What galls me most about the idea of aliens invading earth is that we'll all have to stop what we're doing in order to defend our planet. It will be a considerable inconvenience. The flying saucers will land – presumably with liquid fire raining down on our pathetic civilisation – and we'll have to leave aside our commitments and grab our pitchforks. Some people will be eating, some on the toilet, some in our offices and courts, some writing revolutionary philosophical treatises, and all will have to cease and turn their attention to inter–planetary warfare. Frankly, a little notice wouldn't go amiss, but I suppose the aliens would be justified in explaining that this would not accord to their plan for a brutal surprise–attack.
For some I guess it's not all bad. I think of those lacking strong inter–personal skills. They might enjoy the sense of camaraderie – everyone mucking in together to save humanity, etc. – and presumably other people will also overcome their social inhibitions in the bloody onslaught. It may seem unusual at times that someone you called a 'fat cow' only yesterday will be assisting you in constructing a biochemical weapon to induce asphyxiation in our alien attackers, or that the death of the neighbour who stole your pliers will seem a little sad, tragic even, as you watch the translucently–fleshed beings drain the grey matter from his skull through the straw–like apparatuses that emerge from their mouths. But the lesson remains: if we're going to defend this planet, we're going to have to work as a team. There is no room for selfishness in perilous planetary defence, so none of your I want to be the one to shoot the laser nonsense, buddy.
It will be a hopeless battle, I admit. Our penknives, saucepans and catapults will prove useless in the face of the enemy's mind–rubbers. While sci–fi buffs may feel that this is their chance to shine, that this is what they've been waiting for all these years, they will prove too squishy and weak to be of much use. The military will waste its efforts under the misapprehension that we are being assailed not by the creatures in the mysterious ships that land on our lawns, but by extremist, middle–eastern grocers. Our opponents will look on in amusement as we squabble amongst ourselves, making their routine task of Land and Enslime simpler still. But we may as well turn up, show our faces, make up the numbers, is it not so?
The death of civilisation will be a grief. Our bridges and shopping centres will sink into the earth. Supermarket coupons, and high scores in video games, will be lost for eternity. The Sun will have no human breasts to adorn its Sunday Review supplement. Chat–show hosts will be digested in their conquerors' external stomachs. KFC will close early.
Should we survive, I suppose there is a chance that humans too will turn intergalactic oppressors in time, particularly the Americans, whose aim in space exploration is to discover extra–terrestrial beings of lesser intelligence, and sell them Coca–Cola. But it seems unlikely that we'll last more than a couple of weeks, and even that's assuming that our pets chip in and do their bit.
I will flick rubber bands in my enemies' faces to my last breath.