malt informed me recently this use of Trip does not necessarily imply a vacation hop rather a group of guys (or a few hares or sheep) which I suppose could be interesting if one does not get out much]


I tell this geezer I most certainly have and he fills me in on a few details about the Manhattan Project Well I guess they don’t see many aliens in Stanmore


Outside a great Jalfrezi I shape-shift into the current human female mode of heels miniskirt and bodice overflowing with prosthetically-enhanced udderine builder’s bum which somewhat amazes the assembled company but regrettably does not faze the old geezer so time to illiterately boldly go on a brisk teeter across the final frontier back to the saucer (which is only just up the road parked behind Sainsbury’s)


Even when spaced out on Abbot’s you can’t keep a good Uranian down for long as I know Walt W. surely would have agreed.


IVOR TREBY


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