I’M not saying it’s going to happen next Tuesday, but you never know. The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence folk reckon it’s pretty much inevitable since we’ve discovered all those Earth-like “Goldilocks” planets spinning around out there.
But either way, it’s best to be prepared. So, when the Aliens arrive in their spaceship and say: “Take me to your leader,” who are we going to choose?
It’s a conundrum that’s been exercising our family this summer when the Test team has been losing so often the TV has become almost unwatchable, and it’s been far too hot to go near the surf or the pool for most of the day. And believe me, it hasn’t been an easy riddle to solve.
When Nelson Mandela was around, he was the unanimous choice, except, of course, for mad Aunty Mavis who thought he was, “You know… too, um, dark complexioned”. Happily, Aunty Mavis is no longer around herself. She “crossed over” shortly after Nelson and we’ve sometimes idly wondered whether they’d ever met up on the other side where Nelson might well have been doing his lovely rhythmic dancing. Mavis was very partial to tripping the light fantastic… it was a delicious little daydream.
But anyway, sans Nelson, and with Obama no longer in charge, who was available, we asked ourselves. Well, not the current occupant of the White House. Dear me, perish the thought. He’d probably do a real estate deal with the Aliens for, say, a very big island, lots of sandy beaches, tonnes of coal and iron ore for their fleet repairs, and a big red rock right in the middle…
No, thank you.
The Brits have no one in charge at all. And have you seen Theresa May dancing? No, no. She makes Elaine from “Seinfeld” look good. As for Jeremy Corbyn, forget it. You wouldn’t want the visitors to think we look and sound anything like him.
Putin, of course, would try to muscle in; and Xi Jinping would insist they share their technology before he’d even say, ‘Niihau’ to them. Poor Angela Merkel is far too careworn and Emmanuel Macron can’t even control his own tradies.
The less said about our Aussie politicos the better. Morrison would only confuse them by talking in “tongues”, while Shorten would be plotting with the Aliens’ deputy leader to oust their commander.
So we decided, no need at all to pick a pollie. And instantly we had our perfect emissary. He’s Swiss, so quite untouched by politics; he looks great, speaks five languages so he’d pick up “Alien” in a flash.
The list of his attributes goes on: he and his wife have produced not one but two sets of twins; he’s virtually ageless; he devotes tens of millions of his income to building schools in Africa; and I’d back him to beat the Aliens’ champ in any sport they like to name.
Of course, it’s Roger Federer!
What’s more, according to John McEnroe, who follows him all round the world: “It doesn’t matter where he plays, 90 per cent of the spectators want him to win.”
And to cap it all off, he doesn’t just glide around the court, he dances!
Even Aunt Mavis would kick up her heels at the thought. “Oh, Roger,” I hear her whispering. “Oh, Roger, Roger…”