Somebody wrote into The Herald the other day in praise of Prestwick Airport. I have a soft spot for Prestwick because it was the destination for my father when he undertook a rather hazardous journey by Dakota, from Canada via Greenland and Iceland during the war. He visited my granny, ten miles up the road in Saltcoats, for the first time in years, before being posted on to England. Prestwick Airport gets a bit of stick. It’s a political football, because its financial viability has been called into question, and the road and rail links to Glasgow are not that great. (Same could be said of Glasgow Airport.) On the other hand, it’s essentially fog free, and, according to the Herald correspondent, has the longest runway in the UK.
Wait a minute! That’s not right. I fired off a rejoinder.
Dear Sir,
Prestwick is indeed a terrific airport, but at 2,987 metres (9,801 feet), its runway is not, as your correspondent states, the longest in the UK (“Flying High”, The Herald, December 18th.) The runway at Machrihanish, two miles west of Campbelltown, is 3,049 metres (10,003 feet) long. I believe it was extended during the Cold War to accommodate Avro Vulcan bombers. I see from my logbook that on December 6th, 2002, I landed a Cherokee Warrior there, and I remember touching down at the start of the enormous stretch of tarmac, and coming to a halt before I had reached the black and white “piano keys” signalling the start of the runway. Happy days.
Yours sincerely…
The rejoinder got a rejoinder. Machrihanish may have the longest runway in the British Isles, but, being at least three hours away from Glasgow by road, it’s a white elephant.
Wait a minute! Not the British Isles. The UK. Shannon is longer. Thus do the army of nerdish Herald correspondents fight like bald men over a comb, or look for a fight the way other people look for their dinner. Well, I thought, if we built a bridge between the Mull of Kintyre and Antrim, Belfast would be just round the corner. We could open up the Celtic world! But I didn’t write back.
It’s a fretful time of year, or it can be if you have a predisposition to bah-humbuggery. I remember in the world of emergency medicine that Christmas was the most miserable day in the year. People would present throughout the day to the emergency department with all manner of human wretchedness in mind, body, and spirit. As the evening wore on, the incidents of interpersonal violence would increase in number and severity. Amid all the blood and thunder, I remember one particularly patient individual finally reaching the head of the queue, only to request access to abortifacients. It seemed a bizarre request on the day of a nativity.
The newspapers are only too well aware of readers’ fretfulness. This is why they are full of giant crosswords and multifarious brain-teasers designed to keep one occupied, or preoccupied. I did the Sunday Times giant prize crossword last night, all but one clue, a 23 x 23 box monster. I’m not sure if I’ll hunt up the last solution. Didn’t Persian carpet makers deliberately leave one flaw in the weft, because only God is perfect? Besides, the prize is a 530 piece wooden jigsaw from the Puzzly Company, depicting Claude Monet’s Woman with a Parasol. I’ve never done a jigsaw in my life. Perhaps this is my opportunity. (530 pieces. I can’t help noticing that 530 is just one more than 23 x 23. There’s a jigsaw piece for every square of the crossword, and one to spare. Only a fretful nerd would spot such a thing.)
The hiatus twixt Xmas and Hogmanay reminds me of a long haul journey by air. It’s like suffering from jet lag without even getting off the ground. But you feel as if you are stopping off in Singapore en route to Auckland, dozing off in the Sheraton Towers, 39 Scott Road, and waking at some unimaginable hour to stare stupidly at the TV screen, where a fish in an aquarium ogles you right back. There’s some ghastly minimalist background music. So it is now, this Limbo. Have another mince pie, do another crossword, har har.
I’ve kept New Year’s Resolutions to a minimum, otherwise they’d be liable to be the same as last year. Having a lengthy bucket list is the same as being completely demotivated. I really must read Proust. I really must learn Wagner’s Ring, or Maxwell’s equations. Repeating the same resolutions year on year is the definition of insanity. You resolve, and then go off at a tangent. Life, according to John Lennon, is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. I really must visit Munich. If you don’t know where you’re going, according to George Harrison, any road’ll take you there.
So: one resolution. Finish Tome No. 5. It’s currently 70,000 words long, but the words aren’t necessarily in the right order. Should I get AI to do it for me? No thank you. I have a notion that on a previous publishing exercise my copy editor was a robot, and it lacked a sense of humour. That’s how I knew it was a bot. Now there’s a white elephant. Artificial Intelligence is the latest infatuation of our politicians. It’s the deus ex machina that’s going to solve all the problems in the NHS, and in social services. The lonesome will be consoled by AI. Bots are really good at empathy. Count me out.
But talking of fretfulness, I see that today the Chinese are exercising around Taiwan, rehearsing a blockade. I wonder if the South China Sea is going to be the flashpoint of 2026. It’s being so cheery keeps me going.
Every good wish, when it comes, for a happy and prosperous New Year
JCC.
jamescalumcampbell 