By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who will see Count Binface hanged
AS I gazed out at the yellow grass, the parched rhododendrons, the merciless sun yesterday I had one comforting thought: so much for climate change.
For, difficult as this summer has been for those of us with three-acre gardens who can’t complain about hosepipe bans because privatised utilities are good, it’s at least laid that nonsense to rest.
Kemi’s certainly chosen the right moment to purge Net Zero MPs. Idiots, hoodwinked into believing a childish theory about CO2 build-up any child who spent the 1970s coughing under a table in a smoke-filled saloon bar could disprove.
I have never seen a sky so clearly saying ‘bring back fracking’. A sun relentlessly, hour after hour, beaming out the uselessness of solar power. Our burning forests sending up the smoke signal ‘It was a hoax’.
Britain’s broken records for heat? Hurray! What, broken records aren’t to be celebrated like they were in happier days when ethnofascist Norris McWhirter was a role model for children?
We’ve all loved this summer. I can even forgive the underclasses having a year off race riots because they needed the break. We all do. After decades of lies climate change proved as full of shit as our much-diminished rivers.
It’s over. Drop it like Greta did when she moved on to Gaza. The fairy tale of global warming is told. Time to wake up and roll pollution limits back to where they were in the 1760s.
Sorry, climate change. But you’ve been humiliated by the one thing you can always rely on: the British weather.
