In My Secret Life 7 – Alien Abduction - Patrick Carton performance poet and storyteller

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In My Secret Life 7 – Alien Abduction

I was abducted by aliens. There I was up in the high field making hay when this big flying saucer comes skimming along and lands at my feet. A door opens up on the side and out hops this little green man with a television aerial sticking out of his head and he no bigger than a leprechaun. “Take me to your leader,” says he. “I’m sure the Taoiseach has enough on his plate without bothering him with the likes of you – what’s this all about?” arsa mise.
“Tea? Shook? Such insolence!” says he and before I knew it I was whisked up into the craft being interrogated by a bunch of these boyos. It seems that word had reached their planet of a proposed landing place for spatial airy planes in the vicinity of Horseleap and they were very disappointed to find no evidence thereof after their long journey. The space cadet who abducted me was hopping about the place in high dudgeon, his aerial white with rage – I think he was looking for promotion. Then there was the chief inquisitor with a satellite dish on his head to distinguish him from the common or garden alien. The minister for misinformation was taking copious notes and to cap it all there was a crew of deputy inquisitors in the background repeating everything that was said like a Greek chorus. They said I was “no help at all” as they conducted a series of fiendish experiments and investigations that seemed to drag on for years. And still no sign of Horseleap airport. Eventually they sentenced me to 21 years of listening to boybands. “Any chance of remission?” I asked. “What’s that?” says your man with the dish on his head. Then I thought I might cod them and I said that here on earth if you can recite a good poem the judge lets you go. “Let’s hear you so,” says he. I launched into “The Death of King Conor” and I had just gotten to the 45th verse when the door flew open and they shoved me back down the chute as the spaceship took off the way you might see manure flying off a graip and you mucking out a stable. There was the hay still to be made and me with a tale to tell even though I knew nobody would ever believe me.
PATRICK  CARTON

 
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