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IN THE SUMMER of 1990, shortly after the Italia ‘90 World Cup – the one with Pavarotti, Nessun Dorma, and West Germany sending England packing in the semis, as the mother, brothers, and I were walking of an evening, bags of chips in hand, back to the Strathavon caravan park in Girvan where we were spending the weekend, we witnessed something we would never forget – something no one else would ever believe. Rising noiselessly over the grassy knoll ahead of us, rippling in a mirage-like haze, three giant black flying triangles cast their shadows over us as they passed so low over our heads we could almost reach up and touch them. On either side of us campers were standing at their awnings and by their static caravan doors staring agog at these weird and spookily silent alien shapes. Having already felt the consequences of exclaiming the f-word while watching Jaws, I opted instead for the more demure ‘Mam? Whit ur they?’ ‘Spacemen, son,’ she answered credulously in a whisper. When we arrived with uneaten chips at our caravan my dad, grandad, and ‘Big Mick fae Partick’ were communicating to one another in the musical tones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.