Tag: Monckton

Monckton in Australia: Picnic at Hanging Sock

Plimer’s bronzed body arced through the brutal Brisbane air and knifed into the pool with a barely perceptible splash — no belly flops for the silver-haired Adonis of climate scepticism. Monckton, in solar topee and camouflage Army & Navy shorts, clutched his glass of gin & tonic and tried to repress boarding school thoughts. He glanced over at Lady Monckton, deep in her Jilly Cooper and even deeper into a bottle of Queensland chardonnay, oblivious. It was a Hockney scene, the Laird thought, bar the gaudy birds screeching loudly in the trees. Or was that the other guests? He shuddered. Australia really was a fatal shore.

Old Scrotum, Monckton’s wrinkled retainer, sat under an umbrella with a drinks trolley at his side, ready to deliver refills and ice as required. After the first hectic days of the Laird’s great Australian adventure a little peace and quiet was welcome. Plimer was cavorting in the sun, demonstrating that Australian knack for healthy activity that had bred a nation of Shane Warnes. As his august head popped out of the water, Plimer shook his lengthy silver locks, scattering water like a labrador in a paddling pool, his large brown eyes focussed firmly on the Laird. Scrotum was watching the dynamic developing between the two new stars of the denialist southern cross. On stage they were undeniably effective, Plimer galloping Gish-like through a hundred objections to climate science, while Monckton invented polar bear statistics, miscalculated climate sensitivity, and preened in the adoring attention of the elderly audiences. Was there something emerging from the laird’s past, something Scrotum had never seen? He scratched his ear, sipped at his water, and furrowed his brow.

“G’day, you bastards!” Peace fled up towards the cockatoos in the trees, who objected loudly as Carter strode across the hot tiles, a six pack of XXXX clutched under one arm, the other waving a cork-fringed hat. On stage and in public Carter was a mild-mannered, well spoken man, but in private and when he let his hair down (which he did with great vigour and frequency), he adopted a demeanour reminiscent of Crocodile Dundee.

“Chris, this hat’s for you. I know how much you like a hat. This’ll keep the flies at bay,” Carter boomed. The cockatoos hushed respectfully, but a fruit bat lolloped away in disgust. Lady Monckton pulled her hat down over her eyes.

The Laird lifted his aviator sunglasses (with leather blinkers), and smiled faintly. “Bob, good to see you. How was the drilling?”

“Great. Got a bloody long core — world record, somebody said. Should allow us to track sea level changes off New Zealand for the last 35 million years. That’ll show them there’s nothing to worry about this century — it’s all happened before, so it can’t be our fault.” Scrotum noted the glint in Carter’s eyes, a fanatical flash of pinhole pupil that would have worried anyone not familiar with the inner circles of climate inactivism.

Carter stretched out on the lounger next to the Laird, and Plimer pranced over to join them. The gentle susurration of tinnies being cracked filled the air. Scrotum went over to the barbie and lit the gas. It would soon be time for jumbo prawns.

****

The flight to Adelaide was a nightmare. The Laird’s insistence on carrying his childhood talisman in hand luggage — a stuffed champion racing guinea pig left him by his father — had caused more than raised eyebrows at airport security. They’d had to x-ray it twice, and remove its underpants before it was allowed on board. Then the Aussie academic they’d debated in Brisbane, the one with the shiny pate and fixation on nuclear power had been seated right behind the Laird. As soon as the plane was in the air, he’d started picking away at Monckton, questioning his calculations on climate. He even had the bad taste to mention Curry and Clow. Plimer — a colleague at the University of Woolloomooloo — had to intervene to prevent fisticuffs. For the remainder of the flight, the Moncktons had to dodge peanuts the Aussie was flicking over the seat backs. Scrotum, deep in a tape of Michael Mann’s greatest hits on his ancient Sony Walkman, could only smile.

****

Plimer insisted they stay at his country estate, only an hour or two from Adelaide by light aircraft. The Laird had not been keen, but Plimer had been insistent, and the good Lady M didn’t object, so they went. Scrotum wasn’t pleased. There was no room for the Laird’s eleven battered suitcases in the Cessna, so he had been instructed to ensure their safe arrival. Ten hours overland in an ancient Landrover without air conditioning was not Scrotum’s idea of an Australian holiday, still less when the driver looked like Dame Edna’s effeminate brother but lacked the great woman’s charm.

Scrotum seldom swore, but as the short wheelbase Defender bounced over yet another fallen gum branch, the wrinkled retainer’s equilibrium was finally disturbed. “Stop this bloody thing, will you!”

The driver spat out of the window and did as he was told. Scrotum opened the door, jumped out onto the dusty track and started stretching. After a moment of stationary bliss, he lowered his eyes from the great blue sky overhead and noticed he was being watched. Several large kangaroos were approaching the Landrover. One was licking its lips, and its long tail was beating the ground with obvious intent. On the other side of the track, a group of koalas were clambering slowly down out of the eucalypts. He looked down at his feet, and jumped backwards. A very large lizard was flicking its tongue at his shoes. A kookaburra laughed to see such fun, but Scrotum was back in the car before Matilda could have taken a single waltz step.

****

Dundiggin’ lacked the crenellations of Tannochbrae Manor, but was undeniably well-situated. A small hobby mine in the back garden produced gems of sufficient quality to keep Plimer in tailored shirts and shiraz. The view of the dusty hills towards the interior of the great dry continent was stunning, but the swimming pool was empty and the air-conditioning restricted to large fans that creaked alarmingly over the beds. Monckton had nearly fainted when, during a break in the long and drunken welcome barbie, he’d relieved in himself in the dunnie and found he was being watched from the bowl by a little green frog. He insisted that Scrotum take the sheets off his bed to ensure there were no nasty surprises for his good Lady. There was a rather long centipede, but nothing poisonous.

In the small tin shed under the water tank at the side of the main house, Scrotum stared at the ceiling and gave the geckos names. Mycroft had warned him it would be warm, but this was ridiculous. It was going to be a long night.

****

The early morning heat was breathtaking. Plimer insisted this was normal for summer, but the radio was warning of extreme heatwave conditions and catastrophic fire danger for most of South Australia. Monckton thanked the lord (the other one, obviously) for his solar topee and tucked into his breakfast with vigour. Lady M misted herself with lavender water and stayed in the shade. They had a day to kill before getting the show back on the road in Adelaide with three Probus Club sessions and an evening debate at the Retired Cricketer’s Association club rooms in McLaren Vale. Plimer wanted to take the Laird out into the bush “to get a feel for the place”.

“Do we have to, Ian? It’s bloody hot, y’know. Not at all the sort of thing I’m used to. Scotch mist, yes. Occasional snow, of course, but this is a different planet.” Monckton didn’t sound keen.

“Don’t be a wowser, Chris. You can bring old Scrote along to carry the water, make lunch and frighten the flies.” Scrotum shuddered.

****

Plimer drove a slightly newer Landrover than Scrotum had ridden in the day before, but it was just as crusted in dust and scarred by hard use on rough roads. The back was full of the tools of a geologist: hammers of all sizes, two shovels, and an esky full of beer. Plimer swung himself up into the driver’s seat, but Monckton was nowhere to be seen. “Chris!” he yelled. “Get your arse in gear.”

“Won’t be long.” Monckton’s muffled voice was coming from the house. In the guest bedroom he was struggling with his new body armour. He’d tested it with the razor-sharp koala claws he kept in the library at Tannochbrae for defacing Nature, and it was definitely better than the stuff he’d had in Copenhagen. He had no intention of ending up naked wrapped around a statue of a mermaid again.

In the tin shed, Scrotum stuffed the satellite phone back into his rucksack, strapped Mycroft’s GPS watch to his wrist, and headed for the kitchen to pick up the Laird’s picnic lunch — cucumber and potted shrimp sandwiches. Plimer was planning to barbecue sausages on the bonnet of the Landrover, but Scrotum doubted that Monckton would go for that.

****

Plimer drove like a man possessed, but it wasn’t entirely clear what was possessing him. Monckton feared it was some terrible antipodean madness, a consequence of too much sun, breathing dust from birth, and compulsory leg spin lessons at kindergarten, but Scrotum suspected something rather more schoolboy — a desperate desire to convince his new best friend that he was really a man’s man. As that man’s man’s friend’s man, Scrotum feared he’d seen something like it before, when the Laird had tried a similar tactic with Dennis Thatcher. Quite why he had thought he could drink Margaret’s consort under the Number Ten table, and why he had thought it might be a good idea in the first place remained a mystery, but the redoubtable liver of Mr Thatcher had been more than a match for the young Laird. It had taken Scrotum the best part of a day to get the diced carrots out of the deep blue shagpile.

****

They took lunch in the dappled shade provided by a grove of coolibah trees. The only birdlife they’d seen for miles had been an occasional cockatoo. Monckton asked rather nervously about birds of prey, but Plimer laughed. “Still worried about eagles, eh Chris? We’ve got a few hawks, but nothing that would dent your hat. Relax, out here nothing can go wrong.”

The two gentlemen scientists reclined on the picnic rug sharing a bottle of chilled Adelaide Entre Deux Legs and fell to discussing the weighty matter of climate sensitivity. Monckton, moved by the heat and the intensely alcoholic golden brew, began a lengthy peroration. Scrotum excused himself, and went for a walk. Once on the far side of the trees, he tapped a button on his watch and switched on the satellite phone.

“Scrotum to Wollumboola Base. Come in Wollumboola Base.” Flannery was obviously sleeping off a long lunch, because it took him a minute or two to answer. Once awake, though, the great Australian was brisk and business-like. “You’ll need to keep the bastards there for 15 minutes, Scrotum, can you manage that?”

“I believe I can, sir, I believe I can.” He trotted back to the car and unloaded another bottle of wine and a box of chocolate-dipped yabbies. The Laird had become deeply enamoured of the strange confection. “As great a contribution to the world as Clarrie Grimmett’s flipper” he told Plimer as he chomped.

****

“What’s this place called, Ian?”

“The local people call it Hanging Sock. No idea why. Some kind of Christmas cargo cult perhaps?”

The air was still, the heat oppressive, the silence absolute until an unearthly throbbing ululation began in the trees. Monckton sat bolt upright, a yabbie clinging tenaciously to his lip. Plimer’s sang froid seemed to desert him. Scrotum retreated to the Landrover and watched as a small band of the local people emerged from the scrub, their faces painted in strange pointilliste patterns, spears pointing at the two men on the rug. They halted and stood motionless as the didgeridoo chorus grew louder. A cloud of dust appeared on the low ridge in front of the car, and it seemed to be approaching at great pace.

Monckton was shivering. Plimer tried to assert himself. “Look mate, it’s just the local people giving us a cultural welcome. Strange lot, but there’s not a bad bone in their bodies. Just don’t flinch. That’s an insult.”

By now, it was obvious that the dust was being raised by a mob of large grey kangaroos. Scrotum thought the one in front looked familiar, only this time it was wearing boxing gloves. Several large lizards scampered along in the marsupial vanguard, and out of the coolibah trees a crack squad of hit and run koalas were making a flanking movement. Scrotum locked the car doors and pretended to be deep in a book.

Plimer stood up and walked towards the tribesmen. They stared impassively at him, showing no sign of listening to his cheery greetings and offers of beer. Monckton tried to stay close, but the lead kangaroo got in the way and biffed him on the head.

“You rotter! You scoundrel! You cad!” Monckton was incandescent with rage, and there being no eagles in sight, he tried a secret move his father had shown him during the hamster hunts of his childhood. If he could only clap both hands over the kangaroos ears at the same instant, the bugger’s eardrums would explode and that would be that. He missed. The kangaroo didn’t. Monckton went down in a flail of leathery tails and flying fists. The last thing Scrotum saw was a bunch of evil-looking koalas trussing both men.

The didgeridoos fell silent, and the dust began to settle. All signs of activity disappeared along with the men. Hanging Sock was deserted, Scrotum alone in the car with his thoughts. What would would Lady M say when he returned alone? Would she even notice? Would the Laird make his first Probus gig in the morning?

Perhaps not.

[Some translation may be necessary for those not familiar with the cultural and linguistic histories of Australia and its former colonial masters, hints available here. No marsupials were harmed in the telling of this story. Clarrie Grimmett is just one more in a long line of New Zealanders who were adopted as Australian because they were good at something. For connoisseurs of spin bowling, I recommend following the link under Shane Warne.]

This is the fourth Monckton tale.

Previous episodes:

  1. Monckton & The Case Of The Missing Curry,
  2. Mycroft Monckton Makes Mischief,
  3. Something Potty In The State Of Denmark.

New dimensions in earth science uncovered by NZ blogger

Exciting new concepts in earth systems science are emerging from the fertile intellect of one of Hot Topic’s most diligent readers, Ian Wishart. Either that, or he’s demonstrated (again) that he doesn’t understand what he’s writing about. In this astonishing post, published yesterday, he considers something he calls the “feedback warming effect”, and attempts to use a new paper on carbon cycle feedbacks to support Monckton’s nonsense on climate sensitivity.

Just as Chicken Little pontificates about the minutiae of a Monckton allegation about warming amplification being overestimated by six of seven times, along comes a new study in Nature that compared real data with the computer models and found CO2’s feedback warming effect has been exaggerated in the models by five or six times.

Monckton’s TV lies are not mentioned — minutiae to Wishart, obviously — but he then points to this paper: Ensemble reconstruction constraints on the global carbon cycle sensitivity to climate, Frank et al, Nature, 2010; 463 (7280) as if it offers support for Monckton. It doesn’t, as I shall explain, but is Wishart wrong about Monckton, wrong about Frank et al, or both?

 

Monckton’s “paper”, Climate Sensitivity Reconsidered, is about what it says it is — the global temperature response to (by definition) a doubling of CO2 in the atmosphere. Monckton tries, and fails, to show that this response is small — he claims under 1ºC at doubling. Wishart refers to climate sensitivity as “warming amplification”, which — to be charitable — is a terminological inexactitude.

Frank et al, on the other hand, is the latest effort to pin down how much extra CO2 will be released from the various parts of the carbon cycle as global temperature increases, and suggests that it could be smaller than had been expected [Science Daily]. This “extra” CO2 clearly is an amplification of warming caused by human emissions, and it’s good news that this may be smaller than expected. Wishart describes the study thus:

…[it] compared real data with the computer models and found CO2’s feedback warming effect has been exaggerated in the models by five or six times.

What did Frank et al actually do? Physics World describes their method:

… David Frank and colleagues at the Swiss Federal Research Institute in Birmensdorf, the University of Bern and the Gutenberg University in Mainz have performed the most comprehensive analysis of carbon dioxide and temperature data yet. The team studied the period 1050–1800 AD, when manmade emissions were small enough to be ignored. Carbon dioxide levels were determined from three Antarctic ice cores. Average temperatures in the northern hemisphere were derived from nine different “proxy reconstructions” of temperature – average temperatures derived mostly from tree rings and the isotopic content of ice cores.

No comparisons with models, but a lot of use of paleoclimate data — you know, the tree ring stuff you find in those “debunked” hockeystick blades — and ice cores (and in Wishart-world they can’t be trusted, because Wishart relies on the “work” of EG Beck). Frank and his co-workers use this data to try to work out how much extra CO2 is released when the planet warms — and find that instead of the 40 ppmv/ºC found in previous empirical studies, it was more likely to be in the range 2–21 ppmv/°C, with 8 ppmv/°C being the most likely. The BBC asked Frank what this means for model projections of temperature change this century:

He said that if the results his paper were widely accepted, the overall effect on climate projections would be neutral.
“It might lead to a downward mean revision of those (climate) models which already include the carbon cycle, but an upward revision in those which do not include the carbon cycle.
“That’ll probably even itself out to signify no real change in the temperature projections overall,” he said.

Wishart doesn’t seem to have much of a handle on carbon cycle feedbacks and what they mean for model projections, but he’s canny enough to spot that someone might quibble with his penetrating analysis, so he includes this caveat:

A note for the pedants: the Monckton claim and the Nature paper are approaching a similar problem (magnitude of feedback warming) from slightly different directions (Monckton’s comment relates to rise in temp caused by doubling of CO2, whilst the Nature paper examines the increase in CO2 caused by a rise in temperature), but the general thrust of the arguments is similar: extra carbon dioxide is not going to cause as much feedback as previously claimed.

Clear as mud, Ian. This pedant would point out that the problems being considered are not the same and the “general thrust of the arguments” is not at all similar. Monckton isn’t talking about “feedback warming”, he’s talking about warming caused by a fixed increase (by definition a doubling over pre-industrial conditions) in CO2. He wants us to believe that the temperature response to increasing CO2 is tiny. On the other hand, Frank et al’s conclusions are based on linking small changes in global temperature over the period from 1050 to 1800 to small increases and decreases in CO2 levels.

In other words, if Monckton is right, then Frank et al’s methodology can’t work. Far from supporting Monckton, Frank et al add yet more reasons why he has to be wrong. Meanwhile, Wishart is wrong on all counts. I wonder how such an expert climate commentator could have failed to notice? Perhaps he should get his stuff peer reviewed. Where’s Monckton when you need him…?

Monckton, “high priest of climate sceptics”, tells lies on TV NZ

Christopher, Viscount Monckton of Brenchley (a nice little village in Kent with good pubs, at least when I was growing up nearby) has arrived safely in Australia and embarked on the hectic round of talks and media opportunities that is his birthright and expectation wherever he goes. On Monday morning, my spies tell me he popped up on TV One’s Breakfast show, and managed to get away with an egregious falsehood.

Continue reading “Monckton, “high priest of climate sceptics”, tells lies on TV NZ”

Popgun for hire: A$20,000

Christopher, Viscount Monckton of Brenchley, the man who put the pier in peer review, is on his way to Australia at the end of January to make “a barnstorming three-week lecture-tour” designed to reassure audiences in major cities that “‘Global Warming’ is Not a Global Crisis“. His fee? A$20,000 (£11,000), plus all flights and hotel accommodation for himself and his wife. The speaking tour, organised with the assistance of Australia’s Climate Sceptics Party, is expected to cost around A$100,000. Announcing the tour in a forum postin mid-December, the treasurer of the CSP was looking for money:

As you can understand, the cost of this exercise will be very substantial as we have to (and from) fly Lord Monkton (sic) to Australia, all his domestic travel and accommodation plus a “stipend” of $20,000.

Our aim is to cover these costs from donations from individuals, appropriate associations and corporations; we expect the required total to be of the order of $100,000. We would like to keep the cost of admission to Monckton’s lectures at around $20 so as to maximise the number of people that will come to hear him.
We have had a number of offers of the order of $1,000 and would prefer donations to be of that order, but of course any amount is very welcome. Should there be a surplus, this, depending on the amount, will be given to Lord Monckton and/or the Climate Sceptics Party which is assisting with this project.

Sufficient funds were obviously forthcoming, because the tour was confirmed today at the Science and Public Policy Institute blog, Monckton’s personal digital fiefdom. Aussie sceptic Ian Plimer will accompany Monckton on his walkabout, which begins in Sydney on Jan 26th. Monckton also released the text of a letter to Aussie PM Kevin Rudd in which he offers “personal briefings on why “global warming” is a non-problem to you and other party leaders” during his trip. He explains in detail, and at enormous length, what he plans to do:

Nor is the IPCC’s great lie the only lie. If you will allow me to brief you and your advisers, I will show you lie after lie after lie after lie in the official documents of the IPCC and in the speeches of its current chairman, who has made himself a multi-millionaire as a “global warming” profiteer.

Monckton, of course, will only receive A$20,000 for his Aussie excursion — a mere pittance when a cursory check suggests that he usually charges at least £8,000 (A$14,400) for a single speaking engagement. Clearly Aussie sceptics drive a hard bargain. Two mysteries remain. Given the relatively recent plea for funds, who stepped up to the plate to support the tour? And why have New Zealand’s cranks not jumped at the chance of bringing the potty peer over here? I also find it rather suspicious that no mention is made of funding for Monckton’s manservant… I may have to dig a little deeper into the background of the tour. ;-)

[For really deep background refer to: Monckton & The Case Of The Missing Curry, Mycroft Mockton Makes Mischief, and Something Potty In The State Of Denmark]

Something potty in the state of Denmark

“Scrøtum! Where åre my bøøts?” The Laird was having trouble with the “Danish” accent he was affecting in an attempt to impress the natives. To the wrinkled retainer’s large but withered ears it sounded as though he’d been taking lessons from the Swedish Chef. Monckton’s exquisite English diction was hovering somewhere over the Baltic being mangled by a madman with a chopper. He was in dire need of a vøwel movement.

After the episode with Mycroft, all had been quiet on the climate front for a few weeks. Monckton did some desultory work on his cure for AIDS and shot a few pheasants from the security of the second-hand armoured car he had acquired to protect himself from attacks by birds of prey, but the Laird had recovered all of his normal confidence and poise following a few long phone conversations with his American sponsors. He’d spent most of the last week at Tannochbrae reading Danish history, and had been most struck by tales of the Nazi occupation during World War 2.

The trip to Copenhagen was turning out to be rather more exciting than Scrotum had expected, at least at this early stage. The Laird had been summoned by his American sponsors to perform at another of their climate meetings, and to be a general pain in the neck for the socialist billionaire conspiracy to force humanity back to the Stone Age. The little climate conference had passed quietly enough, with the exception of an elderly scientist who had insisted that the seas weren’t rising, and had taken to throwing salad forks at the audience when questioned by a journalist. He’d chucked the contents of a large bag of wooden implements at a Guardian writer (the Laird offering advice on range and elevation) before the questioners made their excuses and left. Monckton had glided over the incident in the blog provided for him by the Americans : “All was calm, rational scientific discussion among the world’s leading climate experts”, but he couldn’t avoid mentioning a salad fork.

The real fireworks came a day later, as Monckton began an address to a packed meeting. The audience got up and started berating him. The Laird was notably unfazed:

I used the old crowd-control trick of standing behind the Hitler Youth and talking quietly. The microphones were right where I wanted them, so I began reporting on that day’s progress in negotiating the world-government agreement that, if it is passed at Copenhagen, will shut down the economies and democracies of the West without affecting the climate in any measurable way.

The six people left in the room after the rabble left were moved to tears by the Laird’s eloquence, but that had the unfortunate effect of giving him an excess of confidence. Scrotum had seen rather too many of Monckton’s mad moments to be surprised, but when the Laird started accusing everyone in Copenhagen under the age of 25 of being members of the Hitler Youth it was obvious he was heading for trouble.

*****

Scrotum sniffed the air at the back of the hotel. The night was chilly, but a gentle breeze was wafting scents of smørgåsbord delights, mainly pickled herrings and remoulade sauce. The soft tak tak tak of Danes being polite to each other as they passed in the street renewed the wrinkled retainer’s faith in humanity, and in the giant wicker basket that had arrived that morning from the USA, a very large golden eagle glared balefully at the hand that was about to feed it scraps of liver.

“Aethon, my pretty, you’ll have work to do soon enough” Scrotum murmured. The eagle cocked an ear, and if raptors could smile, there would have been one on its bloodstained beak.

*****

As the UN conference staggered into its second week, the sheer weight of the unscientific evidence being hurled by Monckton and his American allies was beginning to have a visible effect. The Hitler Youth had sandbagged their stand to ward off attacks by the Laird, who had disgraced himself by giving Nazi salutes in their general direction and beating a young bearded lad around the head with a rolled-up copy of the UK Independence Party constitution. Only a swift intervention by the sprightly Fred Singer and his personal security consultant, famed New Zealand kung-fu exponent Bryan “British” Leyland, had prevented serious injury. Greenpeace operatives had foregone their traditional conference attire — polar bear outfits — in favour of suits and ties. Monckton’s sly ruse — walking up to shake hands, only to push warm chewing gum into their fur — was costing them a fortune in cleaning fees.

“I may be but one man against a global conspiracy” the Laird had told Scrotum while dressing for dinner, “but I will stop the march of this neo-Fascist movement, with its crude denigration of opponents, breaking-up of meetings, taxpayer-funded propaganda at every street corner, and vast, expensive Nuremberg Rallies such as that which is now taking place at the Bella Centre.”

Scrotum blinked impassively.

*****

The highlight of the peer’s Copenhagen trip was to be a public rally outside the Bella Centre. A crack team of German sceptics had converted a minivan into a portable speaking platform. The nondescript van would be parked in the street, the crowd would gather, eagerly looking forward to the free rollmops and Aquavit laid on by the Scaife Foundation, and then at an opportune moment — sun setting, TV crews arrived and filming — the back of the van would crack open like a Kinder egg, and Monckton would emerge on a modified lifting device (a deliberate parody of the moment in Gore’s sci-fi horror movie when the politician is raised up to point to the top of a giant graph). He would ascend into the night sky, his vibrant prose amplified by a powerful Tannoy system, his face lit by the beams from LED headlamp torches sported by the A team of sceptical scientists. Lindzen had been training them for weeks, and their choreographed light show was a Choi to behold.

All was going well. The crowd was gathering, the roll mops had been delivered, and the Laird had taken up his position in the van. After passing Monckton his pith helmet and Kevlar corset — he wouldn’t be seen out of doors without them since that business with the eagle — Scrotum scuttled away to a nearby street where a black van waited. It was the work of mere moments to open the back doors and undo the leather straps on the wicker cage. Aethon blinked in the street lights, and climbed onto Scrotum’s leather gauntlet. The retainer fitted the titanium tips to the eagle’s claws, raised his arm, and with a whispered “be gone, my pretty” sent the great bird flapping into the night sky.

*****

Aethon climbed high above the rooftops of Hans Christian Anderson’s city, and began to circle over the Bella Centre. He let out a piercing screech, but no one in the busy streets below heard. Others did. From all round Copenhagen, birds of prey began their final approach.

*****

Monckton’s great peroration was going mostly to plan. The van had cracked open as it should, but he’d had to deliver a swift kick to one half when it threatened to block his elevation. And who was the idiot who had turned the headlamps green? Lindzen looked unperturbed, but Monckton was sure it was sabotage by the bedwetters. He began to build towards his climax:

Those brave dissidents who have not yet had their meetings broken up by groups of savage goons are more and more openly saying that the nastiness that was National Socialism/Fascism/Communism now stalks the world again, in a new and more terrible form. This time, it is global. This time, leaders of once-democratic nations subscribe to its half-baked, unscientific notions and are themselves increasingly intolerant of anyone who dares to dissent.

The intolerance, of course, stems from the realization on the part of those behind the “global warming” scam that it is entirely false. It is always liars who have to shout loudest in the hope of temporarily prevailing over the truth.

James Hansen, a fully-paid-up member of the new regime, has notoriously called for anyone who disagrees with the new superstition to be put on trial for “high crimes against humanity”. Now, crimes against humanity are punishable by death, as Saddam Hussein discovered. So what Hansen is asking for is the judicial murder of those of his fellow-citizens who disagree with him – one of the unfailing hallmarks of Nazism and Fascism everywhere.

Monckton’s voice cracked with emotion as he forced out the words. He was approaching his closing remarks, and another light, this time from behind lit him up like a fat angel on the top of a leafless Christmas tree. The Laird paused, a little nervous. This wasn’t in the plan. Still, he must keep going.

Aethon’s claws struck him in the middle of his back, and broke through the Kevlar to his skin. Monckton screamed. Two more eagles grasped each shoulder, and a fifth grasped to the top of his helmet. He screamed again. The crowd gasped. Great wings flapped. Monckton’s vain attempts to hold on to his speaking platform were defeated by sparrow hawks lacerating his fingers. He slowly lifted into the starry sky, lit by the quivering beams provided by the cream of shocked (and appalled) sceptical science, his arms flapping ineffectively.

Mycroft turned to Scrotum. “Will they be gentle with him?”

Scrotum smiled. “No.”