I think it’s safe to say that most of us wake up daily (well, I know I do) and begin with a prayer that aliens from advanced civilisations will come and save us. The idea that homo crapiens is the only “intelligent” species in the universe is a profoundly depressing one.

However, our suspicions about aliens were first roused when they appeared to think Bonnybridge, in Stirlingshire, was Earth’s capital. Everyone knows it’s Pumpherston. It was not so much a case of “Take me to your leader” as “Take me to your local councillor”.

Councillor Billy Buchanan, the leading liaison officer between local government and ooter space, ululated: “When people say to me, ‘Why Bonnybridge?’, I say, ‘Why Bethlehem?’ ” It is a good point, well

made, though one can’t help feeling that if Jesus had been born in, say, Bathgate, Christianity might never have been the same (behold him, yea, in a white shellsuit, holding court at the last fish supper).

Billy added: “One theory is the area near Bonnybridge is a window into another dimension.”

I was once the centre of an attempt to go through one of these windaes. The incident occurred at Rosslyn Chapel. In the name of science – no, not science, what’s that other one? oh, yes: cheap journalism – I had gone with a psychic and some paranormal investigators to find spectral presences, ken?

The psychic claimed to have found a spot which could be a windae to another dimension. It was agreed (though not by me) that I should stand on a raised slab at this spot while everybody else concentrated their powers. I was a bit disconcerted at this, since I hadn’t brought a toothbrush or any spare underpants. I remember thinking: “I hope this other dimension has a John Lewis.”

Thankfully, though, nothing happened and I remained in Midlothian, which was disorienting enough. And they say cannibalism is a myth.

An incident in nearby West Lothian provided me with the best first line I ever wrote in a news story: “A retired forester from West Lothian, who claims to have seen a UFO, is to have his trousers examined by psychics.”

This referred to the celebrated case of the late Bob Taylor, who was attacked in woods by two spiky spheres that rolled out of a UFO and ripped his troosers. It wasn’t even as if they were flares.

Bob was a very nice chap and entirely credible, which was put down to the fact that he wasn’t a drinker. However, pickled critics take issue with the idea that someone is credible just because they’re sober. It insults imbibers, implying that a few nips of an evening might impair one’s judgment, when we all know that it is much improved, along with our looks, fighting abilities and so forth.

It wasn’t only drink-sodden Scotia that suffered, though. Englandshire also had its share of incidents. In Norwich, a woman was approached by an alien with a “Scandinavian-type accent”. Further research indicates that this may have been a Scandinavian. In my experience, these tend to be tall, weird and slimy.

Also, I’ve been to Norwich once and, at the local cinema, someone threw a chocolate-coated brazil nut at the back of my head. Strange place, I tell you.

The MoD is closing its UFO unit in the belief that the money would be better spent fighting scary monsters in Afghanistan. It’s arguable, I suppose. But it’s of little solace to those of us who sought something better, something other, something elsewhere.

It was the hope that kept us going. Now, there appears to be nothing. No God, no elves, no aliens. It’s just us and the few remaining animals we haven’t got round to killing. Still, investigation unit or no investigation unit, the yearning for extraterrestrial saviours will go on as, every day, we look up at the skies, and a seagull drops a wet one in our eyes.