I was walking down Sauchiehall Street thinking about Venus.
My mind was moving to the phosphine floating around above that unloved planet. And as we all now know, phosphine suggests life. More tellingly, it suggests life emitting a gas, as that life goes about its merry business.
So, I was walking down Sauchiehall Street thinking about Venus farting. Because if there is life, that life will have had a bite to eat and will be letting nature clear itself out, as nature for our newly discovered Venusian cousins, does.
What, I wondered to myself, will the farting aliens think of what is going on down here? All we’ve got to study of them is a little gas. They have quite the menu.
Do they go big, seeing the west coast of America on fire? What do they make of the unprecedented number of hurricanes gathering like deadly bowling balls out of the Atlantic? Are they following the death and fear and global weariness that Covid has delivered? Does Trump worry them, or do they get confused and believe he is a performance artist about to reveal a great truth? I’d like to hear their take on Brexit. While they may only have a farting gas as their single method of communication and, in fact, of registering their actual being, I suspect they’d still come up with a more coherent and honest policy on the Irish border situation than currently exists.
As I followed my Venusian fart fugue into ever more complex worries I realised I was sinking into a fug. Things were grey. What is there here for the Venusians but flat-earther, anti-vaxxer conspiracy theorists and a growing list of fallen Manc musical heroes keen to show they have more time and deep Reddit search histories than sense?