The Clangers - Oliver Postgate and Smallfilms' strangest show - would take an entire book to analyse. The Clangers themselves - who, oddly enough, didn't clang but communicated using a curious language that sounded like someone arsing around with a slide whistle - were oddly pink woollen creatures who lived under dustbin lids on a tiny Moon somewhere in the depths of space. They subsisted on blue string pudding and soup (as long as the Soup Dragon was happy to give it up for them) and had a spacecraft powered by musical notes plucked from a music tree. Other inhabitants of the planet included a trio of orange ratchet-legged froglets (who travelled through space in a top hat), an iron chicken who ate nuts and bolts, glow buzzers, skymoos, hoots, and a sentient rain cloud. Watching The Clangers was, I imagine, not dissimilar to dropping acid.
Here's my personal Clanger. A few years ago, when I used to frequently tread the boards for various amateur dramatic and semi-professional theatre companies, I met a lovely wardrobe mistress called Louise Green who churned these wonderful handmade plushies out as a small business. And such was people's love of the little pink aliens that she did a roaring trade.
Just a thought ... if aliens actually did look like this, and they developed advanced weapons technologies, and they could travel at faster-than-light speeds, and they became bent on invading and conquering the Earth ... would we be able to take them at all seriously?