THE GOLDEN RECORD

Excerpt of statement made by US President Carter, placed on Voyager spacecraft which were launched into space in 1977:

"We cast this message into the cosmos ... of the 200 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy, some - perhaps many - may have inhabited planets and space faring civilizations. If one such civilization intercepts Voyager and can understand these recorded contents, here is our message...we hope some day, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of Galactic Civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination and our goodwill in a vast and awesome universe."

A group of blue creatures sat round a green fire on a rocky plain. 100 metres due east of where these creatures - the Fugglewumps - sat, lay a space probe which had crash-landed on their planet earlier that evening. Upon opening it, the Fugglewumps had discovered that the probe contained a golden record.
"How the Frogging Belgium are we supposed to play this?" asked Wumpyflumpy, waving the record around angrily. "Vinyl went out years ago. Have they not heard of the OuterNet?"
Gumpy snatched the record from Wumpyflumpy and bit it carefully with his septic grapple. "Actually, it's not vinyl," he announced. "It's made of gold-plated copper."
"Copper? Vinyl?  Who cares!" said Wumpyflumpy aggressively. He did not like being contradicted.
"Some of the Flaggle people on the Ossory Peninsula still use records," Hoggle pointed out. "I've got an adaptor which I bought off them for two rints."
Chunty barely stifled his scorn. "Pass it over here," he said to Gumpy. "I've got a triple-fladged mega-Doldy quattro 8D vinyl-to-bonse adaptor in my front ear - I can tell you what's on it."
Gumpy passed the record carefully to Ripplewink, who passed it carefully to Flad, who passed it gingerly to Squidge, who chucked the record over to Chunty. Chunty snatched it out of the air with his second throbbing hobble. He quickly attached the record to his front ear and went into a trance.
"So what's on it?" Wumpyflumpy asked impatiently. "What does it say?"
"It's from a planet called Earth," Chunty said as the data on the record rolled into his translatory orifice and out of his dumplings. "It appears to contain greetings in several languages...one of them says we greet you, great ones. We wish you longevity."
"At least they're polite," Flad pointed out.
Chunty continued relaying the messages from Earth. "Another one says friends of space, how are you all? Have you eaten yet? Come visit us if you have time."
"Have you eaten yet?" Ripplewink mocked. "Are they inviting us to go and eat them?"
Flad laughed. "What else does the record contain?" she asked Chunty.
"Some music," Chunty replied, "a rather odd collection of images...and various sounds which I presume are examples of what the Earthlings encounter on a daily basis."
"Let's have a look!" cried Hoggle excitedly, standing on his hind pottage and holding out a hand he'd found somewhere. Chunty tossed the record over. Hoggle sat down and checked out the contents of the record himself.
Everybody else fell silent and huddled closer to the fire. It was a cold night.
"There's no Kenny Loggins!" Hoggle eventually declared, breaking the silence. He was aghast. "Why would anybody send a record out into space and not include Kenny Loggins?!"
"Perhaps Kenny Loggins hadn't been invented when the probe was launched," Chunty ventured.
"What's a Kenny Loggins?" asked Wumpyflumpy, who was none the wiser.
"Ignorant dolt," mumbled Gavelwink, who had remained sullen and silent until this point. He lapsed back into his sullen silence. 
Hoggle was tutting and shaking his wimpeys. "Fancy including recordings of mud pots and a tame dog, but no Kenny Loggins. Are these Earthlings insane?"
"There are recordings of mud pots?" Squidge could not hide his disbelief.
"What - is - a - Kenny - Loggins?" Wumpyflumpy repeated, getting angry.
"You wouldn't understand," Chunty said patiently. "I'll explain when you're older."
"But I'm nearly four hundred!" Wumpyflumpy protested.
"Exactly," muttered a particularly old and rosey Fugglewump called Darren. He itched his flippers.
Suddenly Hoggle nearly wet himself laughing.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Gavelwink, casting a weary glance over at Hoggle.
"Human sex organs!" Hoggle sobbed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "There are pictures on this record of human sex organs!"
Everybody got up then and wanted to have a look at the record. They tossed it around, along with Hoggle's adaptor, and one by one the Fugglewumps fell about laughing as the record was passed from one Fugglewump to another. Before long, all seventeen of the Fugglewumps around that fire were rolling around on the floor, wetting themselves - literally - and crying with laughter.
Eventually, after several failed attempts, Hoggle managed to manoeuvre himself into an upright position and to stop crying for long enough to speak. "If you want to make contact with alien races, why on Earth would you send recordings of a tame dog and pictures of your sexual organs?" They all fell about laughing again - even Wumpyflumpy, who was not sure what his older companions were talking about.
"And no Kenny Loggins!" Darren added, crying so much that he nearly passed out.
Eventually - after about an hour - the mirth died down and the Fugglewumps dragged themselves back to the warmth of the fire. The golden record lay discarded on the floor next to Chunty's dumplings.
"What shall we do with this?" he asked eventually, picking up the record and twirling it idly with his fadgel.
"Lob it on the fire," Gavelwink suggested.
So he did.
It did not burn very well, but glowed a nice colour.
The Fugglewumps fell silent. Mostly. Apart from the odd giggle.
Hoggle shook his head again. 
"No Kenny Loggins," he mumbled, with a chuckle. "What were they thinking?"

***

The Golden Record, which was sent out amongst the stars on the Voyager space craft, really did include the messages as relayed above, the sounds of mud pots and a tame dog, and pictures of human sexual organs, amongst other things. But, as far as I am aware, no Kenny Loggins.

A FANTASTIC VIEW OF WAITROSE

Eric was a retired, elderly gentleman who lived alone in an unobtrusive bungalow which just happened to have a fantastic view of Waitrose. Everybody who visited Eric commented on what a fantastic view of Waitrose it was.
The Postman, who Eric invited in for a cup of tea one cold winter’s morning, stood at the big window which dominated one wall of Eric’s living room, shook his head and marvelled at the sight before him.  
“That is one incredible view of Waitrose,” the Postman observed, and took a sip of his tea. 
Eric agreed. “Everybody says that,” he said.
Everybody did indeed say that: the milkman; the man who checked the electricity meter; Paul from the bungalow on the end; Elsie at number 12. The gas man was the only person who had not made a comment, and that was only because he stood there speechless, shaking his head.  
Marjorie, the Meals-on-Wheels lady with the wandering eyes, was delivering stew and dumplings one day. She spotted the view from where she stood on the doorstep and cheekily pushed past Eric, making her way through to the living room to get a better look. “My goodness!” she declared. “What an astounding view of Waitrose!”
Eric stood at her shoulder and coughed. “Yes. It is.”  He had nothing else to say, so he peeled the lid off the stew and dumplings and began to tuck in while Marjorie oohed and aahed and her eyes wandered.
Eric’s grandchildren, Tom and Mary, visited most Saturday afternoons. As regular visitors, Eric thought their amazement at the view might have diminished over time, but they never failed to comment. The same was true of Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, a well-to-do spinster who lived on the Bromsgrove Road and who tended to pop in on Eric of a Tuesday morning.
“That view of Waitrose is especially magnificent today,” she observed, one particularly sunny Tuesday. “You can see all the shoppers trundling in and out, purchasing all those quality goods,” she added, getting a bit carried away with the thrill of it all.
Eric farted loudly. He did not particularly enjoy the visits from Millicent Jones-Smythe-Jones, and could not remember having ever invited her round to his bungalow, but she continued to call on him regardless.  She would probably keep coming even when he was six feet under, Eric supposed. She was toffee-nosed, bossy, deaf, and clearly had no sense of smell, if her complete lack of response to his fart was anything to go by.
Gordon the Mormon, who tried to convert Eric on the last Friday afternoon of every month, once popped in to use Eric’s lavatory and was momentarily overcome by the view as he passed through the living room.
“What an astonishing view of Waitrose!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” agreed Eric, in his usual unenthusiastic manner.
“I bet it looks impressive at night. All lit up and everything.”
“Yes.  I suppose it does,” agreed Eric.
“A bit like a Christmas Tree, eh?” Gordon was on a roll.
“Yes,” agreed Eric.
“Like a Christmas view for you, every day, then?” suggested Gordon.
“Except on Christmas Day,” Eric pointed out flatly. “When it’s closed.”
Gordon nodded.  
Gordon nodded a lot.  
Gordon was not sure what else to say, but did not want to leave the bungalow now that he had finally made it across the threshold.
“Why did you move into a bungalow with such a fantastic view of Waitrose?” he asked eventually.
Eric tried not to get annoyed. “I did not move in because there was a fantastic view of Waitrose.”
“No, of course not,” said Gordon. “Silly me.”
There was an awkward silence.
“You could always sell the place, use the fantastic view of Waitrose as a selling point,” suggested Gordon.
“Why would anybody think a fantastic view of Waitrose was a selling point?” Eric asked.
“Oh, you never know,” said Gordon, who was nodding again.
Eric made a big show of raising his arm in order to study his watch and to make it clear that Gordon had outstayed his welcome. Gordon ignored him. “It is a fantastic view though. I’m sure it would keep a chap entertained for hours.”
The two men eyed each other warily.
“So.” Gordon cleared his throat. 
There was another awkward silence.
“You lived here before they built Waitrose.”
Eric folded his arms. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t move in specifically because of the fantastic view of Waitrose.”
Eric shook his head. “No.”
Gordon nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “So what did you have a view of before they built Waitrose? Open fields? The lock on the canal over yonder?”
Eric moved over to the window and began to stare out, a faraway look in his eyes. He was silent for a full minute, during which time his lower lip began to quiver.  
Gordon saw the quiver and adopted a more sympathetic tone. “I apologise if I’ve upset you Derek,” he said, quietly, putting an arm around Eric’s shoulder. 
Eric ignored the arm, and the fact that Gordon had got his name wrong. He conjured up his saddest face, sniffed and even managed to squeeze out a tear which he let roll down his cheek.  
“Listen, old chap,” said Gordon, almost kindly, “I’m sorry for digging up old memories. Whatever was there before Waitrose must have been very special.”
Eric managed a sad smile and patted Gordon on the arm. “That’s alright,” he sobbed quietly. “I don’t like to to dwell on the past, but…"
Eric paused for a full twenty seconds, for effect.
"...I really did used to have a stupendously good view of Morrisons.”
Gordon did not visit again.