Climate prat of 2015 – We have a winnah!

Posted by Pointman on December 23, 2015 · 37 Comments

It’s 16:57 GMT, 23rd December in the year of our lord twenty and fifteen and I’m calling it. Vote away, but until I can get Vladdi to disable it, the voting widget means nothing. The results are in.

By now, the news is out, all over town, as Hank Williams would say. We’ve got a winner of the Pratties for 2015 but before launching into the traditional countdown, some necessary prologue remarks need to be made not only for me, but the committee also.

First off, I have to say women have been terribly unrepresented this year. I suppose the reason is that the warmist skanks aren’t seen by either side as being of any real significance. Are you listening Naiomi? We may not have much in the way of Hollywood when it comes to blokes, but we’ve sure as fire got some fine-looking Jeanne Moreau type women with all the brain cells firing between their ears.

For some reasons, the leading nominations this year all went massively up market, and I mean big time. Jesus H bloody Christ on a recalled skateboard bursting into flames, whatever happened to naming some obscure climate prats nobody’d ever heard of?

The big contenders were el Prez, the Pope and the Prince and all the rest were relative paupers grubbing around the dining table of their betters like hogs snouting around for half-gnawed chicken legs tossed over the shoulders of the gentry as they quaffed fine wines and exchanged witty anecdotes about their peasants. There’s no way the targets could get any bigger.

For a modest little bijou blogette like this and poor little ol’ me, a few alarm bells started going off early. I’d seen way too many movies about how situations like this might play out and didn’t need anyone to start drawing any frigging diagrams for me.

In the manner of all low-bred and yet somehow debonair cads of questionable character, I have finely honed survival instincts which have kept me a hop, skip and a jump ahead of many a necktie party on several occasions, but the prospect of SEAL team 6, the Vatican assassinati and murderously licensed representatives of her royal Britannic majesty’s secret service all after my solitary butt at the same time was a scrotum shriveller, to say the least.

The prime directive kicked in – get out of there Pointy.

Pretty soon the heavies started leaning on me. Make it all go away or you will, was the message.

Not being clinically insane on my better days, I of course caved straight away but unfortunately the nominations for the wrong people kept clicking up in the wrong direction like the doomed Challenger space shuttle, so I knew it was time to start whittling away on a self-preservation plan, but I knew this particular escape was going to have to be a pure gold-plated blinder from hell effort.

Idly watching el Prez’s nominations head skywards and towards my certain extinction, the thought occurred I could collect on a favour I’d done a long time ago for a friend who now runs a chain of discreet high-end recreational facilities for sporting gentlemen in most of the capital cities around the globe. Like Vito Andolini, I tend to collect favours.

Over a glass or two of ferocious anisette and after waving away his usual offer to avail myself – though I must admit the dusky Mulatto woman looked particularly inviting, she’d such a lovely sparkle in her smile as he gave me the coquettish eye and wiggled her …

Let’s leave that one there, I’m a bloke and therefore have certain weaknesses.

Getting back on topic, I explained my predicament and gave him the names of the gentlemen in contention.

Breaking his golden rule of confidentiality and because one of the names had lately taken it upon themselves to disrespect him in his own salon privé en Paris, he gave me the vital piece of ammo I needed, which was a name, a letter of introduction and the contact details of a certain woman, with the understanding that I had to work the lead myself, because she was nobody’s fool. Grazie mille, amico mio.

The letter of introduction was enough to secure a private meeting. Montana Wildhack, a work name of course, lived up to all I’d heard about her, and I was glad to see she’d extracted herself out some local difficulties I’d heard she was having with the Tralfamadorians.

Of course, I hinted at an interest in her, because every man is a dawg at heart, but she was smart enough to know I was already spoken for and was just being polite under the circumstances. I got the distinct impression that while there was the day job or in her case the night job, she’d long ago committed to someone else, possibly that minder who’d picked me up at the hotel and led me through the narrow cobbled streets of the arrondissement while silently but unmistakably beaming the message at me to be good or I’d be having a hard conversation with him afterwards.

It could also have been that lean guy I’d clocked nursing a cognac at the end of the bar who hadn’t taken an eye off me since I’d entered. Layered security; awfully discreet but still making sure to let you know it was there. He was ex la légion étrangère if ever there was. A bit more than just another minder and ready to break me in two if I made any aggressive move towards her but possibly more worryingly if she made a move in my direction.

Fortunately, both she and I both knew what was what and with that, relaxed and had a fine old time swapping a few names and war stories, just doing the getting to know you stuff as a precursor to settling down to do the real business.

She, like me, collected favours from the right people, because it’s a very cold place out there without a friend or two when you really need someone. There’s no situation that lasts forever in a changing world, and we might all need some escape routes someday. You invest in the right people who you think won’t forget a favour.

After an appraising look and some careful consideration, she gave me just enough information and the nod to use her nom de nuit.

Montana finishes last in the competition but as far as I’m concerned, she’s the real winner. Just the mention of her name and a slightly “adjusted” nomination stage to get her into the final five, was enough to call off the dogs.

Finishing fourth, we have the pope.

The old pope was a real gentleman, who always treated her like a lady. On their occasional meetings, there was always a light but tasteful meal before anything happened. Usually Ardennes pâté or a Russian salad starter, white fish with a delicate sauce as the main because of his sensitive digestion and frutti del giorno for the finishing straight, all served with an appropriate wine, invariably a chilled Austrian Riesling followed by a dessert wine.

Over dinner conversation ranged over the finer points of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s theosophy, how Bastian Schweinsteiger’s potential might be better employed as a holding mid-fielder by Manchester United and how the hell Carrie Mathison was going to get out of her latest scrape.

The new pope was all grab ass and tit lunge after barely five minutes of interrogating her about how it felt to be demeaned as a sex worker. So much for foreplay then, but some days you really do earn your money. Montana was always in the stellar courtesan class rather than the quick shag up against the wall underneath the Sistine chapel, and knew him for what he was. Unpleasant. A Borgia pope without an iota of their brains, style or talent.

That’s as much as you need to know about that particular prat.

Finishing third, or turd depending how well you aspirate “th”, we have Charlie Windsor.

Prince Charles, what can one say? He seems to live in some little pampered world all of his own which is more reminiscent of the palace of Versailles rather than that faux-Norman monstrosity sitting on the Thames at Windsor. On the few occasions he ever ventures outside the royal circles of his courtiers, I’m sure he thinks his subjects live in a world that always has the permanent turpentine stench of fresh paint.

Children are always there waving miniature union jacks on sticks but he doesn’t realise the herald sent ahead to distribute the flags, always collects them up in the wake of his departure, and the children don’t forget that either.

He talks to plants because he’s convinced they’re listening to him, which is understandable because when you’re commonly perceived and ignored as a third tit, you tend to settle for anyone who’ll listen, irrespective of whether they’re flora or fauna. He’s always lecturing us on how we should live better with the Earth. We should cherish and manage it, and all this comes from a serial adulterer who nearly managed his own marriage so far into a danger zone that he nearly brought down the monarchy.

How his loyal subjects square that up with him being the titular head of the Church of England is one of those knotty ecclesiastical, never mind constitutional problems people bend over backwards to ignore. One law for us, one law for them. There can be no truce with kings.

Montana says he likes a good public school flogging like they used to be allowed to do at Gordonstoun in the good old days, but once Matron retired so did the floggings, much to the chagrin of Charlie and apparently half the cabinet. Pretty much, that was all his demands of her, apart from having to listen to the gimpish grovelling about how nobody loved him.

I think all the sane subjects of Queen Lizer are hoping she’ll see him out to the benefit of what looks like the much better bets of the young princes who have already served with their subjects in places like Helmand, where the metal meets the meat, nobody’s safe and you’re all in it together. Not much fresh paint around those parts.

One of them, when his active service was blown by some journalist and not wishing to attract a shed load of special fire by the Taliban on his comrades because of him, returned home from it. To his credit, he quietly returned months later and completed his tour of duty. Once in a while, I suppose you might get a good royal, but I as a democrat won’t be swapping spit with any of them any day soon.

Second by just a whisker, we have Peter “they’re out to murder me” Wadhams.

Personally, I was always really pulling for him. He really does tick every possible climate prat definition checkpoint. Even as he’s standing at the podium lecturing a room full of fellow alarmists, they’re all sniggering away behind his back on twitter about whatever claims he’s making, and boy does he make some.

Polar bears are starting to melt. Sea levels are starting to rise because of the yeast forced out of the atmosphere by rising CO2 levels. Because of ozone holes colliding with g-spots, even bigger holes are starting to gape open, swallowing up whole populations of polar bears. Beyond his fevered and possibly demented brow, there’s not a shred of scientific evidence of any of this happening, but I’d be intrigued to see what lewpaper he could come up with to justify the g-spot collisions.

What really slung him into contention this year was his claim that there was some shadowy organisation going about assassinating climatologists. They’d already killed three this year and as he was riding to work on his penny farthing, a lorry once came perilously close to him, almost as if it was a failed assassination attempt. Having told one broadsheet newspaper about the conspiracy to snuff out climate scientists and being laughed at by its readers, he went to a second and did the same, with the same result.

Upon realising most of the world was by now laughing at him and indeed even his fellow alarmists were distancing themselves from him, he compounded the disaster by turning to the press complaints commission to demand a retraction from the papers in question. The commission of course found in favour of the papers, not surprisingly since they’d notes and recordings taken with his permission of their interviews with him.

Like a mentor of mine used to say, there’s no bad situation that can’t be made worse …

Montana didn’t have anything on him after I’d explained to her who he was – a nobody really. She did a rather dismissive smile and as if hurrying on to more important things, raised a hand in the air and did the drooping little finger wiggling thing. Given her deep experience with men, I saw no reason to contradict either her instincts about him or his pecker size.

First place, Barry Obama.

From a very early point in the competition, it’s been obvious who was going to win, but just a mention of Montana and quite possibly his Mandingo escapades at the start of the Paris can-can were enough to back him off. Pusillanimous. No wonder Putin bitch slaps him around.

Having a quiet word with his missus turned the trick, as you can tell from the picture above.

While she is certainly the caring kind, she ain’t the sharing kind when it comes to hubby except when she’s really pissed at him and shares his indiscretions with her daughters. He may be el Prez, but Boy, is he going to have to do some serious presidential class grovelling to get back into their good books.

What can one say about him?

Well, as it turns out, you can’t say much about him. What you might think to yourself is another thing. Anyway, if you’re anyway smart, you better keep it to yourself.

He excoriates George W Bush about drone strikes and in his first six months of presidency, does more drones strikes than Georgie Boy Jnr ever did in two full presidential terms.