By Philomena Cunk Fans 
Hello, readers of the internet, it’s me, Philomena Cunk, your guide to the great big everything that is history, science, and now, apparently, space. I was recently invited by some boffins at NASA—or maybe it was NISA, I forget, it’s the one with the rockets—to go on a journey to space. They said it was to “expand human understanding,” but I reckon they just wanted someone to test their new spaceship’s cupholder. So, off I went, into the great black yonder, to see what’s what up there. Spoiler alert: it’s mostly nothing, but then I met an alien, and things got properly weird.
The journey started with me strapped into a rocket, which is like a rollercoaster designed by someone who hates fun. They gave me a helmet that made my head look like a boiled egg in a goldfish bowl, and off we went, zooming past clouds, birds, and what I’m pretty sure was a Ryanair flight to Malaga. When we got to space, it was dead quiet, like a library with no books or a pub after last orders. Just a load of twinkly stars and a big blue Earth looking like a posh marble you’d nick from a kid at school.
After floating about for a bit, sipping Capri-Sun through a straw (because apparently that’s how you drink in space), my spaceship bumped into something. Not a meteor or a satellite, but a proper UFO, all shiny and wobbly like a jelly at a kid’s party. The door opened, and out came an alien. It wasn’t like the ones in films with big eyes and a vendetta against Will Smith. This one looked like a blob of lime green custard with tentacles, and it was wearing what I can only describe as a cosmic onesie. I called it Brian, because it looked like a Brian, and it didn’t object, so Brian it was.
“Greetings, Earthling,” said Brian, in a voice like Stephen Hawking’s satnav mixed with a kazoo. “I am from the planet Zog, which is 12 light-years away and has much better broadband than your lot. What is this ‘Earth’ you come from?”
I thought I’d give Brian the full Philomena Cunk treatment, so I explained Earth as best I could. “Earth,” I said, “is a big round thing, like a football but less kickable. It’s got water, land, and people, who are basically monkeys that learned to wear trousers and argue on the internet. We’ve got buildings, telly, and kebabs, which are like meat lollipops. Oh, and we’ve got history, which is just a long list of people being awful to each other, but sometimes they build a nice cathedral first.”
Brian’s tentacles wiggled, which I took to mean he was impressed, or possibly itchy. “This sounds chaotic,” he said. “On Zog, we live in harmony, floating in our goo-pods and communicating through telepathic burps. Your people, they fight over… what? Land? Shiny rocks? Wi-Fi passwords?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “We’ve got wars over who gets to draw lines on maps, and we’re dead keen on money, which is bits of paper we swap for coffee and existential dread. Also, we’ve got this thing called Twitter, where everyone shouts into the void, and the void shouts back.”
Brian’s custard-y face rippled, which might’ve been a laugh or a sneeze. “Fascinating,” he said. “And what is the purpose of your species? On Zog, we strive to perfect the art of synchronized floating. What do Earthlings strive for?”
I had to think about that one. “Well,” I said, “some of us want to be rich, some want to be famous, and some just want to get through a Monday without crying. Mostly, we’re trying to figure out why we’re here, but we keep getting distracted by Netflix and arguments about who invented hummus.”
Brian floated closer, his onesie shimmering under the starlight. “You are a curious species,” he said. “You invent machines to fly to the stars, yet you cover your planet in plastic and shout at each other about it. Why not just… stop?”
I shrugged. “Dunno, Brian. It’s like we’re all in a big rush to ruin everything, but we’re also dead good at making memes about it. Have you seen the one with the distracted boyfriend? Classic.”
Brian didn’t know what a meme was, so I showed him one on my phone (which, miraculously, still had signal, probably because I’m with EE). It was the one where the cat looks grumpy, and Brian’s tentacles went mental, like he’d just seen the meaning of life. “This,” he said, “is your greatest achievement. Forget your pyramids or your moon landings. This grumpy cat is the peak of your civilization.”
We chatted a bit more, and I asked Brian if Zog had anything like Earth’s problems. “Oh, we used to,” he said. “We had wars over who got the best goo-pods, but then we realized we could just share the goo. Now we spend our time perfecting our burps and watching the universe spin. You should try it.”
I told him I’d pass that on to the United Nations, but I wasn’t sure they’d go for telepathic burping as a global policy. Before I left, Brian gave me a parting gift—a glowing orb that he said contained “the wisdom of Zog.” I’m not sure if it’s a lamp or a snack, but it’s on my mantlepiece now, next to a snow globe from Blackpool.
As my spaceship wobbled back to Earth, I looked out at the stars and thought about what Brian said. Maybe we are a bit daft, arguing over borders and Brexit when we could be floating in goo-pods and burping profound thoughts. But then, that’s Earth, isn’t it? A messy, noisy, brilliant little planet, full of people who’d probably tell an alien to sod off if it tried to nick their kebab.
So, there you have it, internet people. Space is big, aliens are blobby, and Earth is a bit like a soap opera that’s been running too long. Next time you’re looking up at the stars, give a wave to Brian. He’s probably out there, burping philosophically and wondering why we haven’t sorted ourselves out yet.