Onto The Rocket Goes… (Part 2)


They’re going on my rocket, with or without a highlander to blast upon them. Or perhaps we can just position them near the rocket’s main window as we leave it open for a breeze.

Wind-chimes, meanwhile, will not be welcomed onto the rocket, as whilst there might be no more magical a sound than metallic wind-chimes doing what they do in the breeze as they introduce a fairy or a spell takes place, there is no greater relief than when the chimes are grabbed and silenced at long last.

Because it stirs us up from beneath the kilt and makes you wilt like the pansy alien you really are.

Plus tartan kilts.

Plus salted porridge.

And drizzle.

These’ll need some development…but, yes, I am ultimately putting Scotland as an entity on my rocket.

And very few nations are going to get that good favour.

This is the series of articles in which I detail all the things that I feel deserve a place upon the rocket we send into space so as to impress aliens, for good and bad (below the waste or not). There are items and concepts that I feel represent us well as a species and as hosts of a planet, either by summing us up well or simply being awesome enough that I want aliens to know about it; which is why the Maori Haka and Abba’s Mamma Mia made it onto the rocket in the last article.

Tartan has a place aboard the rocket, in every single format that it could possible take.
The kilt (obviously), trousers, tea pots, tattoos, shoes, lingerie and total-tartan-suits…all are a bewildering exclamation of proud nationalism via a pattern resembling the London Underground map coloured in by Microsoft Paint.

It also looks like a futuristic and complex array of wiring/programming that would hopefully be as incomprehensible to aliens as the distinction of tartan from clan-to-clan is for me.

Perhaps we could have tartan rocket? Just crack open the tartan paint.
So, whilst the tartan might not be the most worthy of things on the rockets, it still fits in with the theme of today.


Look, I’m struggling to continue with this seeing as that although this article has this Scottish theme and its worthiness for a place on the rocket, I simply want to write about something else now.

I prefer to urinate in the countryside.

That’s what I’m writing about now.

I imagine it’s like golf – the main benefit being that it’s outside and one can enjoy the scenery whilst peeing in the sunshine or moonlight.

However, I have an ulterior motive for when I pee in my garden, and the woods, and the meadow and ever-elsewhere with particular focus on being near a fox den.

I believe we must take pride in our species in terms of output, essence and achievements, and promptly rub it in the face of all other life on Earth (before then doing all this again on a space-bound rocket).

So, I pee outside with the hope that a fox, or a deer or a badger might come along, sniff my abandoned puddle and realise in their mind: “Hmm. That guy…”

And whilst I enjoy being natural amongst nature, it’s mostly the fact that I want to be of some effect in the daily life of a fox I’ve never met. Perhaps they’ll pass the knowledge of that Sam-Man-Pee down to their cubs and I’ll become alike to the boogieman; which is fine by me.

I’d consider it a healthy level of respect for local foxes to sniff my pee and move on.
And nobody need nibble the other, I’m not eliminating the food source of discarded pizza boxes and stolen hats, and I don’t write disparaging comments about foxes on Facebook. It’s all rather mature and long may the pee sniffing continue – especially on the rocket (another reason for having the window open).

Wearing a kilt would make peeing outside easier. A pleasure even, though perhaps not a charming one.

The additional benefit of the kilt is the incredibly effective method of lifting it and waggling the highlander’s lowlands at opponents across the valley, causing both sides to become either truly enraged with a willy-inspired bloodlust that can only be satisfied with a nice bowl of cooling porridge to dip oneself in, or suddenly discovering that you have a tremendous amount of genital-respect for one another which can only be satisfied another cooling porridge dip, though this time without salt.

Plus drizzle.

Drizzle would, I once assumed, be a natural soother of highland tempers and a subduer of spikey temperaments, until I realised on a drizzly mountain side one winter that I was going to severely impediment the progression to future birthdays of all those dryer than myself at that point.

Drizzle has a funny way of making the drizzled-upon people redheaded and tartan and the drizzled-upon flowers purple and spikey.

The Thistle will be the official posy of planet Earth, unless somebody can provide a Sunflower prior to blast-off, as I feel still that a Sunflower is the flower of Earth with the best chance representing flora in a fight against fauna (Venus Flytraps excluded owing to being sneaky and dishonourable). A Thistle might be a more honourable flower, but a Sunflower looks like a 3-year-old drew it and it could feed a family of 8.

The salted porridge deserves a place upon the rocket too, more so as a metaphor than as a meal in and of itself.

“Porridge, sir?”

“Thank you, but does that house provide any salt to top with?”

“Salt, sir?”

“If you’d be so kind, as it’s just that I do so adore porridge, but I do too tend to find that it’s just not bloody horrible enough!”

Sometimes, it’s worth doing something hard purely on the basis that it’s hard.

I once carted a pumpkin around for a few days with the sheer hope that doing a tough-to-do thing would benefit me in terms of true-grit, but I forgot about the idea and left the pumpkin on the stairs (unaware that it had been penetrated and the snails I was saving to cook has escaped and had a jolly good go at it).

The benefit?

My forearm power grew and I’ll swear those snails tasted a tad of pumpkin, but on the whole I became (following many other similar contributions) perpetually prepared to have a bad time for no good reason.

Salted porridge is much the same.

Horrible now, not so horrible next time.

And the alien life would see this through our rocket’s open window, as we waggle our tartan erections out into deep space from beneath our kilts, a bowl of salted porridge somewhere near the mouth – making us grimace in drizzly determination; all to the tune of the magnificent bagpipes – making us grimace in ecstasy as we realise that Earth (in particularly Scotland) is better than your pathetic and weedy little excuse for a planet.

And now we’re taking Mars too.


Of course I’m Asian, why wouldn’t I be Asian?!

Of course I’m Asian, why wouldn’t I be Asian?! Born in Britain to white/Jewish parents? Ok, sure that’s a pretty good reason, but other than that I’m talking mathematically.

Sometimes it’s good to talk mathematically.

Most people in the world are Chinese. Of all the nations in the world, the largest population is that of China- as you all likely know. Therefore, partly going by how I don’t use mirrors that much (yet am still somehow physically approachable) whilst mainly because most people are Chinese, the chances are that I’m Chinese.

So…y’know…sorry Tibet. I feel awful. And I feel Chinese.

And I guess that automatically makes me a dissident, which is marvellous. I have for a long-time-lately agreed that Tibet should be free, but as much as I believe in a free Tibet, I also simply have to insist on a free Texas.

I don’t think that people can really comprehend what Texans go through daily.

It’s called ‘lunch’.

‘Lunch’ in this part of the world isn’t a dinner party, or a day at the beach, or a piece of cake. It’s like being raped by foodstuffs that are yellow. Yellow or brown. Either way; they’re raping you and they’re French fries.

I once encountered a Texan that was so large that her arse drooped over the chair and down to, and fucking touching the floor of that restaurant. That Chinese restaurant.

Poor Texans. If you were to donate just £3 a month to an average Texan family…the money would probably be painted yellowy-brown and eaten.

How continental.

How very continental indeed.

However, this doesn’t diffuse the issue that I, like you likely are, am Chinese.

Suddenly Chinese.

I’m not quite sure how to take this. Of course, when I think about China, my cheeky little brain leaps to humorous racism- the kind we can all enjoy and indulge in. And then, what with myself being a newly acquainted Chinese dissident, am filled with a terrible and Chinese anger at myself.

The trouble is- I don’t have nuclear capabilities (though preferable, of course, to nuclear incapabilities), not even a little one for the weekend.

China does. They’ve got the guns and the numbers, whereas I’m 5 8″ and that’s about it (though I am of course selling myself short. My smile- is heavenly).


It was parenthetical a moment ago, but now it rings through to me that it might be worth something.

I have a sunny day of a smile- whilst China has a population problem. There’s a defining quality- “I don’t have a population problem; you do! You numerous bastard!”.

I guess, therefore, thus, and…hence…that it’s a waiting game. We, the Chinese, will run out of China and either have to take a little more and a little more of other places until they don’t put up with people like me anymore and the Mutually Assured Destruction that has plagued us all since the beginning of all beginnings is made altogether too hasty (for my liking) by other states.

States like Texas.

It’s a waiting game, and all I have to do it be patient, and let my fellow Chinese multiply until the young, once more, take over and Tibet is returned and perhaps then, I can make my way back to being English.

I love being English. It suits me.

You should try it sometime; you’ve all got the figure for it.