What the growth in Scottish oil and gas exports means for Scottish independence

£8.2bn for 2011-2012.

Oil and gas industry exports in Scotland reached £8.2bn for 2011-2012, according to new figures released by the Scottish Council for Development and Industry. It is the fourteenth consecutive year of the growth in the sector.  

Beyond the sales of hydrocarbons, offshore equipment, construction and drilling services now account for almost half of sales around the world. Speaking at the Offshore Technology Conference in Houston, Texas, Scottish Energy Minister Fergus Ewing said:

“The Scottish Government recognises the substantial contribution that the oil and gas industry makes to our economy. We are working with the industry to continue to strengthen Scotland's position as a global leader in the sector and these figures mark further growth in this important part of our economy. There are huge opportunities open to us internationally, and we are determined to make the most of them.”

The biggest trading partner for Scotland remained North America, with sales reaching $4bn last year, an increase of 2.8 per cent. Sales to Africa came in second, growing 5.9 per cent for the year. Other growth markets are also being targeted by the industry, but according to Danny Cusick, President, Americas, Scottish Development International, North America will remain the country’s number one priority for the foreseeable future:

"While other markets such as Brazil, Africa, the Middle East and Australia are increasingly becoming international priorities for Scotland, North America remains by far our top and most important region for exports. Continued investment by oil and gas companies from the U.S. and Canada is crucial to Scotland's long-term economic growth."

Supporting nearly 200,000 jobs in Scotland, plus an estimated 24 billion barrels of oil still to be produced from the North Sea, the national government’s support for this industry will add further fuel to the Scottish independence debate. The announcement comes after first minister Alex Salmond last month tried to bolster the case for independence by predicting a mini oil boom worth £57bn in tax revenues by 2017-18, but was quickly accused of cherry picking optimistic forecasts by his opponents.

However, with this latest announcement, plus the UK government’s Department of Energy and Climate Change predicting oil prices of more than $150 a barrel by 2020, Salmond’s detractors could yet be proved wrong.

Photograph: Getty Images

Mark Brierley is a group editor at Global Trade Media

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war