When was the last time you got back from a holiday on Mars
and said “Never again. I should’ve taken more notice of Trip Advisor. One star is only just up from an asteroid. And the Grrzztz family would be
disappointed if we didn’t renew the booking before we catch the Earthside.”? I
mean Mars used to be the hot ticket, the place to go, the hip and happening
place in the Solar System when it was first opened up to Earthsiders. We all
wanted to be seen there lounging by the canals, see it before it was spoilt by
tourism. There were some great sights Olympus Mons rearing its frosted crest
against the indigo sky. That was before they put in ski lifts and built KFCs on
the flanks. The Gale crater with its uninterrupted views for ninety six miles
from rim to rim, before they built rows of hotel domes around the edge like a
nasty outbreak of genital warts. And the canals flowing deep and green and wide
across the red deserts before the mining waste and chocolate brown slurry
outflow. Bloody Martians, if they want
tourists they should look after their planet more. The visitor does not want to be reminded of
their home planet whilst they’re paying top dollar for the Red experience.
And what happened to the welcome at the Spaceport? Originally
all part of the experience. The groups
of dancers. Little green men jiggling their
strange assortment of green parts to their strange gonging music and then
hanging garlands of moss and algae round your neck. I mean, the moss had an unpleasant sliminess
to it and the smell of the algae. I say
little green men as a generic. God knows
if there was such a thing as a little green woman and how on earth you would
tell them apart if there were. Never mind, we knew the whole thing was
authentic and it seemed to please the little green creatures who were
performing the welcome. It isn’t like
that now. The streams of tourists are
met by a superficial standardised jiggle with the interesting bits covered by
aprons and boiler suits. And the
garlands are no more than cheap plastic representations. I suppose the only bit of authenticity is the
smell. The majority of the Martians don’t seem to be as excited as they once
were by us tourists and seem to sit or lounge around the spaceport as if they
owned the place. I mean, good God you
have to work to get your Trip Adviser stars. Since the mining companies found
those huge natural deposits of cocoa below the southern ice caps. They seem to
exist on chocolate based confectionary that they consume in those little
cafes... what do they call them? Mars
Bars? Getting above themselves, that’s
what I think.
No, Mars is no longer what it once was as a destination so
those of us who write about such things have been exploring the less visited
parts of the Solar System.
After a quick tour around the outer reaches of the Kuiper
belt and the minor planets I had really had enough. Take it from me Pluto is an entirely dismal place, nothing but frozen wilderness.
I mean once you’ve seen one methane lake or suffered one carbon dioxide
snowstorm then you’ve seen the lot. And
given that they’re plunged in darkness for billions of years at a time, the
night life is as dismal as any part of Yeovil on a wet Saturday. It just ain't worth the eighteen year round trip. And it’s all owned by Martians. What in God’s name are they doing out there?
No, I wanted a planet with a bit of pizzaz. A bit of get up go without having yet been
overwhelmed by overweight and over there Earthies. That’s why I’ve just got back from Venus.
Now, I’m not saying that it’s perfect.
Still a bit primitive but definitely an air of exclusivity. One seems to be above the rat race. In fact you are literally for the floating
hotels of Venus are great multicoloured blimps hanging in the dense
carbon-dioxide atmosphere far above the surface which is hot enough to melt
lead. And I mean that literally. I mean it is literally hot enough to melt
lead. The scientists say it is caused by
the sort of runaway greenhouse effect that we’re running into on earth. But, as with everything Earthside we are
centuries behind these pacemakers. The
blimp hotels are all owned and run by Earthsiders though so we have the best of
both worlds, clean towels and linen as well as the deliciously hot Venusian
atmosphere. These great ships are more
like enormous clouds, up to five miles across so plenty of room to avoid that
execrable family from Swindon with the kids who should have been put down for
school on Saturn at birth so that they would not be running up and down the
aisles of the shuttle demanding space cola.
Or preferably put down altogether.
God, if they are going to be the visitors of the future then this isn’t
going to last for long. Them or the
Martians. So book now for Venus. There
ain’t going to be anywhere else to go.
