Wednesday, 30 September 2015

Guest post from Little Jimmy Dellingpile

Wow, crickey! What an amazing week.  Not only am I now the climate expert of choice to The Sun, which is apparently a newspaper even though you can read it without your arms aching it's so small, but now I've been invited to write an occasional column for the internationally renowned science blogger, Catmando.  Whizzo.

Actually, I feel a bit of a wet bob in all this science malarkey. When I went to school, a public one to keep me away from the hoi polloi (though you don't need to be told that hoi polloi already contains the definite article), we didn't do stinks, as the masters called science, because that might mean we would actually be able to contribute anything to practical life. Instead, we studied Shakespeare who describes the medieval warm period at length, from personal experience. "Shall I compare you to a sunny day," which I think you will agree, is a perfect summary of the entire Mini Ice Age which lasted from sometime during the Renaissance until about a week ago last Tuesday, when the Thames last froze over and there was what is known as an Ice Fair. as we all know, mums go to Ice Fair.

It was at public school that I was fag to Chrissie Boy Monckton, the jazz trumpeter who later found fame as Screaming Lord Monckton, founder of the Stupid Party that was perrennial loser of deposits at hundreds of by and general elections until he decided to take up a teaching post in Australia and finally got out of wearing tight trousers.  It was while ragging with His Eminence that I learned of the global conspiracy to make ex-public school boys, like myself, the Good Lord and Christopher Bookish, look incredibly ignorant.  In fact, there has been no significant rise in the level of our scientific credibility since 1996, or 1997, or perhaps even 2001, according to Christopher. That's Lord Monckton, not the slightly plebeian Bookish.

While I mention Monckton, I should add that,me hen the balloon goes up, when the ship comes in, when the time comes, when the tree tops glisten, if I have to be in a shithole digging, there is no one I'd rather be digging shit with than my old fag-master Viscont Biscuit of Benchmark. That man knows how to shovel shit.

But I get ahead of myself. It's a long time from school until I became an expert on the climate. In fact, I had to read a lot more novels, some of them by women writers like George Eliot and Thomas Hardy, and a lot more poetry in order to become an expert in something so scientific as climate. In fact, I only have to draw the curtains in the morning to take in my fill of climate. As we know, climate always changes and always will. In fact, sometimes the climate can be chilly when I go for my cold shower at 5am and yet very mild indeed for the time of year by lunch when my butler brings me my Earl Grey and a small finger biscuit. And, to prove how wrong those so called climate scientists, who are in the pay of Big Thermometer, because it is sometimes distinctly brisk again by the time I take my afternoon scone in the drawing room in the commercial break while Countdown is on (this is the only programme I watch on the socialist Channel 4 because Monckton and I compete to see who can come up with the longest Latin word out of four vowels and five consonants. We don't bother with the numbers round because retain an accountant whose purpose is to keep track of the numbers).  And that has happened in Central England since time immemorial, or records began, whichever is longer.
Not another cat video

The thing I am proudest of is my book, Watercress: Why Environmentalistas Are Commie Bastards. It took me a couple of weekends to research because the GCSE geography kid who went to Slough library and read a few books on the red menace and showed me how to use this infra web thing (did you know there is an entire site for people who have film their cats doing humoursous thing, and other sites for pizza delivery boys to get lessons in carnal desires?) and almost all of a Thirsday afternoon to dictate to my secretary. It is my opus pistorum. At least it was the proudest thing, even more so than my series of novels about a war hero named Custard, until I became the Sun's climate expert.

And the best thing of all, I still haven't got the faintest clue about climate.

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