The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #22

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

5 December 2020

I’m writing from Saint School. It’s located in the bush outside the township of Maldon, Victoria. The latter is a state in Australia, for those who don’t know geography, which is just about everyone in the USA, n’est-ce pas?

Calm down. No one is interested in your outrage. I’ve bigger fish to fry.

You see, I’m in trouble. Our Farter who art in heaving insisted I attend school for saints or He’d kick me out of the holy assemblage. (Yes, God is a He, not a She; that’s just a neo-feminist conspiracy to turn men into domestic servants, like Mexicans in your country).

Apparently I’ve been bad and not at all modest or pious. I must learn to be like a normal person, He said. Come down to your level so that I may know what it’s like for mortals.

I tell you what, though, if ‘normal’ constitutes what I see in the streets of the towns hereabouts, we are in trouble. Bunch of apes, shuffling around as if someone sucked out their brains with a straw. Imagine a world covered by these imbeciles.

But what would God know, sitting up there on cloud nine, stroking his beard, listening to naked cherubs play harp music. Isn’t there a law against that? Hmm, might report him to the authorities. That’ll teach him for being high all mighty.

Wait a sec, I’ll send an anonymous tip-off.

Okay, I’m back. Where was I?

Oh, yes, Saint School. It’s sort of like Hogwarts for sadomasochists.

I’ve just arrived and so far so good. Got a nice cell with all the mod-cons, and Onan, son of Judah, is here to give us a massage with a happy ending.

The thing that surprises me is this. All the wanna-be saints are… How can I put it delicately? Shall we say of a very low standard. I mean the Vatican is really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this lot.

Madonna is here (the has-been singer, not Jesus’s mum or mom, as you Americanos say), and Angelina Jolie, and Princess Diana.

I’m glad you noticed. I’m the only man. When I complained to John the Baptist about the sexism he said not to worry. Jeffrey Epstein is on the way and he’s studying to become the protector saint of nubile young girls. So Jeff is obviously chucking in a few amends with his amens.

I should add that I knew John the Baptist when he still went under his original Jewish name, Yohanan. The Greeks changed it to Iωάννης. And Muslims went one better and changed it to Yahyah. Who calls a prophet Yahyah? It means ‘grandmother’ in Greek. No wonder poor John lost his head to that spoiled Valley girl Salome. But the thing I want to tell you about John is that he is actually a bit of stud muffin, if you like ‘em rough and hairy, but by Christ he smells like a fucking camel.

Anyway, these are the classes we have to take to become a proper saint:

1. Modesty 101
2. Exemplary life
3. Miracle worker
4. How to die a horrifically violent death and…
5. Learning to walk around as if nothing happened even though your head is on a platter and there’s enough arrows stuck in your chest to make you look like a pin cushion.

Easy peasy.

Oops, Madonna’s fainted and Angelina has an urgent cat fight photo shoot with Jennifer Aniston for New Idea magazine. Bye, girls.

As for Diana, well, she can’t wait to get started. She loves being a martyr. This time, she said, she wants her head lobbed off and tossed to the adoring crowds. The girl is addicted to fame and martyrdom, I tell you, like those plastic surgery freaks.

My personal tutor at the school for saints is none other than the delightful Saint Lucy, or Lucia of Syracuse, who was martyred in the year 304. She’s a fun gal. I love hanging out with her. Carries her eyes around on a platter, which is a bit weird, but she doesn’t let that get in the way of a good time.

The first night Lucy raps on my cell door, as usual carrying her eyes in a gold plate.

‘Wanna go to to the pub and pick up men?’ she whispers.

You have to give it to Luce. Her eyes were poked out by a Roman back in the day, but she doesn’t hold that against the rough sex. Not the way some women do. Give ‘em the eye and they freak out. Not only that but they go on and on about how all men are rapists. Not Lucy. She still likes cock.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But I’m a bit scared. God is probably watching and I don’t want to get into trouble. I’m in the bad books as it is.’

‘Not to worry,’ she says, her eyes ogling the clouds from the gold plate. ‘He’s not watching. We’ll be back before he knows it.’

No sooner do we step out of the front gate when a booming voice says, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

Lucy and I get such a fright, we both scream and jump up in the air. Her eyes roll out of the plate, fall on the ground, and I accidentally step on them.

Squish go the delicate orbs under my Christian Louboutins.

‘Looks what you did,’ Lucy wails.

‘Oops, sorry.’

She bursts into tears, water gushing in a most disconcerting manner out the holes in her face.

And God pronounceth: ‘Because you have listened to this wench and have skulked out of the holiest of holies which I commanded you not to, cursed is the ground because of you. In pain ye shall live the rest of your days, looking after this blind sinner, thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you, and you shall eat the plants of the fields…’

‘Get on with it, will you. I haven’t got all night,’ I say, checking my Cartier watch.

‘By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread…’

‘But I’m celiac,’ Lucy cries.

‘…till you return to the ground, for you are dust and to dust ye shall return.’

‘And I’m allergic to dust mites,’ I add.

‘Oh, piss off both of you,’ God shouts. ‘Before I smite thee. And don’t let me see you here again.’

So here I am, dear reader, kicked out of saint school and back to being a mere mortal, though of a higher standard than you.

‘Want to go up to the Rock of Ages and score some Molly?’ says Luce. ‘That’ll cheer us up.’

‘Who am I to say no to that?’ I reply.

À bientôt, mes amies.

---

The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. He is currently stateless and lives on gin and cigarettes.

Dmetri Kakmi is the author of Mother Land (shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia), and the editor of When We Were Young. His latest book is The Door and Other Uncanny Tales. He does not endorse the Sozzled Scribbler’s views.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #15

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

17 August 2020

Here I am back in the US of A, where self-expression is everything and no one gives a shit about anyone else. Ah, to breathe freedom’s air after being forced to wear a face mask by the fascist Australian government. Who cares about spreading a deadly contagion every time you sneeze or cough or speak? Personal liberty and comfort is all that matters. Fuck humanity!

So, in an effort to further revel in my god-given rights to be an asshole, as you Americans say, I’ve come to Manhattan to hook up. I haven’t had a close encounter of the erectile kind in oh, must be at least 2.5 hours and I must get laid rapidement, as we say in Paris.

‘Big hairy animal looking for fun and intelligent conversation,’ says the ad in the respectable personals website Sit On My Face and Sing The Star-Spangled Banner. Of course I answer.

Minutes later, I’m in a yellow cab, feeling like Angie Dickinson in Distressed to Kill as I speed through the glittering night to experience untold ecstasies. The address is a penthouse in The Vampire State Building. Must be a VIP.

Lift to floor 101, buzz door, la porte s’ouvre, and who do you think is on the other side?

King Kong!

He’s in a white terrycloth bathrobe carelessly tied at the waist so the essentials peek coyly out.

‘You,’ he screams.

‘You,’ I scream back.

He goes to slam the door in my face but I’ve got my foot in there faster than you can say Prince Andrew.

‘Relax,’ I say, sauntering in. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t seen it before. Remember the orgy on Skull Island? You went through 150 sacrificial offerings in one night.’

‘Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed.’ A flustered Kong ties up his robe. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

‘That’s the problem with anonymous pick-ups. Might as well have a drink while I’m here.’

We settle on the couch with a classic martini for me and an Old Fashioned for the king of the jungle. Before us is the most stunning view in Manhattan. Kong is still upset about being found out.

‘Oh, the ignominy,’ he bewails.

‘I don’t know why you’re carrying on. It’s not as if I’m going to tell anybody. Mmm, nice martini, by the way.’

‘Don’t give me that. You’re the most indiscreet person I’ve met. Come morning everyone will know what I get up to after dark. My career’s down the gurgler. Oh, la publicite!’ And he fell over in a fainting swoon.

‘Stop carrying on, you old woman.’

‘Stop calling me an old woman,’ he says, sitting up. ‘It’s sexist and agist.’

‘Listen, I won’t tell a soul about your disgusting, perverse sex practices. I promise. And close your legs. I can see your wherewith-alls.’

Kong quickly snaps shut his thunder thighs.

‘Anyway, why are you trawling the net for sex? I thought you and Godzilla were an item.’

‘We broke up.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ Kong says, relaxing, ‘we met on the set of King Kong VS Godzilla in 1962. It was love at first bite. But we started having problems almost immediately.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What was going on, if you don’t mind my asking.’

‘It’s personal. Can I trust you?’

‘I am discretion itself,’ I say, and the poor lunk believes it.

‘Everything was fine at first,’ Kong goes on, taking a big sip of his Old Fashioned. ‘She was a great lover and we both liked the same things. Like sitting on skyscrapers and stomping humans. Then the troubles began.’

‘What happened?’

‘We tried anal sex and she shot flames out of her ass during orgasm. Nearly burned me to death.’

‘You poor thing. Then what?’

‘Hollywood came knocking.’

‘And you got jealous.’

‘There was a bit of that, of course. I’m only human, right? But there was something else…’

‘What was it?’

 Kong takes another big sip before answering.

‘She comes to the dream factory, starts mixing with trendy California types, and decided she’s trans or non-binary or something, I don’t know… Long story short, she became male.’

‘That’s right. Godzilla is male in the American movies, female in the Japanese. I thought Hollywood imposed that on her because they have a hard time picturing a woman destroy a city. Only men can do that.’

‘No, it came from Godsy herself. You know what they say.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Godsy came from Tokyo, Japan. Hitch-hiked her way across the Pacific, let her eyebrows get bushy on the way, didn’t shave her legs and then she was a he. She says, “Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side”’.

‘Do-do-do, do-do, do-do-do,’ we both sing and burst out laughing.

Kong can be fun when he lets down his hair.

‘You poor thing,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Kong says. ‘I’m as broad minded as the next guy but I didn’t fancy two dicks in one bed, especially when one of the dicks shoots flames out of his ass and burn down the house. The cost of insurance was astronomical.’

‘Tell me,’ I say, trying to stop him from getting morbid. ‘You just finished shooting Godzilla vs Kong. That’s exciting.’

‘Yeah, but I get second billing. It’s Godzilla’s movie. I’ve had my century in the sun.’

‘At least you star opposite Alexander Skarsgard. He’s cute.’

‘Dumb as a bicycle saddle. But boy does he give good head.’

‘Really?’

‘He’s a bit of a slut, actually. Caught him rimming Godsy. Godsy got such a shock, he farted and burned Skarsgard to a crisp.’

‘Oh, my god. Sex with kaiju is risky.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Kong adds, ‘want to give me a hand job while you’re here?’

‘Hand job? I need fifty hands to handle that thing. Big as a sequoia tree. You don’t need a hand job. You need a cow milking machine.’

‘Let’s go find one.’

Kong picks me up, clambers out the window and off we go across rooftops to find a kinky sex club.

à bientôt, mes amies.

---

The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker (his father) and a Greek bear wrestler (his mother). He has lived in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently stateless. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and nine packets of Gauloises cigarettes a day.

Dmetri Kakmi is a writer and editor. His first book, Mother Land, was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia, and his new book, The Door, will be released in September 2020.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #14

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

1 August 2020

Guess who I stumbled on while prowling in Melbourne’s Fitzroy Gardens? None other than Charles Baudelaire.

‘Charlie, my dear fellow,’ I cried. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘I am,’ quoth he. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Well said,’ was my jolly rejoinder. ‘Only those who’ve turned their backs on life reside in Melbourne.’

We laughed. Charles delivered a hearty slap to my back, and I almost plummeted into a hydrangea bush, from which four men emerged, pulling up their pants.

‘Regardez, Charlie,’ I said. ‘Ta fleurs du mal.’

‘They are anges de debauche in their natural habitat,’ pronounced my friend. ‘What are you doing here, old booze bus?’

‘I’m waiting for Olivia De Havilland,’ I admitted, ‘She died and I’m interviewing her about life on the Other Side.’

‘What fun. Mind if I keep you company?’

‘Not at all, dear chap. Let us take a seat and await the august lady.’

We sat on a bench and waited. It was a grey day. Hardly anyone was out. The chill winds that prowled the park’s avenues were an inhalation from Hades’ mouth. Charlie caused a bottle of white rum to materialise out of his pocket and we passed it between us—to keep warm, you understand.

Charlie spake thus.

‘Whom do you prefer, your mother, your father, your sister or your brother?’

He was in one of those moods. One could only play along.

‘I have no father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother,’ said I, getting into the spirit. ‘A hatchling am I from Quetzalcoatl’s egg—the flying serpent from whom all nature’s rejects claim descent.’

‘Your friends?’

‘Frauds, felons, fiends and faggots all! I abhor the very word.’

‘Your country?’

‘I know not under which lassitude it resides—the land of the Lotus-eaters!’

‘Beauty?’

‘What is beauty but a crapulous inebriate looking for the moon in the gutter?’

‘So, what do you love, oh hammered stranger?’

‘I love Methylenedioxymethamphetamine…MDMA, ecstasy, molly, call it what you will…tis rapture, tis bliss… les merveilleux etoiles!’

We cackled and gazed fondly at each other. Perhaps I ought to state at this juncture that Charlie and I go back a long way. We were born round about the same time and even went to the same school. He in Paris, 1821, and I in Athens, the same year. We became fast friends at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand, he studying law, of all things, and me idleness. He rather carelessly took up permanent residence at the Cimetiere du Montparnasse not fifty years later, while I persist.

‘How do you do it?’ Charles said, turning upon me a tearstained face of angelic beatitude. Always gets maudlin after a few drinks.

‘How do I do what?’

‘Stay alive.’

‘Sold my soul to Beelzebub.’

‘Ah, you went ahead with that deal.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A soul just gets in the way of a good time.’

‘True,’ muttered my friend, chugging rum. ‘If only I had been as wise.’

We were interrupted by feminine dulcet tones. It was Olivia De Havilland, the last screen gem. The elegant lady sauntered across the great lawn, looking like Spring’s seraph incarnate.

‘Yoo-hoo, there you are, you naughty boy!’

‘Livvy, darling,’ I said, rising and taking the preferred dainty digit. ‘You look fabulous for someone who is a corpse.’

Her radiant smile lit up the world. I placed a kerchief on the bench and Livvy lowered her cultivated posterior on it; I will be sure to sell it on eBay. (The kerchief, not her bum.) The seraph who organised the interview told me the dead enjoy ten to fifteen minutes among the living. I had to make it quick. After introducing Livvy to Charlie, I got down to business.

‘Livvy,’ I said. ‘Your adoring fans are waiting to find out what it’s like on the other side.’

Livvy crossed one stockinged leg over the other, pulled her Balenciaga mink snugly around her, and lifted the veil on a question that has baffled philosophers and necromancers over the centuries.

‘Why, it’s like a great big hotel.’

‘A hotel?’ Charlie and I cried, horrified.

‘Yes. A combination of The Ritz Paris and the Chelsea in New York. The higher up you go the more grand it becomes. The lower down, the more scungy, to use an Australian idiom.’

She must have observed our expressions of disappointment for she added: ‘It’s really very pleasant and very well maintained. Surely you’ve seen it, Charles?’

Charlie shook his head, more despondent than ever.

‘The crimson dawn has blotted out the spiritual skies pour moi, ma chere madame. I must wander with wide-open eyes in Elysian Fields, phantom-like, closed out from the immortal sun, a lucid, pure, being whose only mission is to record the le voyage des damnes.’

Livvy and I looked piteously at him.

‘No God?’ I said to her.

‘Not that I’ve seen. Though I do think my maid is a goddess.’

‘No heaven or hell?’

Livvy contemplated the piercing question.

‘You know,’ she said in good time, ‘I believe there might be a demarcation of some sort. I, for instance, must dwell in a kind of heaven because my dear friend Bette Davis has a suite on the same floor, and Errol Flynn is across the hall.’

‘Ah!’ I cried, pointing a revelatory finger to the skies.

‘And…’ Livvy went on, ‘my goody-two-shoes sister Joan Fontaine is seven floors below with James Stewart and Ethel Merman. That must surely constitute hell.’

Our laughed rose to the heavens because, quite suddenly, Livvy proclaimed it was time to go.

‘One more question,’ I said.

‘Make it quick.’

‘Is it true about Errol Flynn?’

‘Is what true, darling?’

‘That he has…you know… a big…’

Livvy’s face lit up like a thousand radiant suns.

‘I’m not one to tell tales out of school,’ she said, sotto voce, ‘but let me say that today’s women lack one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An appreciation of a big hard cock.’

With that, Livvy shot to her feet. It was time to return to the great big Ritz Hotel in the sky. Coming along the avenue was a giant stork with a man’s shadow at his feet. It picked up Livvy with its beak and vanished in the clouds.

‘Come home,’ I said to Charlie. ‘I’ll make you an Old Fashioned.’

‘So long as you keep your hands to yourself,’ he mumbled, rising unsteadily to his feet.

‘As if I’d touch you, syphilitic old boot.’

Until next we meet. Cheerio!

---

The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker (his father) and a Greek bear wrestler (his mother). He has lived in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently stateless. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and nine packets of Gauloises cigarettes a day.

Dmetri Kakmi, is a writer and editor. His first book Mother Land was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia, and his new book The Door will be released in September 2020.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #13

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

17 July 2020

Recently the Canal+ TV series, War of the Worlds has been labelled alienist, a piece of hate, and cultural appropriation on social media. The respected broadcaster has been described as part of the earthling supremacist system, provoking riots in the US, England, and Australia. In all other countries governments just shot their citizens.

So strong is the voice for reform about how aliens are depicted in film and television that it has created the #alienlivesmatter movement. To help Earthlings understand what is going on, I invited the creme de la creme of off-world actors to have their say.

S.S: Welcomes Klaatu, Uncle Martin, Davros, Predator, Doctor Who, The Thing and Ms Xenomorph. Have I left anyone out? It’s hard to distinguish some of you from a chair or a pot plant.

[A cacophony of horrendous screeches, clicks, and unearthly squeals follows.]

S.S: Why do you call filmmakers ‘earthling supremacists’ and accuse them of being mean to those who come from another planet?

Davros: Look at the way we are depicted. Cliches and stereotypes abound. It’s absolutely appalling. And we are usually killed off at the end.

S.S: By Pan’s beard, you can actually speak in coherent sentences, without shouting.

Davros: That’s what I’m talking about. Stereotypes, cliches. I received a sound education at Oxford. But nobody knows about that. All they’ve got me saying on his ridiculous show [gestured at Doctor Who] is EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE in a hysterical voice. I’ve been doing it since the 1970s and I’m sick of it. I want to play Othello or Hamlet.

Doctor Who: You’re not exactly love interest material, Dav.

Davros: How dare you! I don’t look like this all the time. I’m wearing make-up for your stupid show.

Klaatu: What do you really look like?

Davros: A baby squid.

Doctor Who: I rest my case.

Ms Xenomorph: [Knitting.] That’s easy for you to say, Doc. You and Klaatu and Uncle Martin look human. You can pass. The rest of us can’t. I can’t even get my feet into a pair of Manolo Blahniks while I’m chasing that skinny bitch Sigourney Weaver on set. People must think I’m a lesbian or something. Always chasing chicks and hissing in their faces. Prometheus help me if my parents ever saw those films.

S.S: Can we bring it back to #alienlivesmatter please?

Predator: This is a righteous movement, long overdue. Tear down human society, destroy the nukiler family, I say.

Davros: I don’t mind being the tough guy in TV shows, but let’s not confuse that with real life. I was taking a self-isolation trundle through Clapham Upon-Upper in London the other day when a bunch of kids mugged me to prove they can beat the leader of the Daleks. And then a policeman kneeled on my tentacles.

Uncle Martin: Testicles?

Davros: Tentacles, tentacles!

Ms Xenomorph: Tisk, tisk, that’s sort of behaviour is unacceptable in civil society.

S.S: If the entertainment industry didn’t cast you in these films, you’d all be lining up for the dole.

Predator: You say that again and I’ll rip your head off and shove it up your ass.

Ms Xenomorph: Ignore him, Pred. He’s just trying to provoke you. Don’t play into his hands. You’re better than that.

Predator: No, I’m not.

S.S: Statues of prominent humans have been torn down by enraged aliens and their human supporters. Do you think that’s right?

Predator: You bet. Down with Earthlings. Up with aliens.

S.S: Doctor Who, as a proud Gallifrey man/woman/thing and one of the planet’s most important actors—even if you do have an eye for young gals—what do you have to say about this?

Doctor Who: We need to remember Canal+ and many others champion the work of diverse filmmakers, who do not fit easily discernible categories.

Uncle Martin: Granted we are usually cast as brutes out to invade the planet, impregnate nubile women and give unwary men anal probes. But so what? At the end of the day, as Mr Sozzled says, it is money in the pocket.

Predator: You would say that, you preening old queen. How’s pretty boy Tim O’Hara? Must be expensive keeping a dimwitted human in the lap of luxury for 60 years.

Uncle Martin: Watch it, Pred, you won’t like me with my antennae up.

Ms Xenomorph: [Continues knitting.] Hmm, is that what they call it nowadays?

Predator. Oh, I’m scared. Why don’t you get Ms Xeno to lay an egg in little Timmy’s chest? Then you can start a family, you conformist.

The Thing: Something is dangerously askew in the way that we are talking about aliens in the arts, and I feel like that it’s time we spoke up.

Predator: [Throws claws up in air.] Not you too!

The Thing: We are sick and tired of being depicted as ugly and nasty. I mean look at me. Am I like ugly? Am I like mean?

Predator: You are fucking hideous and there’s no two ways about it, Thing. Accept it. Don’t conform to beauty stereotypes perpetuated by Ella Bache.

The Thing: I’m a victim of hierarchical oppressive systems that marginalize and oppress creatures of no discerning form.

Predator: Come on, kid, keep it together. You’re not a victim. They want you to believe that so they can control you.

S.S: Who, pray tell, is they?

Predator: Those giant non-binary ants that appeared in a film back in the 1950s.

S.S: That was Them!

The Thing: Flash in the pans. Nobody remembers them but everyone remembers me.

Predator: Atta boy, Thing! You’ll pull through.

E.T: Hold on a minute. Spielberg did his bit with Close Encountersand with my memoir, which he unimaginatively called ET.

S.S: Oh, you’re here too ET. I thought you were an old cushion.

E.T: Well, I never. I go out of my way to appear on your show and all I get is insults. [Waddles off in a huff.]

The Thing: The Spielberg love-fest is like a drop in the ocean. The rest is a deluge. It’s like so depressing. I’ve been like living on Zoloft for so long I can barely shape shift any more, which impacts the parts I’m offered.

S.S: The correct word is affects. Not impacts.

Predator: How dare you impose your imperialist dialectic values on him.

S.S: Thing, your last job was in 2011 in the Norwegian version of The Thing, wasn’t it?

The Thing: No, I played a blancmange in a Japanese ad last week. So like humiliating. I’m scared my agent’s gonna like dump me. [Starts to cry.]

Predator:  [To S.S.] See what you done!

Ms Xenomorph: I want to play a Bond girl before I die. Extend my range a little.

S.S: Is the current focus on public shaming and burning down the industry misguided and ahistorical?

Klaatu: It started as an attempt at genuine critique but it descended into online bullying. The activists accusing the content creators of being part of earthling supremacy are not taking into consideration the long history of ground-breaking, intergalacticly recognised alien and culturally diverse work, much of which has been supported by the film and television industries.

Uncle Martin: Equally, they have not understood the history of struggle against alienism on Earth, which has established structures that have enabled alien actors to assume their current positions within mainstream media, and to provide ongoing opportunities for others.

Doctor Who: In painting the industry as ‘all human’, they fail to acknowledge the changes already happening, driven by the hard work of aliens and sundry monsters who have come before them. The most powerful TV executive in England, Nyah, is The Devil Girl from Mars, for heaven’s sake. She has a lovely BBC accent.

Predator: She’s one hot bitch. I wants to shag her while she pulls my dreadlocks and calls me names.

S.S: Get a room why don’t you?

Predator: Fuck off, you old prune. When was the last time you had a root?

Klaatu: And let’s not forget Netflix just hired a man from Uranus…

Uncle Martin: Really? What’s his name when he’s on Earth?

Klaatu: Calm down, Uncle Martin. You know people from Uranus cause a stink when they’re propositioned.

Doctor Who: We must remember that many of the most significant creatives in the industry are from another planet or from a dark pit at the centre of the earth—Harvey Weinstein for instance.

Predator: Yeah, the real world is becoming more frightful every year. We need to celebrate that.

Ms Xenomorph: Just because I incubate my babies in random chest cavities doesn’t mean I’m not nice. I’m at an age when I can play the parts previously played by Sharon Stone, but are producers calling me?

Uncle Martin: We recognise there is a lot more work to be done, and that we can never rest on our larvae. However, we believe in constructively changing the system, rather than burning it down.

Klaatu: Well said. I believe in having strategies and policies, informed and researched targets, open and safe debate.

Thing: I’m sick of earthlings appropriating our stories to portray the growth of human characters. It’s like no, okay Just no.

Predator: [Stands.] No more compromise. I’m for tearing down the house, sowing the seeds of discord and relishing chaos. Come on Ms Xeno, Thing, let’s go for a drink. Leave these turn-coats to discuss strategies. You want to join us, Dav?

Davros: No, thanks. I’ll go home to read Shakespeare’s sonnets.

[Ms Xenomorph and Predator depart with their arms around a sobbing Thing.]

S.S: [Looks at remaining party.] Gentlemen, thank you for joining us today.

Klaatu: We propose the best way forward is to create a safe forum with all players, that offers solutions to lift up and not tear down.

S.S: Yeah, whatever… Get out of my penthouse. I’ve got martinis to drink, freaks to insult.

Until next we meet. Cheerio!

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The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker (his father) and a Greek bear wrestler (his mother). He has lived in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently stateless. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and nine packets of Gauloises cigarettes a day.

Dmetri Kakmi, is a writer and editor. His first book Mother Land was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia, and his new book The Door will be released in September 2020.