Last week, supposedly unprecedented spring wildfires raged across dry, bushy and exposed areas. On Monday, having dealt with serious incidents at Saddleworth Moor and Hundred Acre Wood, teams of specialised firefighters also attended the small piece of Shredded Wheat that lives on top of Andrew Neil’s head.
Dozens of grateful weevils were saved from certain death in the breakfast bisc inferno by the firefighters and rehoused in temporary accommodation in the nearby clumps of Andrew Neil’s ear hair, while his nostrils became emergency treatment centres for scorched pests.
Andrew Neil’s head wheat had begun smouldering when he heard that Penny Mordaunt MP had agreed to be filmed for This Week, making the case for Hard Brexit while swimming around a giant floating model of the UK in Liverpool’s Royal Albert Dock.
Neil’s morning bisc crown had crumbled during the blaze and so its remains were eaten as a This Week green room snack by Michael Portillo, who lapped up the wheaten fragments with warmed milk from his dish, like a pleased cat.
Nonetheless, weather women smiled cheerily on Tuesday as they announced the hottest British February on record. Their happiness perhaps tells you that the so-called “climate change” situation isn’t as serious as the doomsayers and gloom-mongers out there would have us believe. After all, if it really was too hot for the daffodils to survive, wouldn’t they just stay in the ground and wait?
Recently, the Times’s Quentin Letts and Julia Hartley-Brewer’s Julia Hartley-Brewer both tweeted, with delight, that they were able to ski across the Swiss border unhindered. This apparently showed that there was no need for a British border in Ireland, because of blah blah blah shit piss wank. It also proved that it can’t be that hot as otherwise there wouldn’t be any snow, which is all made out of coldness, like in Frozen.
Some misery-gongers and doom-dongers have even suggested that the late Professor Stephen Hawking’s 2017 warning, that Earth had only 100 more years of habitability, now looks optimistic. But Hawking was a liar, because if the world really was in trouble like how he said it was, then why wouldn’t he of used his mind to invent an invention to mend it?
It proved very convenient for the biased Hard Remainiac BBC that this supposed climate emergency emerged last week. It distracts from any positive coverage of their hated Brexit. Indeed, the crisis of democracy in our parliament has barely been talked about since Andrew Neil’s carbohydrate yarmulke combusted on Monday.
Instead, all we seemed to hear about all week was the imminence of the climate threat to all life on Earth, the inevitability of major environmental disasters, killing billions, and the need to change immediately to a global zero carbon economy or face mass extinction by the middle of the century.
What we should still have been talking about, of course, and at the expense of everything else, for years and years, today and every day, is our membership, or non-membership, of a European trading bloc and how this affects the power bases of the principal political parties in the United Kingdom in the short term. Not the death of all life on Earth.
On Monday night, tiny Jeremy Corbyn shifted his two buttocks slightly on his north London fence, the kitten weight of his coddled-egg-nourished frame pivoting slightly towards the possibility of maybe having a second referendum, if Tom Watson and Keir Starmer and the Labour party membership absolutely insist, but not really, obviously.
Indeed, the British people’s democratic right to ruin their own country for a generation at least, destroy the livelihoods of their most vulnerable communities and sabotage food and medicine security indefinitely must be respected without question, like an old-fashioned village policeman or a violent Ape-God.
Those who tremble at the prospect of shortages of vital supplies just need to think of creative solutions. If each one of the veritable tide of illegal migrants currently swamping British beaches was required to bring with them some plasters and a courgette, we could soon compensate for a ferry service optimistically expected to operate at 8% of the projected required capacity.
By Wednesday, the biased Hard Remainiac BBC had begun looping mobile phone footage of Andrew Neil’s burning cereal hair, including shocking film of Michael Portillo rescuing the charred remnants from a filthy bin with his bare hands in order to make himself his milky treat, even as Alan Johnson tried to hold him back.
The scheduling of the controversial hair inferno clip seemed designed to shunt Brexit down the newspipe and to distract from the fact that the promise of finally leaving the hated EU seemed to be slipping from the betrayed British public’s grasp. But there is so much more to be said about Brexit.
We need to know the exact terms upon which, in the near future, our scorched nation will be exporting the deformed vegetables retched up from its charred soils to other ruined lands; and we need to know the exact levels of violence we are allowed to use to repel economic migrants attempting entry to the UK from soon-to-be-uninhabitable regions of France and Spain.
Can a hungry Spaniard be shot or merely punched, as he makes landfall in Dover? What about a Frenchman, desperate for sparkling mineral water and the grapes that will now grow in newly temperate Scotland? Will it be acceptable, under the terms of our future trading arrangements, to force him back from the beach into the sea with a wooden club? Or to poke him with a poisoned spike?
Happy about this February summer? It’s like hitting puberty at three years old and getting excited about being able to choose a bra ahead of schedule.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Now the world is burning while Britain fiddles about. What a waste of time!