James Delingpole at the Edinburgh climate march

 

I recently read James Delingpole’s book: ‘Watermelons, How Environmentalists are killing the planet, destroying the economy and stealing your children’s future’. This is a book that (in the second half at least) deals almost exclusively in deranged rhetoric, dubious theories, and half-baked conspiracy theories, which instead of taking the form of a quaint children’s novel, instead take the form of hilarious ejaculations every several lines regarding the attempts of “Nazis” and “Communists” and “Stalinists” to destroy our way of life, due to their silly ideas, and not so honourable intentions.

(Of course if true, this would be quite an extraordinary alliance, but let’s come back to that.)

Since Delingpole’s book deals more with fantasy than with fact, I’ve decided to write a little story of my own to inform, educate and entertain.

On a frigid mid-winters morning, a crowd of barbarians were gathering to shake the gates of Rome. Several hundred Teetotal Trotskyites, Feckless Fabians, Silly Socialists, Sinister Stalinists, Murderous Maoists, and filthy, filthy hippies were gathered: reeking of Eastern philosophies, with ingrained dirt beneath their scabby fingernails, and with the utopia of cleaner energy sources burning like madness in their eyes.

The wind ghosted eerily through the naked trees whose bare branches extended above us like the embrace of an awakened skeleton, no doubt a dire harbinger of a ‘day of reckoning’, sure to be included in the Corbyn manifesto. The trees seemed to be shivering, not from cold, but from the unwarranted embraces they were receiving from the hippies below.

Edinburgh’s open spaces, ringed by ugly, modern concrete buildings were like a terrifying window into a future of low-energy light bulbs and sustainable industrial practices.

I, James Delingpole, WW2 hero, Cold War Spy and most recently Telegraph blogger, stood frozen with fear that I might catch germs, and lost no time in beating off with a trusty truncheon any hippy that came too close.

This mob carried hundreds of banners aloft, declaring allegiance to one crazed death cult after another: The Woodland Trust, Iona Community Group, the Fife Green Party et cetera.

My ears twitched back flat against my skull, and my quivering hand at once dropped my truncheon into the mud. The drums had started.

A sickening, indomitable rhythm filled the park, and the barbarians around me began to pulsate, a common energy running through them all, rising and rising, into a frenzy of stomping feet, clapping hands and gap-year dreadlocks flying through the air.

To my terror, it soon spread to me, and I felt a primal energy rising to the fore, something long hidden and repressed, longing to break free.

I began clapping my hands, stomping my feet, and rolling my head round and round, with eyes swivelled to the back of my head and my tongue gargling demonically.

“Right on, dude!” one of them said to me, and I just smiled, letting the love run through me.

The drums were reaching fever pitch now, and an unspoken desire unified the whole crowd, which now surged forward as one, over the muddy fields, and as it reached the first buildings by the edge of the park they broke like waves against a rocky cliff, filtering into every nook and crevice of this once great city.

Shop fronts were torn out, hard-working entrepreneurs dragged naked through the streets, and British values trampled upon repeatedly in some kind of sick leftist ritual.

Soon the virus spread all over these islands, consuming every last inch of this sceptered isle in blood, fire, and a soft, warm, fuzzy communitarian feeling, propagated by endless tax rises, and a concerted effort to regulate things.

It was made law for every garden to carry a wind turbine, especially in those places where it ruined the view.

The cabinet was done away with, and replaced by a round-table council formed of Rowan Atkinson, Emma Thompson, Richard Curtis and others.

At the head of it all, driving every mass recycling initiative, and every rich person-hunt, was our Supreme Leader, James Delingpole.

Wherever he went, he inspired confidence with his revolutionary fervour, and impressive physical demeanour made of his warlike face-paint, his army boots, full camo, dragon tattooed arms and a cigar that seemed permanently lodged in his mouth.

And the people hailed him.

Having said all this, it would be remiss of me to skip over the first 5 or 6 chapters, which I can say, in all seriousness, challenged my views and forced me to question issues that I considered resolved. I came to the realisation that the science behind man-made climate change is not quite as solid as it might be; the book overall shook me out of my intellectual complacency and laziness, and made me look things up for myself, and if it did the same for others of my political persuasion, then I consider it to be a worthwhile effort.

But the author should know that I took this book on almost as a public service- I thought it my duty to challenge myself, and to give those I disagree with a fair hearing. He should also know that I was impeded in this public service by the his unstintingly childish and partisan style of writing, which doesn’t so much tend towards hyperbole as cling to it.

There are a great many people who might of read this book, and indeed should read this book, but didn’t or won’t because they are immediately put off by the author’s dogged refusal to see his adversaries as anything other than Bond villains.

Happy New Year.

 

 

 

 

 

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