For a long time now, I have marvelled at the weather in the United Kingdom. I sometimes wonder why I never chose a more predictable climate. Various alternative options spring to mind, but most of them have drawbacks. Antarctica is too remote. Siberia is too full of thawing permafrost. California, while rather fun in its charming way, has its own very special problems. Given its reputation for environmental responsibility, it’s astonishing how much toxic waste one can find there. I’ll admit that most of it isn’t in the ground, but rather, concentrated in the sequel-infested business plans of Hollywood executives, and in the so-called ‘brains’ of Scientologists (believe me, I know: I’ve opened one up for a look, and it wasn’t pretty). Of course, anywhere in the USA also has another problem now: Trump. And I think we’re all well aware of his views on illegal aliens. Would it suprise you to learn that he’s actually one himself? He is, in reality, a flesh capsule operated from within by a small Julerian mercenary. Actually, that’s a lie. But I had you going, didn’t I? He’s really just an unpleasant douchebag with no self-awareness. The truth is often boringly obvious.
But anyway, back to meteorological matters. The south coast of England can get quite wet. The other day, I even returned home to find the ground practically swimming in a layer of icy spheres that I gather are called ‘hailstones’. I must admit, I always thought hailstones were the boulders one is supposed to chuck at Bridley the Grutt whenever it appears in public.
I’m fairly sure you have no idea who Bridley the Grutt is. I’ll explain.
Back on Grootix, where I started my apprenticeship as a Junior Space Lord shadowing then Master of the Galaxy, Vladimoxi Pluton, I learned many things about the art of diplomacy. I had instruction in reception formalities and etiquette relating to over two hundred individual species, which is a quantity of domestic information so great that, were Mrs. Beeton to write it in a traditionally-bound volume, it would undergo gravitational collapse and become a black hole.
I was also trained in the rare skill of Gödelian Counterpoint, a way of turning an argument against an opponent without their noticing what you’ve done, usually by finding common ground in a statement with which you can both agree, but which is demonstrably neither true nor false, then showing that this logically leads to the conclusion that all argument is futile. By the time your opponent realises that this applies to your arguments as well, it’s too late: you’ve already deflated their ego and gained the upper hand. This technique is particularly useful for confusing racists, though it’s not often effective against Grand Conspiracy Theorists. The best way to win an argument with them is to simply walk away and buzz for a nurse to let you out of the psychiatric ward.
I also studied the martial art of Pheck Yawl under the tutelage of the famous and venerable practitioner, Chok Yaris, whose tentacles can demolish a six-storey building so fast that it’s possible to prove the tips must have travelled faster than light. There is a simple trick to this, which I am honour-bound not to reveal. Of course, since I don’t currently have tentacles (though I have some on order), I can’t equal this feat. Mind you, the speed training has enabled me to learn to cheat at poker by looking at the other player’s cards and returning to my seat in the time it takes them to blink.
Sorry, I’m digressing. Oh yes… Bridley the Grutt. The Grutt are a genderless species, and from my diplomacy training I know that it’s acceptable to use neuter pronouns when referring to them. Bridley arrived at the Academy intending to make a documentary for a galactic channel, showing a behind-the-scenes view of Space Lord training. We were not happy about this. Let’s just say that it had a reputation for biased reporting. Master Pluton, in particular, rejected the contract he’d been asked to sign. However, the Grutt crew turned up anyway, intending to get him to sign it by blackmailing him with some piece of gossip they’d dug up.
Pluton asked them to wait in the lobby while he fetched his interpreter, as he wasn’t very good with the Grutt language. The crew explained that this was all right, since Bridley had its own interpreter. Pluton explained that he’d really prefer to use his, and while they were waiting, they were welcome to arrange themselves into a convenient ‘interpretation pattern’, which seemed to consist of a semicircle with Bridley off to one side. The confused crew did as they were asked. Pluton then left for a few moments, returning with his interpreter, who seemed to bear an amazing resemblance to a blaster ray. Pluton then gave a command, and the interpreter translated it into Grutt. Apparently the Grutt version of the sentence was a hole in the chest, and the explanation was given individually to each member of the crew, to ensure that they all understood. Somewhat irritatingly, the last one ducked, and its head was blown off, so officially this couldn’t be counted as an ‘explanation’, but I don’t think Pluton gave a pair of gloople’s pendulosi about that.
Apparently, the interpreter had nothing to say to Bridley, who simply stood and gibbered. At that moment the false wall slid away, and the entire class applauded. I remember it well. Master Pluton turned to us and said:
“And that, apprentices, is your final lesson in diplomacy. When all else fails, bring in an interpreter. From now on, when Bridley the Grutt appears on our property, I command that you all throw rocks at it. Any questions?”
There were no questions. And that included from Bridley, who hurried off to find its pendulosi.
I’m off track again, aren’t I? You see, that’s what happens when you start talking about the weather. You know, I do believe my camouflage is improving. It’s almost impossible, these days, to tell me apart from a Brit.
