Wind power Trumps golf....

Gosh we had a super-exciting trip down to the the beach at Balmedie at the weekend.

Can you see something new on the horizon?

Perhaps you can see better in the picture below. Especially if you biggify it. 

A cluster of huge wind turbines are being installed in Aberdeen Bay, a mile and a half out into the North Sea. Apparently they are among most powerful in the world, and this site is a test bed for new technology for offshore wind generation.

A good idea, don't you think? It is mighty windy in these parts, and surely the future lies in renewable energy. The world needs to learn to reduce its use of fossils fuels! And in Aberdeen in particular, the so-called Oil Capital of Europe, a new and more sustainable source of prosperity is sorely needed (or so the humans tell me).

Well you'll never believe this, but a certain very prominent person was totally opposed to the wind farm project. In fact he even tried to bully the authorities into refusing it permission. He said it would ruin the view from his golf course. (The one he bulldozed a protected conservation site to build).

But these golf links seem empty anyway, even on a nice spring Saturday afternoon.

And really, the the view from the dunes behind the course is not, in my opinion, in any way spoiled.

Long time readers of this blog will already have guessed that the owner of the (loss making) golf course is none other than a certain Donald J Trump. Perhaps some of you might even be interested in a few statistics, now that the Trump International course has been in operation for nearly six years.

Promised (2008): 6000 jobs, 2 golf courses, a new 450 room hotel, sports complex, timeshare flats, housing estate with several hundred new homes.

Delivered (2018): Less than 100 (full time equivalent) jobs, 1 golf course (closed for 5 months of the year), a 19 room hotel in an existing building, a small clubhouse with restaurant and shop, no houses. Plus devastation of an SSSI (Site of Special Scientific Interest) by ploughing up the ecologically precious and unique sand dune habitat and drenching the land with chemicals...

Aberdeen Park Talk 2016

So after a solo romp around the park (no dawdling) I joined my Saturday morning pals and their humans.

While engaging in routine greetings, I overheard snippets of the humans' conversation:

"Still working?"
"Job hanging by a thread"
"Mine too. Only eleven days billable so far this year"
"Rate cuts of 10% in the offing"
"10%, you're lucky, I'm down 40%"
"More redundancies coming up at BP"
"And yet Bob Dudley's still paid £14 million"
"North Sea's finished, our vessel's heading to Angola for six weeks; the wife'll be walking Tassie"

It was all getting too depressing. So when I spotted my wiry pal Murphy by the gate, I bounced over to say hello.

Boy, that's some haircut, I remarked.

I don't need reminding Bertie, came the plaintive response, didn't you notice it snowed last night? Spring in Scotland, huh!

But then Murphy spotted a jogger and livened up considerably.

You can't keep a good WFT down for long…

FFHT July: My talents go unrecognised

And it's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again. As usual, this month's phrase is highlighted in red.

A Trip to the Office

Once upon a time, on a Thursday evening last month, Gail came home from work, gave me the customary head scratch and cheerfully asked:

"Well Bertie my dear wee chappie, do you want the Good News or the Bad News?".

Then, of course, she proceeded to give me both.

So the bad news was that Gail had to go into the office the next day, Friday, her usual day off. But the good news, she said, was that I was, "just this once" invited to accompany her.

Good news? British understatement there I think. I was so excited my tail started wagging back and forth like a nodding donkey on speed.

Gail tried to calm me down by following up with a lengthy and tedious list of the do's and don'ts of office etiquette for dogs.

Do keep out of people's way; don't bark; don't lick or nibble anyone's ankles; don't go rummaging in handbags; don't get under anyone's feet and trip them up; don't try jumping on desks; don't chew any cables; should anyone stop to give you a pat, do just sit there quietly and look appreciative.

Well I have to say all this was a little disappointing. I had secretly been hoping that Gail's colleagues, knowing about my role as Boffin to Blogville, had asked me in to solve some hitherto intractable technical problem relating to finding oil in the North Sea. Heaven knows, the petroleum industry in this part of the world is in need of some fresh ideas just now.

So I entered Gail's office, bright eyed and bushy tailed as any new recruit, all prepared to play my part but you know what?

EVERYONE IGNORED ME!

There was I, head bursting with ideas on how to sniff out the North Sea's remaining oil reserves, happy to advise on gas production issues, ready to assist with any necessary excavation work, all set to help the marketing department by sharing my social media expertise, etc. etc.

BUT NO-ONE TOOK ANY NOTICE!

I had the distinct impression these experienced and highly educated professionals from all over the world* somehow doubted my credentials. More fool them.

So after a while I got bored and wandered off. Fortunately I ran into Gail's boss, who made a big fuss of me and even took me for a little walk outside. I'll be honest with you, I was a bit wary of this lady at first, recalling how it was on her recommendation that I had Rescue Remedy squirted up my nose prior to boarding a train a couple of years ago. But I've decided to forgive her role in that unfortunate incident.

I'm pleased to report that after a few hours Gail announced we were done for the day and she took me for a nice stroll along the River Dee behind the office. 

And, my friends, that was the first time I ever visited Gail's current workplace. 

*Pictured hard at work are Hamed and Mehdi from Iran and Henk from Holland. Yes you've guessed it, Henk's the tall one.

Bertie clarifies the debate on North Sea oil reserves

Yesterday I overheard Gail talking to a friend.

"I can't believe how much rubbish is being written about Scotland's future North Sea oil reserves. Honestly, I think even Bertie has a better understanding of the issues involved than most of the media commentators".

For once I shall ignore Gail's rather insulting use of the word 'even' and take her statement at face value.

After all, I live in the heart of Europe's oil capital and my human, a geophysicist, has been engaged in the business on and off (mostly on) for over 30 years. Naturally, my keen and attentive flappy little ears have picked up a wealth of knowledge about the petroleum industry.

But I think it will help if, instead of oil and gas, we consider the subject in terms of doggy treats.

Got your attention, right?

Let us imagine that once upon a time, many millions of years ago, a huge number of doggy treats were  buried under the ground in deposits of varying size and depth. And that this would form the only local supply of treats ever available to dogs in the UK.

For years, no-one knew they were there, but one day, a basset hound caught a faint whiff of something interesting in a field. A passing Scottie noticed the hound sniffing the earth, and started digging. Lo and behold, he had discovered the UK's first treat hoard.

A border collie, observing the action, used her brain and figured out that there were likely more treat deposits scattered around, and hired a gang of scent hounds to sniff them out and terriers to do the excavation work.

Initially only the larger and shallowest deposits were found, but selective breeding of scent hounds with ever more treat-sensitive noses meant that medium sized treat stores could also be detected, and likewise terriers with bigger and bigger front paws made for ever more effective digging operations. Meanwhile, the increasing global population of dogs meant the market for treats grew and grew, increasing the value of each individual treat.

Naturally it was the canny border collies, in partnership with some poodles, who organised and ran the sale and distribution of the treats and made off with most of the profits, although they did have to pay an annual tribute to a gang of powerful German Shepherds and Rottweilers who also controlled the permits to dig.

No-one knew exactly how many dog treats were buried at the outset, and so estimates of the number left at any point varied considerably. The uncertainty was compounded when the task of calculating remaining treat reserves was sub-contracted to a litter cross-bred from a Bulldog and a Shih Tzu……..*

It was also unclear if, as locally sourced treats became scarcer and scarcer, people would be prepared to pay ever more to extract them, or if they would look to overseas treat supplies instead. And no-one was certain whether further selective breeding could improve performance of the terriers and the scent hounds sufficiently to locate and dig out the remaining small or more deeply buried deposits. The cost of maintaining these precious (in every sense of the word) specialists was already going through the kennel roof.

One dog who without doubt understood all this was an Aberdeen-based billionaire treat magnate, a border collie known as 'Woody'.  Although Woody's judgement had in recent years been called into question when he attempted to move beyond his core expertise and started trying to design a city centre dog park, no-one questioned his deep knowledge of the complexities of the treat business.

And so when he said that there are not so many treats left as a certain power hungry but deceitful Gordon Setter named Alex had claimed (based on so-called 'expert advice' from a grovelling lapdog), then we can all agree that Woody should be believed.

All clear now, I trust.


*Blame Her from Scotsmad for this one…