As Greta Thunberg makes her way across the Atlantic in a high-tech racing yacht built of petro-chemical derivatives and guided by banks of power-hungry onboard computers, the sort of people who maintain the UN’s climate powwows are more than opportunities for Third World kleptocrats’ brothers-in-law and professional scaremongers to live large on other people’s money are strewing her foamy progress with the rose petals of adoration.
James Delingpole sees the voyage in a rather different light, not to mention Saint Greta of Thunberg’s appearance on the cover of GQ magazine:
…What kind of man would be remotely interested in buying a mag whose main feature entailed a finger-wagging lecture (one we’ve all heard a gazillion times before) about how, like, totally endangered the planet is and how totally it’s all our fault and how we’ve got to abandon all the things we hold dear — meat; air travel; fast cars; designer threads — in order to stop all the baby polar bears melting?
A lecture, furthermore, from a child who hasn’t finished her schooling, whose frontal lobes haven’t formed, who has no sense of humour, whose every utterance is the second-hand opinion of alarmist grown-ups whose doomsday claims she is completely unequipped to assess?
No kind of man that I know of, that’s for sure. Unless you count tofu-eating, milquetoast, pantywaist, beta, snowflake, self-flagellating, Mom’s-basement-dwelling, environmental science graduates as men….
And that is Delingpole just getting started.