Before they find me and silence me, like they silenced all them good folk down on Talbot street.

That photo up there is what started it all.

Sure, it don't look like much; just a few tangerine broads dressed up and headin' out on the town for the night.

Look closer, bud. Them ain't broads.

Them's voracious orange Knids from Clementine 4, a small planet just outside Jupiter's Jaffa belt.

They done been livin' here for years, right under our noses.

That's what they do, see. They land, they infiltrate society, they get bigged up by a weekly sycophantic publication and then they slowly take over.

And that's exactly what they was doin', until some paparazzo with a neck like a jockey's ass decided to take a chance.

Ireland was short of some good Britney-style commando pics, he decided.
Best to see what these chicks got before they was quite ready, he decided.

And that's what made him yank open the door of their stretch and start snappin'.

You gotta admit, Britney's cha-cha ain't nothin' compared to a trio of Knids whose complexion modulators ain't quite done. You can even see the one on the right frantically trying to hide hers. Turns out the one on the left is the spawn of Klaag the Monobrow - and he's been blartin' shit about spacemen for years!

Look at that photo again. Ain't no-one that orange. You know they ate the paparazzo the following Monday?

Walked right into the foyer in Independent offices and tore him apart.

They wasn't done; they headed upstairs and ate Brenny O'Connor, the in-house wookie.

Folk thought that might be it but that was just gaviscon time.

Everyone else in the building got eviscerated. Well. Most everyone.

They spared Barry Egan, though most folk will tell you they had their doubts about that wack bastard for years.

======= TRANSMISSION ENDS =======


Aw, a full week it's taken me to try and get up the courage to review another fawbulous [thanks for this new wonderful word, Lisa Murphy] LIFE magazine whose glossy splendour just adds to the fashion-festooned flubfest that is...the Sunday Independent.

You burst out from mass before the shake-hands. You abandon your boxed-in car and race headlong to the newsagents. You plop the Sindo's reaffirming bulk onto the counter, throw a fiver at the sleepy tillmonkey and run all the way home. Phone off the hook, curtains pulled.

You slowly part its moist flaps. Ooh! What's this? It's red! It's yellow! Prime colours! I-ah shite, it's only a LIDL brochure. Get that outta the way and...whuff.

Cover stars Rosanna Davison, Claudine Palmer and Pippa O'Connor immediately give your Sunday morning a 5,000% glamour boost. But the context...what's the context.

Ah. It's an article which bemusedly looks at a society which celebrates z-listers. Heh heh, silly society! Your comeuppance is in LIFE magazine!

It's not like they have Pippa O'Connor on pages 1, 4, 6, 7, 8, 14 and 15. Or a 4-page interview with Calum Best.

Or maybe they do, and it's all tongue-in-cheek. I'm obviously too much of a cabbage to tell the difference.

I do like the photo of Michelle Heaton on page 24 "with new beau, LIFE magazine advertising sales executive Hugh Hanley"!

Hey kids! Do you cold-call companies to try and flog pagespace in a weekly glossy? Then that thar's a three-letter job title. "Lavatorial Log De-flumer" is another one.

I wish it was Sunday every shaggin' day so I could get my horny dose of LIFE magazine.