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.”

24 thoughts on “Something potty in the state of Denmark”

  1. Ho, ho ho, very droll.

    Because it’s Christmas Gareth, and in the spirit of the season, here’s a link to an article that indicates a possibly acceptable middle ground between our two positions. I’d be most interested in your, and your readers thoughts…

    “…Imagine a planet in which global warming was averted without the periodic need for thousands of people to fly around the world to promise to stop burning fossil fuels. Imagine no international conferences wrangling over the details of climate policy. Imagine entrusting the tough questions to a referee: Mother Earth…”

    1. Two huge problems with McKitrick’s tax on temperature idea (which he floated a couple of years ago, IIRC). Firstly, there’s a 30 year lag in the system’s “fast” response, so current temps do not reflect the full warming effect of current GHG loads. Secondly, there’s so much natural variability in the system that anything but long term means would be too volatile – and long term means don’t change except on long terms…

      Anyway, this thread should be kept for discussion of Monckton’s daft behaviour in Copenhagen. He’s now claiming that he didn’t start calling the protesters Hitler Youth, though video proves he did!

  2. “…Lord Monkton laying into the Climategate gang. What makes it (the YouTube clip) so potent is that he is quite bluntly calling them crooks, and calling anyone who still follows their fraudulent prophecies dupes and fools. He names names, and crimes. Yes, crimes. And yes, criminals. Criminals with names. Monkton does all this in his posh British public school voice. Nevertheless, you can almost see him doing that thing that fist fighters do, but with their beckoning hands rather than with their mouths, and pointing at their own chins. Come and get me! Give me your best shot! …”

    “A fag at Harrow”. Yes maybe Rob, but the names he names will have to either sue him or admit shameful defeat. I think he has helped achieve a tipping point, not the sort that you hope for of course, and the “dupes and crooks” are going to have to attempt to reclaim their tattered honour through the courts. If they don’t, then obviously their honour and reputations are irrecoverable.

    “…the old-school media are definitely, albeit belatedly and with much embarrassment and confusion, starting to notice all this…”

    Al Gore looking shamefaced and depressed in this morning’s Herald is an example. And Copenhagen failure will be another sign that the emergency is over.

    1. Suing Monckton would be an exercise in futility — and he knows it. All a court case would achieve is further publicity for the potty peer, and enrich a squad of lawyers.

      The man is a proven liar and hypocrite, worthy only of ridicule. That those who campaign against action view him as an asset says a great deal about them. Do you think it seriously improves the case to have Monckton trotting around Copenhagen accusing young Americans of being Hitler Youth? To my mind, it demonstrates rather nicely the paucity of the arguments on the crank side.

      The emergency is not over, as you put it. It’s only just beginning.

  3. “All a court case would achieve is further publicity for the potty peer, and enrich a squad of lawyers….”

    Quite wrong Gareth on all counts, and weak. Scientific ethical reputation and credibility is at stake, not to mention science careers. Many people within climate science circles must be as aghast as George Monbiot over the recent leaked/hacked material known as Climategate, and see the duplicity and fraud as discrediting and shameful.

    “The effects of the leaked emails from the University of East Anglia are not fading; if anything, the momentum behind this story is building…”

    1. Still sticking to the PR agenda, I see. The facts don’t matter, just the impression you think you can create.

      Doesn’t work here, only in the right wing echo chamber.

  4. Oh, come on, Mikh, next thing you’ll be telling us that Sarah Palin should be President of the USA…

    Lord Mocked On is a narcissist and a joke; if your “best shots” are his not-so-august personage and a handful of misquoted emails, then you really are lost in the wilderness of your own intestinal tract.

  5. To me the real question is:”What is Scrotum up to?”
    Does he act as an agent for the global environmentalist brotherhood, or does he just get a personal satisfaction out of seeing his Lord and Master being humiliated?

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