Love, the Universe and Everything.

Life, the Universe and Everything: The answer is 42. Anyone who is anyone knows that the answer is 42, and anyone who is anyone understands that the question is unknown. That’s the trick – they are mutually exclusive. The two are quite apposite but totally repellent, impossible to know both. This concept is put to us by Douglas Adams, one of my favourite authors and my favourite overall clever person beating, only by a pinch, Stephen Fry but admittedly that is a close race. The idea is that we know the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe and Everything, and that answer is 42. The problem being that the question cannot be known by anyone who knows the answer. This is expanded upon by a quaint cyclical theory on the universe that he proposed; if we ever understood the universe, it would automatically implode and something even more ludicrous would come into being. The other part of this theory is that this has already happened. The mutually exclusive part of the equation is fascinating. Obviously, it’s a play on the concept of philosophy and human understanding, the futility of it all and the endless examination of how everything in this universe might not actually be for us to understand. That part is filled in by religious types by faith but by others as mystery and anger at not knowing the answer. But anyway, that’s not the point of this post, or as it probably has turned out more a stream of thoughts that are only connected to the above by the small link of mutual exclusivity and the witty and clever pun in the title. Love is a strange thing. There cannot be one thing more clichéd in the whole existence of the human race than that of the words written and sung about love and nothing more embarrassing than admitting love to someone, of something, or having it professed to you when maybe you’re not ready to hear it.

Recently I’ve been thinking about love and the universe. It would appear that the two are not mutually exclusive, but damn well near impossible to understand. In life, we know how it’s going to end – with our death. Indeed, the world ends with my death. When I die everything around ceases to exist as far as I am concerned. The people, the inventions, the music and film, the culture and the spinning of the world out of time into a blaze of supernovae and boiling gases ends with my death. I know that it will continue on beyond that, for hundreds of million of infinities, but to me my existence ends and thusly my perception of it ends too.

In love however we have no idea how it’s going to end. We pretend that we do, we pretend that maybe we can make it malleable, for us to shape, but it’s quite the opposite. Where we have destination in life, in love it appears that there is no beginning and no end, and maybe no journey. It might be like time, just something that is always there that we, as humans alive, try to quantify. Maybe we all love it just takes various events for us to perceive it. Love is also something I, as an atheist, have an interesting outlook on – it’s obviously, evolutionarily speaking, to help us fuck. Just in the same way the act of sexing is an awesome feeling, so is love, and in life and love, we will pursue almost anything and go through incredible hardships just for the feeling.

That’s such a shit way to look at it, but it doesn’t diminish the feeling in anyway. Recently in a conversation with a few friends I spoke of being alone forever, being a single person. I explained that I don’t think that I can – but I understand how someone could live their life that way. In exactly the same way I can’t understand suicide and rejecting life, I can understand rejecting love. There’s a lot to be lost from trying it, but I also see that there is a lot to be gained. The gain outweighs the hurt – if it didn’t, well… we wouldn’t have lasted that long.

And that might be the answer to the question. There is no answer, because there is no question. Love isn’t something that can be expressed as an equation. Where Life + time = death, love + time = love(time) (love as a function of time for the non-mathematically literate readers).

Love, the Universe and everything = life, I suppose.

Spectator Sport Part 2

Dear Mark

As expected, I am writing to you from 2019. Yes, you probably should’ve been awaiting the arrival of this letter from the moment you read the 1999 one 20 years ago, but in 2009 there’s far too much to be getting on with. My memory is a little hazy (the nuclear fallout does that to you) but if I remember correctly you probably get this letter about the time you come back from New York, or Scotland… but probably before Gordon Brown saves the financial markets. I can’t really remember in detail. Anyway, as you can see that you are alive in 2019, so you’ll make it at least until 34 or there abouts, which is a good thing. My letter I got from the 2029 version of us earlier states that he hasn’t heard from the 2039 version of us, so I’m assuming either we are dead, or we just get bored talking about stuff to ourselves in the past. No worries either way.

There’s not point in try to explain this to you as you didn’t understand it the first time when you received the letter, but it’s going to get very strange when you start to write the 2009 letter to 1999. Don’t try to remember what you read, because that’s not how it works – what ever you write and send back is what we read in 1999. It’s kind of how this letter’s panning out – I’m just dictating to my Windows 2018 version of Word and it’s holographically typing the words back to me before the ionises it onto the paper you’re reading this on. It’s weird to think about printing onto real paper... but your head will hurt, but the 2029 Mark confirms it get’s easier with time and stops hurting your head so much.

So what’s happened in the ten years? Well, there’s been a war but this time it was bad. I can’t tell you much about it because we don’t know much about it – there was a leak of some mind melting drug type thing that changes your memories. I think we had a wife, not sure if she was beautiful but it was good. The sex was anyway. For a while I thought we were gay. I can’t remember if I tried it or not, or if it was just on the internet for a while. I can't remember if that's why I shaved my head... or become so fit. It was about 2009 when I started going to the gym, just before it became law.

The internet is amazing here. I went on Holiday to http://www.ebay.com/ last year and spent the whole time buying things. It’s like a real place. I’m heading off to Facebook tonight to grab some banter with Steve and Helen hopefully. Ewan’s said he might make it but the delay from Mars can be annoying, and their connection can be really bad so he might not be able to make it. It's very funny to think that you're using a computer to go on the internet. It's kind of like you imagining having to watch a "DVD" instead of a "VHS". Man, I have forgotten what they were like, my Wikipedia's continuously plugged into my brain automatically correcting me about everything. That's the iPhone Implant that Apple sold to us all. Means we have a touch screen interface in our brain. Yikes, that sounds scarier than it actually is... it's better than the Nokia Suppository model though, believe me.

Don’t got to America in 2012. No matter how often Noah emails you, it’s not a good time to be there. I can’t say any more. And the Olympics in London are pretty good, but the opening cermony’s crap. As expected really.

You’ll live in a few countries. The Mustang exchange is good, but as I said you won’t end up living in America till after 2012. Noah’s pretty insitent but don’t go. 2015’s a much better time to go. And the whole Mars bubble bursts a few years after Ewan and Martin set up their company there. They make a fair amount of money, but if you keep your iPhone in good condition like I did, you’ll make a fair penny when the mobile phone market explodes. It's an antique you see.

I think that’s about it. We’ve had a pretty impressive life so far mate. Enjoy Africa, the Lion doesn’t eat you in the end. And when you go Thailand it’ll take some explaining but the substance is just talcum powder, so don’t worry.

Before I forget, remember that you have to tell me in the 2009 letter to 1999, about not living in Aberdeen. Give us at least a chance of getting it right once. The 2029 version of us is really pissed it seems that we never get it right.

Take care (which seems slightly self serving actually)

Mark Shields, 2019 version

Holiday 2009: Scotland II – The Thing about Scotland Is…

There’s a joke that states that you will meet a Glaswegian anywhere in the world if you’re a Glaswegian. It’s kind of like a law that states the further you are away from the city the chances of meeting someone from it increase somehow. Like a force that pulls us all together and tightly binds us in a terrible impossible whirlpool of interconnectedness. Anyway, this law doesn’t just apply to Glaswegians, as it is impossible to fly anywhere now for me and not meet someone working in the Oil and Gas industry. It’s like a curse that I have had cast upon me. Case in point: on a flight from Glasgow to Newark I was sitting next to an engineer, a Chemical Engineer no less.

And it must be the same for anyone in anything. Any city, any company or industry, and we think it’s a big deal because it happens to us. On this trip, however, there was no chance of meeting anyone from Glasgow at any point.

The thing about Scotland is that whilst you think you’re Scottish for having lived here, you’re not really Scottish until you’ve seen the country through someone who isn’t Scottish’s eyes. We stayed in four different locations and in each location we could’ve blended in perfectly as a local, or at least a native, because… we are one. We are from here, we all grew up in the same place, and know the same things. There’s no culture clash because we are of the same culture and even though some lived in towns of thousands of people and myself, who went to a school of a thousand people, there’s little between us.

Seeing tourists though is a novel experience. Sitting in a pub in Inverness a group of what I can only describe as “foreigners” walked in. We knew they were foreigners because of how they looked – they looked cool, lovely, pretty, and they were gesturing with their hands. Italians they were, and they looked like they wanted to eat some food. So the barmaid, in the most obnoxious way, made the international symbol for “Go away” and tried to shoo the Italians to the door. The kitchen was closed.

Now, this is delving in the past of my blog but seeing as I have a considerable back catalogue of posts (and a massive Excel file where all the titles and posting dates have been kept in order) I know that I have already mentioned this problem in a post. In my post entitled The Tale of Rock Steady 2: Racism and Twatness As Standard, posted on the 26th February 2007, I mention in the title of the post (but not in body, for reasons only known to me 21 year old self) of the “international sign for fuck off” which related to my attempts to try and move the Italians from the Stadium after their famous victory at Murrayfield.

This exchange was quite hilarious, probably more hilarious than it actually was because of the slightly inebriated state I was in. But made for an interesting question: What nationality would you be if you could choose? And I chose Italian. Just something about their culture that makes it so interesting – the food, the family, the look of an Italian, the language (possibility being the most romantic of the romantics) and generally just wanting to be Italian. It’s probably got something to do with Mario and Luigi.

And hearing endless stories about foreigners enjoying their holidays in Scotland I finally understand why we should be proud of living here – because this country is mine, it’s where I grew up and it’s fucking beautiful.

Rape and Surveys

I’m a product of my generation – short attention span, poor social skills and a lust for things technologically obtuse, but the most prevalent thing that my generation has is the lack of shock – we have became conditioned to accept certain things, like violence and murder by the way of television, computer games and films. The censorship can only stop us from seeing so much at a certain level, but I had seen things disturbing from an early age. Once, back in my youth, my father was watching Deerhunter and I walked into the room to see a man playing Russian roulette blow his brains out. In my mind this has became a massive scene in the film, a film to this day I’ve not watched since.

If you think about it, I might have killed someone before I’d even kissed a girl. I played Command and Conquer, Grand Theft Auto (1, for the new kids) and Quake all before I’d had a girlfriend, and so I’d learned quick reactions to kill and maim someone before I’d learned how to converse with 50% of the world. They were something of an enigma for a while, and still are. I’m assured that this won’t change much in the coming years, and will probably just get more confusing.

It does take a lot to shock me. For example, recently hearing that a close friend at University was to be married knocked me for six, and hearing that one of my colleagues of the same year of intake at Wood Group and only a few years older than has gotten his wife pregnant also KOed. These things though are part of “growing-up” and are starting to come thick and fast. But actually being shocked?

Like most I think the news is an essential part of life on this planet, but it still has the ability to blindside me and surprise me with the most curious twists. Like today’s Guardian article “Quarter of men in South Africa admit rape” which upon reading had me shaking my head with incredulity.

That would mean, statistically, in my group of friends several of them would’ve raped some one. In fact, at a game of Five as Side, 2 of us have raped some one, and that it could be 2/5ths of one team. Or, even more maddeningly, in my office at work, in my bay, where there are four men, one of would have statistically raped someone.

Of course, this is how surveys work. 1 in 5 or 1 in 3 don’t actually mean anything. Like the adverts on TV where “1 in 4 women loved their new hair!” and the survey is only 188 people, meaning that infact the majority was not impressed. Hmm. But this survey isn’t there to be evidence saying that 1 in 4 HAVE raped someone, but that the numbers make it possible, so as to highlight the plight of anti-rape campaigners in South Africa. And because of the sound bite, I was caught in, and now know of the problem. And so do you, because the results have caused me to blog about it. So maybe the survey works with shock tactics?

1 in 19 readers of this blog agree. Probably…

Thoughts on Weakness

Is weakness a bad thing to admit to? Or is it a bad thing to have? I have recently been thinking about weakness and being weak about certain parts of your philosophy or personality and how some times these weakness can be exploited by people or not even noticed by you until it’s too late, or even when a weakness can cause you to like a person more in both a good way and a bad way. The reason this came to my mind was the recent political turmoil in which we suddenly realised that we, as a nation, had allowed a political party with political views that the majority don’t agree with to get into power.

The BNP have been called various names over the last few weeks and most of them seem to be negative – Nazi, Racist, Bigoted… they’re all quite terrible names and most of these have not only came from the pro-labour or the pro-conservative newspapers or columnists, but actually from the parties themselves. Something to unite behind; the cumulative fail that was letting things get so shit in the country that people have started to listen to the people whose only solution to the problem is to get rid of the cause, not fix the problem at the core.

But what is the problem? Herein lies one of my weaknesses. I like to think that I am quite intellectual and could hold up a conversation about most topics with ease. Political hot potatoes, such as gay marriage, abortion, euthanasia, global warming, nuclear disarmament or even the internet, I’d like to be thought of as someone who could spar with most opponents well in a calculated debate with a similarly intellectual person. These political hot potatoes are easy to have opinions about but when comes to the actual politics, and the lines in which we are supposed to divide along, I’m woefully behind the times when it comes to who to decide to vote for. I have no idea where my ideas lie or where I should lay my head at night because, to be honest, I feel that it’s a waste of fucking time, more about point scoring than it is about the way the country is run.

But then again, that’s the way I think now, and that might change. I suppose what’s the point in speaking when no one is listening? Is there a rhyme or reason to wanting to vent your opinion, and are you still allowed to do it when most people think it is wrong, or when you have base for the answer? This of course, is the way things are. Idiots vote for idiots, and idiots make up the majority of the population, and politically I am one and I didn’t vote last week. This means I am part of the 63% of the population that didn’t vote last week. The majority that now are appalled at the fact that the BNP have a seat or two in government. Can we be outraged at something we chose not to have a say in?

I have decided that my strengths out weigh my weaknesses. It’s telling that even in a room full of people that I can still feel alone, all alone in the dark of company. In the shadow of a voice, in the echo of a scream, there’s a place where you’ll find me probably listening. Just because I haven’t spoke doesn’t mean that I don’t understand the conversation, where I am supposed to stand, or even that I have opinion. If I’m not asked then I probably won’t answer, that’s the kind of person I am. There needs to be a question before you’ll get an answer out of me, and when I think that my answer is not worth voicing, or it’s baseless from an educational point of view (in that I don’t know why I have the answer) then I won’t say it. I need to know the workings of things, it’s been engrained in me ever since I was hit on the head at school by a teacher for not showing how x=2 in three thousand steps.

Things need to have a beginning, a route from there, and an end, and if the end is wrong in my head then it won’t be said. So maybe my weakness is not that I am voiceless, but too considerate? In any rate, I’m disappointed that certain people used their vote for a party that I don’t agree with, but without their workings there is no way I can say they were wrong. Indeed, who is wrong?

Are they for voting after coming up with an answer, or myself for not voting because I couldn’t justify my answer to myself?

A Toast… to Toast

Thank god for the Maillard Reaction, seriously. I honestly do not know what I’d do without it. Yesterday Steve told me a story of a man who found a dead mouse inside his loaf of bread, at which Steve said it would’ve been “enough to put me off bread for life” and as I thought of finding a dead mouse in my bread I realised that I couldn’t honestly think of anything that would stop me eating bread.

Not even the prospect of dying from bread consumption could stop me from having a slice or two at bed time. The reason for this is the connotations it has with sleep – a cup of tea and a slice of toast, hopefully Edinburgh Tea Company Scottish Breakfast (I know, at night, but sue me, yeah?) and Hovis Wholemeal Medium lightly toasted with a slight glaze of butter (and maybe Jam if I’m feeling sexy, or even some Pate if I am feeling posh).

Not even the prospect of finding a dead rat inside my loaf would make me stop eating bread because I know the percentage of good, no… great loafs that I have outweigh the possibilities of a tainted loaf almost a billion to one. And I’d probably chalk it up to a test set by the toast and bread gods to see if I am truly a believer, like the way a fundamentalist Christian believes that the fossils of dinosaurs are there to test their faith.

No, toast is as much a part of me as eating burgers at restaurants are and that’s probably not going to change. So, as I raise this slice of wholemeal bliss towards the heavens, I shall exclaim “TO TOAST!” and much on the slightly singed bread and the crumbs that jovially flake off onto my jumper and I smile as the crunch and the heat warms my mouth. I close my eyes and dream of a toast filled heaven, unlimited butter, an instantaneous toasting machine and God himself, picking crumbs out of his beard as he nods, winks and says “Fuck me, I was proud when I made Adam, then amazed when I made Eve our of his rib, but when you guys finally figured out that overcooked bread was better than normal bread… well, I knew my creation was complete” and I’ll nod and take another bite and a sip of my tea. This picture is enough to make me a true believer in God himself.

Toast: Better than bread since 1921.

Spectator Sport Part 1

Dear Mark,

Hope things are well. Let me explain how this is going to work to you, as it’s pretty plain that even if you knew that this was true, and that this had even happened, then you’d still have a fair bit of trouble understanding it. I know this, because it’s already happened to me. You see, I am writing this to you from the future. I know, I know, it’s confusing, but wait, I’ll explain. It’s all to do with perception. Time flows in one direction because we see it that way, but in fact it’s much like a normal dimension. You can move off it at any point if you can, and I have figured out how to do it. But that’s not the point.

The point is that I’m writing this to you from 2009. You’ll be reading this in 1999, ten years ago, and so I need to make it plainly clear how things are going to turn out for you. Why doesn’t this cause the universe to collapse? Well, unlike most Science Fiction, this has already happened. You see, when I got to the age you are right now I read this exact letter, before you had even written it. Before I had even thought about what to write in it, I already had read it. This doesn’t make sense to your mind and it doesn’t fully make sense to mine – I know, because if it did I’d have explained it to myself and have read it already, back in my 1999. I think of you sitting there reading this, and thinking “This is nonsense”, and I know this because I thought it to, and I read it here so probably thought it because it was written here. I also know that you’re wondering why I am writing this letter at all, seeing as if I have already read it.

Well you see that’s how time works. In the future, say 2019, I’m writing the letter to myself that I have just read. It was sent back 10 years, from 2019 to 2009. In it, it explains what will happen to me in the future 10 years. It also reminds me to remind you to write this in 10 years time, in 2009, so in 1999 you’ll get the 2009 letter. It also lets you know to expect to have one arrive in 2009 and also expect to be writing one as well. It’s complicated. I would know, seeing as I am you. So now with the whole annoying thing of explaining how it works to you I have to explain what’s gong to happen to you in the resulting 10 years.

Where to start? Well, keep doing well at school. Actually, scratch that. The fact that I am here and writing this from a well paid job is testament to the fact that you already have done so, and in time there’s nothing you could do to change that. But don’t try to. I know you don’t, but still, nothing like the temptation of a paradox to make someone give up revising.

And yeah, you should do that degree you are not putting much thought into. Yeah, the one that you won’t know why you chose it in the first place a few years afterwards. It’s strange that even myself, in the future, can’t explain why you will do Chemical Engineering, but you will. You probably have a better chance of remembering it than I do. Even after I read this I still forgot, so don’t try to remember it’s not going to work.

Grow your hair. It looks better. Later, grow a beard, it’s awesome with the ladies. Yeah, don’t worry you’re not gay, not in 2009 anyway. You don’t try that till later I think, unless the 2019 us is taking the piss. The 2019 us has shaved his head, so I expect we will probably be going bald, but don’t worry. I can’t send a photo back to you but rest asdsured you’re not too fat. We are built like a tank in 2019 (but then, I’m told that’s the law after the war or something).

Don’t bet on Al Gore. He’ll win the election, but will not get into power and that’s why you won’t win the bet. So don’t do it. Remember to always look both ways in the street – don’t forget this, there’s a moment in 2002 that’s pretty close and that sort of thing is paradoxically possible to change time, so seriously becareful.

Also, enjoy the whole thing about mobile phones. Try and trademark the iPod, but that didn’t take for me so it’ll probably not work out for you. And enjoy the summer of 2003, it’s probably the best you’ll ever have. And Paris in 2004. They’re the best holidays we have.

I think that’s all I remember reading in the letter I read in 1999, so that’s all I can write to you. It’s funny that there’s ten years of stuff to write to you about but I didn’t write any fo the stuff you wanted to read! Oh man, it was so annoying. I mean, I remember being so fucking pissed off that I threw the letter down on the ground and picked it back up after 5 minutes. Yeah, you’re reading intently again, that sentence always consfused me, and still does, even writing it.

Anyway, enjoy yourself. The next ten years are ace. Just one more thing: don’t live in Aberdeen. Don’t move there to work, it’s not very good. I know that this advice is useless because I am sitting here, writing this in Aberdeen, but it’s always worth a try, Paradox aside.

Take Care,
Mark Shields, 2009 version.

200: Holiday 2009: Scotland I – Welcome to the Scotland I Know

Note: This is my 200th blog post.

A month or so ago Steven and I came back from New York city, having both ventured way out of our comfort zone and heading for the sunny shores of the Americas, having never really set foot much there before. Steven was the expert, having been to the US more recently than me, but his experiences were limited to a few days in LA on the west coast, whilst my experiences were limited to a 13 year ago trip to Walt Disney world, a walled garden version of an American 1960s Utopia; not exactly American life experience.

Steven has lived in Scotland all his life, like me. However, save for a small trip to the tippy top of Scotland and the occasional trip to Govan Asda, he’d never been to Scotland for a holiday. The funny thing is that I am the opposite. Each year for the last 10 or so, I’ve been going on camping weekends and weeks with my Scout troop and more recently, my Scout friends. So Scotland to me is sweeping hills and massive sunny lochs. For Steve it’s terrible football and drunken Union St on a Saturday night.

So after meticulous planning (“You want to go?” “Yeah”) and an almost trip to Tejas (and Rome, heh), we booked four hotels in four towns in four days, with a planned trip to Skye. Onward we went.

Day One: Inverness
Leaving at 10am on the Wednesday Shayan dropped his newly cut keys to his flat off with myself and Steve. We will be taking care of his fish whilst he is in Iran. Once, after a short stop at Shell for our first tank of petrol, and a sandwich, we were on our way to Inverness. The road was boring for most the way, bypassing Inverurie and Kintore, we arrived in Inverness way before we needed to, so we didn’t stop and headed down Loch Ness to the Clansman hotel for lunch. The almost sunny-rain didn’t dampen our spirits but the £7 fee to enter Urquhart Castle stopped us in our tracks.

Me, looking slightly hungover.

Heading back to Inverness we parked the car and found our bed and breakfast which was basically next to the city centre. After a few minutes peace we headed to the pub. Starting drinking at 5pm is something I’ve not done for at least a week, so it was good to get away. Peroni, Tuborg and Highland 80-/ later, we were quite drunk and faced with the longest day of driving the next morning, decided to call it a night after 10 pints at 1am.

Day Two: Skye and Fort William
The next morning was rough. I felt bad at first but a full Scottish and some toast sorted me right out, and Steve took a few hours to come round. The 3 hour drive to Skye would’ve sorted us out at any rate, being up to that point the funniest road I’ve ever driven on. The road was windy and took us right to the tip of the country and beyond, meaning we’d driven across the widest part of Scotland inside 5 hours, which tells you something about the size of the country. Skye was a little wet but nonetheless absolutely amazing. The cuillins are possibly the most dramatic mountain scenery that I’ve ever seen. The massive volcanic out crops were scrapping the skies and the clouds apart and the rain seemed to be apologising for even coming out. It was epic.

The Road to Arisaig was amazing.

Steve paid £7 for a slice of toast and some salmon in Skye.

We visited the Talisker distillery and sampled some of their 10 year old single malt. It’s a hard one for a beginner to start with, that’s sure, but I lapped it up. I like Talisker, but I’m more a Speyside malt man. Then again, I sound like a total twat based on that sentence, so boobs girls and cars. That should sort me out.

Arriving in Fort William after a windy road and a “That’s Ben Nevis” “those other ones look taller” conversation, we plonked into the worst hotel of our trip (but more on that in a different blog post). We decided after finding our hotel was a 15 minute walk down the A82 from the pubs and that we were still a little bushed from last night, we’d take the night off and slept like babies.

Yeah I'm wearing shorts.

Day Three: Arisaig, Glencoe and Pitlochry
This was the best day. It hit at least 23 degrees on the way along the west coast to Arisaig, making it the first place that I’d never been before on this trip. The sun was shining and the road was amazing and I was wearing my Belle and Sebastian “Scotland’s For Me!” t shirt and shorts, and I was loving it. The sun makes any road much nicer to drive on on any given day, so the fun was had stopping every so often to see the water and feel the heat. After an ice cream and some hilarious banter involving a van that looked like an ice cream van but was actually a butchers, we started the long drive to Pitlochry.

Going through Glencoe Steve realised that he couldn’t find his camera. Panic settled in as he scrambled around the car professing his belief that “It’s got to be in the fucking car, I’ve not put it anywhere!”. Pulling into the car park in the middle of Glencoe we inspect the glove box. It turns out by glove box isn’t that much a glove box, but a place where things can fall down behind my dashboard. A quite look and the removal of a panel in the footwell and my car’s dashboard gave birth to stave’s camera. I laughed so much I felt sick. We drove on to Aberfeldy where we sat in a pub that smelled of pish and bleach and had some food that didn’t and then arrived at the wild card.

Glencoe.

I didn’t expect anything more than a little bed and breakfast but what we got was a 4star hotel with a pub built onto it. it was amazing, and it had free wifi. The place stole our hearts and is somewhere I’d love to return to with a pretty girl in tow.

Day Four: Perth and Aviemore
Driving north would’ve lead us to Aviemore 7 hours before Helen was due to meet us there, so a trip south to Perth felt right. Parking in the town for little we explored the only place on the trip Steve and been before. Along the river we walked and onto a small isle in the middle of the river Tay and then into some childish banter. We crossed the river on a Ford and Steve fell in. I’d point out I also fell in, but that’d be stupid of me. But after the falling in incident we explored the town and had an ice cream slush puppy type thing.

My car gives birth to Steve's camera.

The drive North was to be short so we detoured to Crieff and then to Lochearnhead, and then back through Aberfeldy and up the A9 to Aviemore. Meeting Helen at the train station we went out for a massive portion of Burger and beers. Aviemore appears to be the Stag capital of the Uk with the place having more meat on display than a butchers and less woman than a mens jail. The police only had one incident – they’d found two beer glasses on their rounds.

A few drinks later and we left, showing Helen how Shayan runs via the “Shopping Trolley” and Steve kicking over a cone like a lairy Student.

Day Five: The Lecht and Ballater
We left in the morning after a good breakfast, now with Helen in tow. The rain had followed her to Aviemore and the drive over the rather steep Lecht to Balmoral was eventful as my car started to make a groaning noise again under the bonnet. The castle was open but the rain was on and the price was again the magic £7 so we decided to come back when it wasn’t pishing it down.

How WACKY we are.

Stopping in Ballater we talked about several things, and had tea and cake and sandwiches in The Bothy before admitting defeat and returning back to Aberdeen. Steve had finally visited Scotland, Helen had gotten away from Aberdeen for a night and I had added 820miles to my car.

Coming Up:
Part II: The Thing About Scotland as a Holiday Destination
Part III: Hotels, Beds, Showers and Breakfasts

“The Houston of the Eastern Hemisphere”

Aberdeen is the Europe’s Energy Capital. It has the headquarters of Shell and BP, as well as Petrofac, Wood Group, Amec, Total E&P UK, plus loads of smaller never-heard-before companies that actually are very wealthy and turn over a large amount of money each year.

Houston is the American Energy Capital. It has the headquarters of the second largest number of Fortune500 companies after New York City. It is the largest producer of petrochemicals in North America and is the largest petrochemical producing area on the planet.

The difference between the world’s two oil capitals, sorry energy capitals, are numerous. Aberdeen is the third largest city in Scotland, whereas Houston is the fourth largest city in the US. The cities are twinned by their nature of oil and gas building them into bustling cities of vast wealth and povery areas, each with their own large immigrant populations – Houston home to hundreds of thousands of Latin American’s, first through fourth generation, where Aberdeen is home to more English, Indian, American and African employees than any place outside of London. The cities are similar… but for some reason Aberdeen is always looking to be “the somewhere of somewhere else”.

This year the talk has been of my boss Sir Ian Wood and his ambitious plans to transform the Union Terrace Gardens in the city centre, just next to Union Street and the Denburn Valley, into some kind of large civic space with shops, gardens and the covering of a large scar through the city centre in a smaller version of the Big Dig. The plan is impressive… but it brings back a thought I had recently.

Why is Scotland always trying to be something else? Recently I watched a TV show that showcase the plans that companies have for creating green energy from wind and wave power, as well as hydro electric power. These plans are numerous and well thought out and will work. They will because they have to – we are going to have to change the way we create our energy and it’s going to have to be cleaner and greener than ever before.

Being the top part of a northern set of island we have loads of coastline. These companies that plan to build turbines in the north sea to harness the wind power or wave power off our numerous coastlines suggest that we could become the Saudi Arabia of Wind Power, exporting hundreds of thousands of GigaJoules of electricity to countries who don’t have the wave or wind power to create it – like Holland or England.

But why can’t we just be Scotland? Why can’t Aberdeen just be Aberdeen? Being very close friends with a girl from Tejas and several of the Mustangers over from Houston they have grown to accept Aberdeen for what it is – old, creaky, full of character and with flaws that have been handed down through generation upon generation of growing city into a space that probably never should have been a city.

So I am all for Sir Ian Wood pledging money to build a new garden area and I think it would be awesome, but honestly thinking that it will make us like Houston is just silly – it will just mean a better Aberdeen and that’s point, no?

The Plans for the Garden

Aberdeen Skyline

Houston Skyline

A post by Ana, from Tejas, about the plans from November.

The BBC News Story

Sung to the tune of Rock the Casbah...

Lock the Taskbar = Rock the Casbah :)