And it really is White Hell III, the director's cut . . .

I suppose it was all my fault for musing with the Met; that's to say the sunny/rainy/foggy/freezing/Michael of the Fish People-type Met rather than the Pavarotti starving in his garret (wot, no enticing snackettes in New York?) variety.

Probably I shouldn't have lightly reflected on the possible return of rampant white-out, just on the strength of a couple of rogue flakes observed by girlfriend Claire on the top of Col de Saint Louis.

Because we promptly had White Hell III. This is the scene where the aliens, disguised as meringues géantes, capture a Ford Fiesta, in order to sacrifice it to the Evil Thargs of Groink.

Actually I'm not sure why a Fiesta with knackered valves and suspected piston ring failure would be deemed to have Sacrificial Virgin Status on Planet Groink, but this is a B Movie.

I really wanted girlfriend Claire to be chased in her bikini and fall over just at the point where mega tonnes of white Merovingian digestive slime pour all over the Fiesta, wiping out all life forms within range.

But Claire famously feels the cold at anything much below incineration temperature so I had to settle for a Hell-Hound of Fa being brutally vaporised in mid-piddle on the rear wheel.

This was probably just as well because Warp Drive failed on the Rescue Ship Kangoo (interstellar handbrake cable frozen solid again) and my beloved girlfriend would indeed have been abducted by Giant Green Lizard Aliens (disguised as meringues, anything to stay in budget). It was bad enough having to walk to work as it was.

*The producer would like to reassure readers that no real hell-hounds, giant green lizards, girlfriends or dodgy Ford Fiestas were harmed during the making of this blog.