“We have known for some time there is intelligent life on your planet,” says the alien king.

  “Well, I like to think I know what I’m doing,” I reply.

  “Be quiet, fool!” says the alien king.

  A lightning bolt zaps the ground. The ice melts, runs to water, then quickly freezes again.

  “I am talking to the leader of your mission,” says the alien king.

  The alien king steps down from his little slab of ice and walks up to Muffin. Muffin plops his tongue out of his mouth and does two little barks. The alien king nods.

  “He says he comes from a planet far away,” says the alien king, addressing all the other aliens.

  Muffin continues his barking.

  “And this is his co-pilot,” continues the alien king. “Squeaky!”

  Muffin makes Squeaky squeak a few times. The aliens copy him, making little squawking, squeaking sounds themselves.

  The alien king raises an arm and everyone falls silent.

  “And who is this buffoon?” demands the alien king.

  He turns and looks at me. Before I can open my mouth, Muffin barks a few times more. The alien king turns again to all the other aliens to explain.

  “He says this is his earthling servant,” says the alien king. “And he goes by the name of John Smith…”

  The aliens laugh even harder.

  “Your name is very common,” says the alien king. “On our planet it is the same name as Zargon Queegleblaster. An extremely common name.”

  “Actually, on my planet, my name is very rare,” I lie.

  Muffin barks again.

  “Commander Muffin says you lie. He says you have a very boring name. He says it is written in the stars,” says the alien king.

  “And on the back of the gym wall,” I moan defiantly.

  “Why have you come to our little planet?” says the alien king. “There is nothing here to see.”

  “We crashed into your planet by accident,” I reply.

  “I knew you didn’t come deliberately,” says the alien king. “Our little planet is sick.”

  They’re always saying things like that in films about distant planets. He’s probably going to give us his “our sun is dying” speech next.

  “The sun that sits in our sky and gives us light and warmth is dying,” sighs the alien king. “Without light or warmth we will soon die too.”

  The aliens coo in a really sad way – really sad alien cooing.

  “Take this fool to the Chamber of Endless Reflection,” says the alien king, pointing at me. “Where he might sit by the Lake of Thought Bubbles and sup the Water of …”

  The aliens lean in, waiting for the king to finish his sentence.

  “The Water of … ?” says the king’s assistant, Quantum.

  “The Water of … Splishy Sploshy Wetness,” says the alien king. “Do all this whilst I talk further with the leader of the mission – Commander Muffin.”

  The alien king looks at Muffin, who pants a few times and dangles his slobbery tongue out of his mouth.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” I complain as the aliens drag me away. “I’m the leader of the mission. On Planet Earth, he’s just a dog with a squeaky toy!”

  Muffin does a really long growl. The alien king looks at Muffin and nods, like he actually understands what Muffin is saying!

  “Really? That is most interesting,” says the alien king.

  “What does he say?” I holler.

  “He says we should throw you in a cage and feed you stale biscuits,” says the alien king. “Very well, then – take this idiot to the Chamber of Endless Reflection!”

  The aliens move in to drag me away again.

  I appeal one final time to the alien king. “We can help you!”

  “How can you help me?” He laughs.

  “Fix our spaceship,” I reply, “and maybe we can save your planet.”

  “Tell me more,” says the alien king.

  “We can bring you endless sunshine,” I announce. “But first, our broken spaceship…”

  The aliens gather round the spaceship, especially the aliens with fifteen arms and two or three brains and brilliant DIY skills.

  “Very well, let us mend your spaceship, earthling,” says the alien king.

  The aliens set to work, fixing the rockets, patching up the panels, mending the windows. Finally, I get the chewing gum from inside the spaceship and stick the door back on its hinges. Soon our spaceship is back to its fighting best.

  The alien king steps forward.

  “Farewell, Commander Muffin,” says the alien king. “I hope you and your pet, John Smith, have a safe journey home. Here is something to remember us by…”

  The alien king puts a fistful of ice in the palm of my hand.

  “That’s great, thanks,” I smile.

  You’d think he could have coughed up some moon gold.

  Muffin scampers towards the spaceship, then turns and barks a few times.

  “He says go in peace, people of wonder,” says the alien king.

  I walk to the spaceship, pausing by Quantum to whisper in his ear. “You know and I know, your alien king has been making the whole thing up. This is just a dog. What goes on between his flappy ears, no one knows, especially not your king.”

  Muffin barks again.

  “What did he say?” says the alien king.

  “Commander Muffin says he’s sorry about his pet,” says Quantum.

  “Now for your part of the deal, Commander Muffin,” says the alien king. “You must save our planet.”

  “And he will save your planet,” I reply, “for he has a brilliant plan. Isn’t that right, Commander Muffin?”

  Commander Muffin plops his tongue out of his mouth and pants.

  I must be true to my word, I’m about to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my tiny little life. I am about to wreck my chances of watching United play the biggest match in the club’s history. And it won’t be just me who’ll be missing out. The whole town will either be staring at a blank screen or, worse, watching a programme about ponies or ballet dancers OR BOTH on the Girly Channel.

  Completely gutted and sick as a parrot, I fly the spaceship back to the satellite and move it into a new position. The sun’s rays bounce off the mirror and fall on to the alien planet below. I imagine the aliens are dancing and singing, bathed in the glow of the sunshine, chanting Muffin’s name.

  Meanwhile, Muffin is lying on the floor of the spaceship, gnawing away at his squeaky bunny.

  “Mission control, can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Spaceman John. Come home. The match starts in five minutes.”

  “Change of plan, mission control,” I reply. “I’ve had to use the satellite to save a tiny, dying planet. We won’t be watching the football match.”

  I fire up the rockets, buckle myself in my seat and release the handbrake.

  “Come on, Muffin,” I sigh. “We’re going home.”

  Halfway across the oceans of space, the rockets flicker and burn out. The spaceship drifts silently, then stops. A light flashes on the flight-control panel with a little symbol of a petrol pump next to it.

  “We’ve run out of fuel, Muffin,” I gulp. “What are we going to do?”

  Chapter Eight

  Muffin’s not listening to me. He’s got his head wedged in the space-food cupboard.

  “Muffin, we’re drifting in space and you’ve got your snout in the food!”

  Muffin falls out of the cupboard, an extra-fiery chilli con carne ready meal splodged on the end of his nose.

  “Oh, Muffin, what have you gone and done?”

  He screws his face up tight and gasps a red-hot breath. His eyes begin to water. His tongue plops out of his mouth.

  I hear a gurgle, then a grumble, then a deep rumbling as the chilli goes to work, lighting a fire in the poor pup’s belly.

  This is going to be a heck of a bottom explosion!

  Wait a minute, he’s just given me an idea.

  Two minutes later…

  “Go on, Muffin, you can do it!!!”

  Muffin has his bottom squeezed out of the spaceship window and – well, there’s no way of putting this nicely – he’s doing the greatest fart in the universe. Talk about a cosmic wind!

  “Well done, Muffin,” I holler.

  The spaceship bombs through the solar system, tearing past fiery Mars, ice-cold Venus and mysterious Mercury.

  “Keep it up, boy,” I cheer.

  You know, I hate to admit it, but after the adventure we’ve had today, and seeing how the spaceship is actually being powered by Muffin’s bottom, I’ve grown to quite like my little friend.

  “You’re not such a bad doggy after all,” I smile, patting Muffin on the head.

  Suddenly I hear a terrible, low gurgling. Muffin scrunches his nose up and narrows his eyes. I think he’s about to do the mother of all intergalactic botty burps!

  The spaceship goes spinning off course, tumbling and toppling through space.

  “Oh no!” I shriek.

  I throw myself in the pilot’s seat and grab the leather steering wheel.

  “Hold tight, Muffin…”

  Muffin pulls his ears over his eyes and dives under the seat.

  I wrestle the controls, twisting the spaceship this way and that, pushing the turbo-thrust-thingy, slamming on the brakes.

  I see a large shiny pink object in the top corner of the windscreen hurtling towards us. It’s the Girly Satellite … and we’re heading straight for it!

  “Crash positions, Muffin…”

  SMASH!

  “I think we’ve just totalled the Girly Satellite,” I chuckle.

  Lots of pink petals float past the window.

  The spaceship stops spinning and settles itself again. I square myself in the pilot’s seat and take a deep breath. Muffin pokes his head out and pulls his ears away from his eyes.

  “Everything is under control, Muffin,” I smile.

  When I look out of the window again, I see the mysterious green-and-blue planet with wispy clouds I saw earlier. Muffin sees it too and starts barking. Then I understand. The mysterious green and blue planet with little wisps of grey cloud is Planet Earth. It looks like a really nice place to be.

  “Come on, Muffin,” I sigh, “it’s time we went home…”

  Chapter Nine

  As we get closer to Earth, the spaceship starts to jiggle and bounce around. Muffin digs a space in my lap, curled up in a little ball, his tail tucked underneath his bottom. Outside the spaceship, a fire is raging. The windows are glowing white hot.

  “Prepare for a crash landing, Muffin,” I yell.

  We fall out of space and into the clouds. The fire turns to rain and then, suddenly, the clouds have vanished and I see my house below me.

  “Come in, Spaceman John,” says mission control on the radio.

  “Spaceman John here,” I reply.

  “Get ready to land…”

  I close my eyes and WHUMP, we crash in a heap on Granddad’s bed. I struggle to my feet and look around for Muffin. He rolls out from under the sheets with his squeaky toy in his teeth.

  “Are you all right, Muffin?” I gasp.

  Muffin looks at me and nods, his eyes burning brightly.

  “John, John,” exclaims Granddad, “you made it back!”

  Granddad gives me a great big hug.

  “I had to use the satellite to save the alien planet, Granddad,” I reply. “We’re going to miss the match.”

  “You did the right thing, John,” replies Granddad. He sits next to me on the bed and puts his arm around me. “I’m proud of you.”

  I look at him and smile.

  “Life isn’t so bad, Granddad,” I grin.

  “Life is great,” says Granddad. “Trust me, it doesn’t get better than this.”

  And we both burst out laughing.

  “DISASTER! DISASTER! DISASTER!”

  Hayley comes running into Granddad’s bedroom.

  “It’s awful … it’s terrible…” she wails.

  “What is?” I gulp.

  “They’re not showing my girly television any more,” she protests. “They’re showing the FOOTBALL instead! They say there’s a problem with the satellite and it’s only picking up boys’ programmes…”

  I run downstairs to see for myself.

  “Look, Granddad, it’s the football!” I cheer.

  The spaceship must have crashed into the Girly Satellite and knocked it off course, straight into the boys’ satellite television beam.

  Granddad settles next to me on the sofa. We kick our shoes off and wait for the referee to blow the whistle for the start of the match. Even Muffin gets in on the action, jumping into my lap with Squeaky in his teeth.

  “Well done, John,” chuckles Granddad. “You did good work today.”

  “And well done, Muffin,” I smile.

  The referee blows his whistle and the match kicks off.

  “COME ON, UNITED!”

  A horse whinnies; a shadow moves across the saloon doors.

  The doors fly open.

  A stranger in a massive Mexican hat stumbles into the saloon. The barman hides behind the bar, the piano player stops playing and everyone looks around nervously. Why is everybody so scared?

  The stranger walks slowly between the tables, chewing a piece of gum.

  He leans over the bar and pulls out a jug of liquor.

  “Did you see what he just did?” I mumble. “Somebody should call the sheriff.”

  “You are the sheriff!” whispers Little Joe.

  “Oh yes, I forgot,” I giggle. “Sorry about that.”

  The stranger looks at me for a really long time and he chews and he chews and he chews. Then he turns and spits into the spittoon.

  “So, you’re the new sheriff, yeah…” he says.

  “Oh yes,” I reply, confidently. “Sheriff by name, sheriff by nature.”

  I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.

  “That so, huh?” he replies. “And what is your name, sheriff?”

  OK, here we go, I’m going to let him have it – both barrels.

  “My name is John Smith,” I announce.

  There is a bit of a pause before the stranger cracks up laughing.

  “Seriously, sheriff,” he grunts, “what is your name?”

  Oh dear, I just gave it my best shot and he fell about in hysterical hoots. I fix him with my meanest stare as I try to think up a new name for myself. I’d better make this good. After all, they’ve all got exciting names in the Wild West – Butch this and Sundance that.

  “What’s the matter, sheriff, can’t you speak?” he grins.

  “I’m thinking!” I reply.

  I carry on thinking for a little bit longer. Everyone leans in, waiting for me to answer. Suddenly, my new name hits me in a blinding moment of genius.

  “They call me the Sheriff with No Name!” I growl.

  Everyone nods. I think they like the sound of this. It is a very mysterious name.

  “That’s a very mysterious name,” says the stranger. “What’s your business here, sheriff?”

  “I’m here to protect our cattle from El Bandido,” I reply.

  “Oooh,” says the stranger, “El Bandido! I hear many bad things about this El Bandido – that he is a monster, a villain, an outlaw. I heard he even stole the piñata from a children’s birthday party and ate all the candy! And I ask myself: can all this be true?”

  The stranger looks round the saloon, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Tell me, where are you taking your cattle? Are you taking them to Cactus City?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “It’s my job to make sure the cattle don’t fall into the hands of El Bandido.”

  “You don’t say,” laughs the stranger. “What does he look like, this El Bandido?”

  “They say he’s got pure gold teeth and his breath smells like a rotten, pongy bottom!”

  The stranger suddenly flashes a golden grin.

  “You mean it smells like this!” he snarls.

  He blows a jet of air in my face. Satan’s bum-hole, that stinks!

  I stare at the stranger, my eyes popping. “You’re El Bandido!”

  “Of course,” he roars. The stranger throws back his hat. “My horse was bitten in the rear by a rattlesnake,” he grunts. “So I sucked out the poison! That is why I have, as you say, breath like a rotten, pongy bottom!”

  Wow, he must be one tough cookie, this El Bandido. A whole packet of tough cookies!

  “Do you know what my name means in your language?” he growls.

  “Uh, the bandit?” I reply.

  “OK, so you guessed,” he sighs. “But I am still as dangerous as a scorpion in a slipper!”

  “We’re not scared of you, El Bandido, are we, good people of Dungville?” I cry.

  The good people of Dungville have their heads under the tables and their bottoms in the air.

  “Dungville,” sneers El Bandido. “The only thing this stinky little town is good for is poop, cowpats, jobbies. Do you know the sound the church bell makes? Dung! Dung! Dung!”

  El Bandido cackles for a really long time. When he sees no one else is joining in with his silly joke, he shakes his head. “El Bandido is wasted on you lot!” he shrugs.

  Suddenly El Bandido rolls a long leather whip out from under his coat and sends it flicking and cracking across the room. “If you were in my gang, I would soon whip you into shape!” he guffaws.

  He slams his glass on the table and does a loud burp. “I would like to thank you for the useful tip about the cattle, Sheriff No-Name,” he grins. “My compadres will be waiting for you at our secret hideaway up in the hills.”

 

1 2 3 4