In my previous entry, I considered the challenge posed to the ETH by high strangeness cases. Do high strangeness encounters indicate that aliens possess a different kind of logic to ours, or merely that they enjoy toying with us for their own amusement?

The term 'high strangeness' was originally coined by J. Allen Hynek as part of his system of classifying close encounter reports. He proposed that each encounter should be categorised as being of the first, second, or third kind, then given a strangeness rating of between 1 and 10.

While Ufologists still use Hynek's basic classification system, the strangeness rating never really caught on. It is tricky to assign a number to such a nebulous concept as strangeness - and besides, what may seem strange to one person may seem quite run-of-the-mill to another.

Nevertheless, I should like to propose adding a new rating to Hynek's system - namely, a banality rating. A high banality case would be the polar opposite of a high strangeness case, albeit equally inexplicable. High banality cases would be those in which aliens act in such a mundane, everyday manner as to be positively boring.

Normally, Ufologists use the term 'banal' when dismissing the theosophical pronouncements of the Space Brothers or the apocalyptic warnings delivered by the greys. (This in itself raises an interesting side issue. Why is it considered profound when Jesus or Gandhi tell us to be nice to each other and behave ourselves, yet banal when a blonde Nordic from Venus expresses similar sentiments?)

However, this is not the kind of banality I am referring to. I am not thinking of loquacious Space Brothers, but rather of those aliens who have no cosmic wisdom (derivative or not) to offer at all. Perhaps some examples would help make things clearer.

In June 1947, a large flying saucer crash-landed on a collective farm in Kazakhstan. Three giant humanoids in silver jumpsuits disembarked and began carrying out repairs. Herdsman Alexey Bodnya was concealed behind some bushes watching the proceedings when a snort from his horse betrayed his presence. "Who is that?" asked one of the giants, indicating the horse. "That's my horse," replied Bodnya. The giant, who seemed rather afraid of the horse, took Bodnya aside and explained that his craft had been damaged by lightning.

It was then that Bodnya asked the Big Question. "Is there a God?" he enquired. Rather than delivering a lengthy cosmic sermon, the giant merely replied, "A God? Maybe". It is the kind of answer you might expect from your next-door neighbour, but not from a super-sized silver alien.

Equally banal were the three small humanoids who landed their craft on Trudy Van Riper's lawn one November night in 1971. When she went outside to confront them, she noticed that they had two odd-looking furry animals with them. "Are there any pigs in that field?" asked one of the aliens. "They are hungry."

Van Riper went back inside her house without replying - no doubt disappointed that the visitors had nothing better to talk about. She later learned that several pigs had disappeared from a nearby farm.

In August 1990, a green-skinned humanoid landed in Karabach Province, Armenia and embarked on a mind-numbingly banal conversation with witness Anait Shahrimanyan. "What nation are you in?" the alien asked her. "Armenia," replied Shahrimanyan. "What nationality are the people that live in the town of Shusha?" the alien wanted to know. "Mostly Turkish-Azeri," replied Shahrimanyan. "Did you know that Shusha was once a pure Armenian town and that it will become an Armenian town again?" asked the alien. Having delivered this pearl of wisdom, it abruptly said "goodbye" and departed in its craft.

Finally, a case from the 1954 French UFO wave throws a spanner in the works by being both highly banal and highly strange. Lazlo Ujvari was walking to work late one night when he was accosted by a little man waving a revolver. "Am I in Spain or Italy?" demanded the little man. When Ujvari told him that he was actually in France, the little man asked, "What time is it?" "2:30" replied Ujvari, glancing at his watch. "You lie!" retorted the stranger, looking at his own watch. "It is four o'clock!" Then he hopped aboard a disc-shaped craft and flew away. (Ujvari later ascertained that his watch had been telling the correct time.)

There is something disappointingly anti-climactic about messengers who descend from the skies merely to argue over the time or enquire after the whereabouts of pigs. But before we judge them too harshly, perhaps we should consider our own standards of behaviour. It is rare, after all, that our own conversations rise above the level of everyday trivialities. Even the public pronouncements of our statesmen and spiritual leaders consist mainly of glib soundbites and well-worn clichés. True wisdom has always been in short supply.

Why, then, should we expect aliens to be any more profound than us simply because they come from another planet, or because their science is more advanced than ours? Why do we insist on regarding them as either technological angels (to borrow Jung's term) or technological demons? Perhaps, when they finally enter into open contact with us, the most frightening thing about them will not be how different to us they are, but how similar.