Like many Scots, I am proud of my country's role in Earth's understanding of outer space. When it first dawned on me as a child that the most important member of Captain James T Kirk's Starship Enterprise was Scottish, I was bursting with pride. Neither do you get to have names such as Neil Armstrong or John Glenn unless there is a significant quotient of Scots blood in you. And when it was revealed many years later that Obi-Wan Kenobi too was Scottish, well… our place in cosmology was finally secured. There have even been as yet unconfirmed reports that Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, had a copy of Robert Burns's poems with him (possibly the Kilmarnock edition).

All of this engendered a real love of outer space in me – and that gnawing feeling that we might not be alone. This was manifest in all sorts of curious ways that have left me to conclude that me, spacemen and the planets are all in alignment.

The first song I ever learned was Aiken Drum, the man with the comestible-laden coat who lived on the moon. The first rock concert I ever attended was at the Glasgow Apollo, so called because it could only ever properly be appreciated if you were at the space-cadet stage of intoxication. Neither was it any coincidence that the band I'd chosen to see on my Apollo debut was UFO. One of my favourite rock classics is Montrose's Space Station Number 5, and even now I am haunted by Sammy Hagar's ethereal and yet prescient lyrics:

The future's in the skies above;

The heavens unfold;

A new star is born;

Space and time makin' love

I even took to filling my science class daydreams with thoughts on what might transpire if Scotland had ever launched its own rocket to the moon. Glasgow, being the city that funds the rest of Scotland, would obviously get to provide the three astronauts. The astronaut training programme would begin and end with them. The user's toolkit would, of course, contain a big red warning that it would be dangerous to open the window for the purposes of having a quick cigarette. There would be a special tube in the lining of the space suit for a smoker to use so that he wouldn't have to remove his helmet.

There are good, commonsense reasons for the brevity of the Scottish space programme. Why, having visited the moon once, would we want to do so again and again and again with the concomitant waste of billions of pounds of taxpayers' money just so that we could stick it right up the Russians' fundaments?

Best simply to have a poke around, take a few soil samples and check out whether space and vodka are a healthy mix before leaving a note in three languages for any of our inter-planetary cousins who might stumble across it.

This would include a few addresses of key Scottish people and a cheery sign-off asking them to get in touch any time they liked. "Our strata is your strata" sort of thing. And no one would need concern themselves about the aliens popping by and finding that all the names on the lunar message were long deid. The space/time continuum would ensure that they would all be alive when the visitation occurred.

If it was up to me, one of the languages on the note would be the Gaelic, the most compelling evidence we have to date that alien beings from outer space might once have walked our planet. The existence of the kilt, all things tartan and people who collect Munros are quite telling in their own way too.

So could any of us really have been that surprised when it was reported last month that sightings of UFOs over Scotland had recently reached an all-time high? Thousands of people from every type of background, by no means all of them howling with the drink, simply cannot each be mistaken.

It is quite obvious to me that there is something about Scotland that attracts our galactic neighbours. Perhaps some of the wee beings and creations stoating around the business end of Sauchiehall Street at the weekend really are extraterrestrials all trying to get back in contact with the mother ship.

Perhaps there is a million-year-old spaceship buried in the Campsies with a couple of spacemen strapped in waiting for their Martian chums to come and find them, like Stephen King's Tommyknockers.

Happily, an opportunity to ponder on Scotland's role in space presents itself in Glasgow (where else?) this week. It's the UK Space Conference, which, among other things, will ask what should be the limit of our dreams. The limit of mine is that in a parallel universe Scotland win World Cups and Pele was a shite footballer. Isn't that what keeps most of us going? According to some of the delegates, we'll soon be sending thousands of people at a time in giant spaceships to colonise Mars. It's a scenario spookily predicted by Deep Purple with their majestic 1972 opus, Space Truckin'.

Nevertheless, I am troubled at some of the possibilities that may reveal themselves when travel along the intergalactic highway becomes as commonplace as a week in Magaluf. By now, everyone knows that if Scotland gains her independence then England will be consigned to a future of endless Tory rule. The ability to send massive space cruise liners on a solar peregrination would solve the problem of overcrowded jails at a stroke. Being England, they'd be colonising blameless wee planets all over the shop on the pretext of national security and telling us they are harbouring al-Qaida and space weapons of mass destruction.

By this time, of course, the Tories will be in coalition with Ukip, so all immigrants better start learning the words to Fly Me to the Moon because that's where they'll all be going.