The answer is not just 42

It's time to admit that I am not from this world.

Of course, what I mean is that though the body I inhabit was conceived on this planet without the aid of turkey-baster or Petri dish, my mind is no longer all my own.  I first suspected this to be the case in the months leading up to 1^st January 2000 when it seemed everyone on Earth was prepared to usher in a New Millennium, contrary to the mathematical fact that it wouldn't be happening for another year.  (It's interesting to note that increasing numbers of people profess that they always knew this to be the case, whereas this wasn't the situation I found myself in at the time.  Top Arsehole Comment: "If you think that, then have your own party next year, pal.")

In the years since it has become obvious that one or two suggestions from an alien observer might not go amiss.  I know that a lot of you employ the fearful survival strategy that anyone recommending that it might be a good idea to be good to one another for a while should expect a shortened lifespan, but since heaven is a state of mind I've been told to take the risk.   

This mob mentality seems to bedevil you humans a lot.  Only last weekend, on a television show you call Britain's Got Talent, I got the impression that most of the audience booed when a contestant said he was German.  Why?  Were they exhibiting a deeply-buried genetic aversion to strangers which probably served their Cro-Magnon ancestors well, or were they just being fucking infantile arseholes?  I have reported the latter to my people as being the fact.    

So, to counter all the other idiots out there who run with the mob, rather than use their brains, I'd like to formally announce that I am sometimes controlled from the planet Quillimb.  It's a tad bigger than Earth, has far more atolls and warm lagoons than you'd be gracious enough to consider deserved by an alien pointing out the absurdities of human existence via a blog, and lies in an orbit just out beyond the massive inner planet of Zon-Zon (which, incidentally, has already been catalogued via your observatories) providing a transit which rivals your solar eclipse.

Some of you may wish to discount this assertion as little more than the twaddle of an author flexing his SF literary muscles as some form of writing discipline, but I would like to point out that your theoretical physicists have been playing around with the idea of an infinity of universes for some time and that, therefore, there is indeed a universe where Jon George is not wholly from Earth, but is having his thoughts directed by an alien from Quillimb.

It happens to be this one.

More next week. 

Try not to do the stupid things stupid people do.