I’m sure, like me, you’ve found the reports and pictures of the latest visit to Mars absolutely jaw-dropping. Not.

In case you haven’t managed to stay awake, here are the key points. An American ‘Rover’ has landed there. It has snapped “the sharpest colour photograph ever taken on the surface of Mars”. The picture shows a barren, rock-strewn landscape. Two objects initially believed to be rocks have now been identified as bits of the landing craft’s airbags. The other objects believed to be rocks are (and, admittedly, I’m guessing here) almost certainly rocks. Mars is often referred to as the Red Planet. And, er, that’s it.
The Nasa geeks are going bonkers, of course, not least, one presumes, because they’ve put one over on the Brits who sent up a comparatively cut-price job called Beagle but, in keeping with the ancient tradition of all gizmos that are supposed to perform on Christmas Day, apparently forgot to include the batteries.
So the Yanks have the place to themselves, which, let’s face it, is hardly news. In fact, the whole thing has been wildly hyped, especially when you consider that for a not dissimilar expenditure of around 450 million bucks, Fleetwood Mac might have recorded a much better follow-up to Rumours than the very patchy Tusk. (And maybe even had enough left off for a less volatile brand of marching powder).
Instead, for their hard-earned tax dollar, the US workforce has been rewarded with “the sharpest colour picture ever taken on the surface of Mars”. Oh yeah, like the competition has been intense. I mean, it’s not as if Annie Leibovitz or Cathal Dawson have been up there in the past shooting the Clash or the Sawdoctors. It’s not as if Kodak regularly sponsor a competition for Martian snappers. It’s not as if you can buy one of those disposable jobbies in the duty free on Cratus Maximus and go around poking it in the face of innocent rocks before finally having it snatched from your hand and taken away at high-speed by a three-headed skangus on a bike in the vicintiy of Cratus Templus Barus.

randy california
The Rover is called Spirit, by the way, which I think calls for legal action of some kind. Music-lovers will recall that Spirit was the name of the West Coast psychedelic band led, up until the time of his death, by one Randy California, a gentleman whose lifestyle was as weird and wonderful as his name. I once met with the great man in London, and Randy – aka Kaptain Kopter of Fabulous Twirly-Bird fame (as if you didn’t know) – spent most of the time speaking to me in CB lingo, even down to concluding our chat with the words, “Ten-four good buddy”. He also asked me to spell “assassination” so he could finish writing an anti-gun rant he wanted to read out on stage that night. A scholar and a gent, in other words.
Spirit released many great albums, from The Twelve Dreams of Doctor Sardonicus to the splendid double Spirit of ‘76, any one of which was a far more exciting trip by an entity called Spirit than the current bolloxology on Mars.
Personally, I blame Stanley Kubrick. That crowd down in the IFC or the IFI or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves this week can waffle on all they like about the director’s singular vision, audacity and unwillingness to compromise, but having spent ten years watching a repeat of the thing on tv the other night, it’s clear no sensible conclusion can be drawn other than that the celebrated 2001 – A Space Odyssey is a total waste of space.
Blokes in laughable monkey suits, a ponderous journey to the stars, the premature retirement of the only interesting character (HAL, the computer) and a long, drawn-out ending which so befuddles the fans that even they don’t bother trying to make sense of it, 2001 – A Space Odyssey is redeemed only by the music of my old mate Jo Sebo Strauss – and Kubrick has as much right to claim credit for that, as a DJ has for playing a decent record.

elastic bands
No, if we’re talking fantastic voyages, give me the Brits and their doomed Beagle venture any day. My good pals Blur and Damien Hirst were involved in the sound and vision departments for a start, while the mission mainman is attached to the Open University which, as far as I can see, means the entire undertaking was probably only a technological rung or two above making a kite out of bin liners and elastic bands in the Blue Peter studio.
And – surprise, surprise – there hasn’t been a peep out of the yoke since it left the mothership. Even the tv reporters have turned all soppy, repeatedly using words like “tiny”, “plucky” and “heroic” when they talk of the poor, lost Beagle.
Hmm, another heroic failure on the part of the Brits – perhaps they should have named it ‘Eddie The Beagle’.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq